The Blanket Grandma Stitched, 28 Years Later

It was 1990.  The Trucker and I were newly returned from our voluntary service assignments, and looking toward the future.  I was not yet the Passenger.

The Trucker was again headed west on regular runs to the coast.  I headed west every morning, a fifteen minute drive to the local insurance office.

On a weekend home, the Trucker expressed interest in another blanket for his bunk.  I had minimal experience with this, but a desire to learn.  And I had Grandma, who with her scissors, sewing machine, and quilt frames, had thousands of quilts and comforters to her credit.

A romantic scenario formed in my thoughts.  Grandma and I shopping for fabric, me choosing just the right colors to match the truck and bunk, she advising on the type and amount.  Then, me doing the cutting, stitching, and knotting under her watchful eye.  A chat with Grandma assured her willingness to participate in the project.

But alas, the romantic scenario escaped her.  Or I didn't explain it clearly.  Grandma's practical nature kicked in immediately.  Next morning when I stopped by to plan the anticipated shopping trip, quilt frames were set up in her "long room."  A flannel comforter was pinned into the frames, half already knotted and rolled at the ends.  Grandma was busily stitching and knotting.  Cheerfully, she announced that by the time I was home from work that evening, she would have it out of the frame, bound, and ready to head west.  And no, I wasn't to pay for any of it!

Oh.

My dreams took an abrupt left turn.  The shopping trip plans collapsed, along with the intention of doing the comforter myself, under Grandma's guidance.  

Always having plenty of fabric on hand, Grandma had pieced her gift of black plaid flannel backing, with alternating squares of black and bright red for the front.  She completed the project by binding the whole thing with maroon strips.

The stitching was beautifully and rapidly accomplished.  The fabric, warm and cozy.  The colors,  all wrong for the truck's interior and for each other, to my way of thinking.

The selfless, loving heart and careworn hands that produced this gift, without compare.

How could I refuse such a gift?  I couldn't.  Swallowing disappointment, I manufactured a smile, and thanked Grandma.  And I was grateful, really.  How could I be otherwise?  

And when the Trucker came to visit, the colors didn't seem to matter, nor whose hands did the stitching.  What mattered was his surprise of having his blanket done so quickly, and how perfectly it fit the bunk.  And how warmly it sheltered him through cold nights on the high plains and mountains.

Twenty-eight years have passed.  That comforter has kept the Trucker warm through nearly three million miles of travel.  The fabric is thin.  The seams are ripping out.  The watting bunched and disintegrating.  Though repaired and redone several times, it's the end of the trail for Grandma's gift.

A new blanket is in progress, this fabric chosen by the Trucker.  Though sewn on my newer machine, the patches were cut by Grandma's old scissors.  Who knows?  They may well have snipped through three million patches in their time.  

Grandma's skill and speed are not mine.  I cannot even lay claim to the depth of love she shared so freely....yet.  In time, but not quite yet.

Still Growing after 27 Years

For my first post-marriage birthday, my new mother-in-law gifted me with a lovely green planter.  She didn't always do gifts, her style was more random.  No less appreciated, though!


Similar to this, but smaller.  Six different plants, I believe, though their names are unknown to me.  Amazingly, they lived, in spite of the fact that my thumb is not very green.  As they grew, they were separated into individual pots.  Through the years, though, most died off.

A few remain.

The tall plant has grown to reach our eight feet high ceiling at least twice, been cut back, and regrown.  More stalks have been added by replanting a section of stem, which then sprouted from each end.  A suggestion from my mother, not that it would have occurred to me to do this.

The vine skirting this pot has received numerous haircuts through the years, and cuttings have filled many other pots, as well as a daughter vine that grew round three walls of our then approximately twelve feet square kitchen.

And this plant.

More slow growing.  It traveled to various rooms of the house over the years, staying strongly upright when the source of natural light was just above.  Putting it outdoors in summer caused it to become limp and lazy.

Rather like our spiritual lives.  When the source of strength is above, and almost-but-not-quite out of reach, we are strengthened by the act of straining toward the life giving Light.  When life is easy, we relax, become apathetic.

There was the time when a conflict between siblings raged; the reason thereof has long since been forgotten.  It concluded when a substantial junior-high-age posterior landed squarely upon the greenery, bending it sharply eastward.  Amazingly, the stems gradually rebounded, stretching again toward sunlight.

However, this plant was outgrowing every space allotted.  And after twenty-seven years, no amount of feeding and lighting and repotting solved the problem of yellowing, dropping leaves on the underside.  And the "stemmy" look.

So, a pruning was in order.  A drastic one.  

Will it sprout again?  Re-grow?  Hopefully so, larger and bushier than before.  We will wait.

Will our hearts re-grow, after the drastic pruning of two years ago?  Hopefully so, larger and bushier than before.  By the grace of God, we will wait.

House Cleaning that Last Room

Quotes from an old movie, recently revisited:

It's not like ---- was the only one around here you ran out on.

You can have roots and wings.

For the Trucker, short run to Wisconsin this week.  All preparations made, but the need of a friend kept his Passenger at home.  Again.  Will it always be so?  Which is God's plan for my life, serving at home, or accompanying on the road?

A few days later, serving completed, a commitment fulfilled.  The joy of caring, an experience to treasure.  Now to the neglected housework.  This museum of memories in which we live.    General cleaning and maintenance easier to avoid, than to accomplish, because of the need to face attending memories.

One room remains to thoroughly clean.

Since you left.

The big basement room, we called it, to distinguish between it and the bedroom section. Where family and friends gathered.  The place of worn sofas, cozy blankets and pillows, movies, books, games, and a welcoming pellet stove.  Empty now, and cold.  Even the echoes have gone.

It's not like ---- was the only one around here you ran out on.

No, it was more than your parents.  Your brothers.  The one who wished to share your life.  Grandparents, cousins.  Church family, friends.

Time doesn't erase the pain.  Doesn't even dull it.  Not for any of us.

Time does reduce the ability to express the pain.

Stifled, it gnaws slowly into our hearts, like rust.  No amount of sanding, or cutting, or painting over, stops the cancerous spread.

But, once again, memories must be faced.  

The grease spots on the carpet from oiling tack.

The scratches below the pegs on the wall from the snaps of your barn coat and coveralls.

The scuffs near the baseboard from the bin that held your work boots and old sneakers.

The corner where you dumped your saddles.

The scrapes on the far side of the stove, from the swivel rocker where you sat to toast your feet on cold winter evenings.

None of these can I bear to treat, to paint over, to buff out.

I think, is there still some place here, some small unseen place, where you touched, where your hand or finger print still lingers?  And might I unknowingly wipe it away with my cleaning rag?

If I could see, if I could know, I'd never, never wipe it off.  I'd set a guard around it, mark the spot, allow no one or no thing to take that last touch of you from this house, a touch that I could claim as mine.

But time marches on, requiring me to clean and tidy this room, at last.  Dust settles.  Spiders climb and spin, beetles scramble, bugs curl up and expire.  They have no respect for grief.  

And the children come to play.  They have long since stopped asking for you.  But I see their furtive glances at the photos on the wall.  At the closed door leading to the bedroom that used to be yours.  The room that held those intriguing books about horses, the delightful stuffed animals, and the "pretties."  All are gone now.  The room is occupied again, by a masculine lifestyle. Just your shelf bolted to the wall remains, now hung with hats instead of necklaces.

You can have roots and wings....it is possible.  But instead of being permitted to do so, you became a puppet, a pawn.  And your parents were robbed of the joy of opening their hands and gently launching you into a life outside these walls.  Instead, in fearful secrecy, obligated to those whose demands robbed you of serenity and security, you vanished.  Thrust into a life for which you were not prepared, for which there was no safety net.  Forced to wall off your heart, to survive.

How long can you fly alone, before finding a place to rest body, mind, and spirit?  How long can you live, without the nourishment that comes from your roots?

This is What It Is Like

Shoes

Death is not the only way to lose a child, or the only kind of loss.  No one of us has a monopoly on pain and loss.

The Home Stretch

Fremont, Indiana.  They awoke in the chill dawn of autumn, the Trucker and his Passenger.  Hours left until legal to start the engine.  Because there was time, and an extra shower on the account, they did.  Breakfast then, after which the Trucker attended to business while the Passenger, with key and duffle bag, traversed the lot back to the truck.  

A few seagulls floated lazily just above the rows of waiting trucks.  And a bit of breakfast oatmeal remained in the bunk.  It's was few days past human edibility.  So she, and they, had fun with that.    No photos here, but a few from Lake Point Utah, where there was another seagull encounter....

Any more food up there??

A row of beaks poking inquisitively along the trailer's edge, lookouts in the event more food appears.

The leader of the pack, peering down into the mirror.

And the one on the side view mirror, who eyeballed the Trucker sternly when no more handouts were forthcoming and rode that mirror through the parking lot before soaring away in disgust.

Tidying the bunk, packing clothing and bedding, consolidating.  Almost home.  At last.

This week has not gone as planned.  When has it?  But our God has provided every step of the way, even those times when fresh grief and betrayal  again dissolved into tears that brought no relief.  He has not promised to ease our path, but hold our hands securely while we navigate it.  As illustrated in a small way in The Lord of the Rings,

Frodo groaned; but with a great effort of will he staggered up; and then he fell upon his knees again. He raised his eyes... to the dark slopes of Mount Doom towering above him, and then pitifully he began to crawl forward on his hands.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes....

'Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get!.... Sam will give you a ride. 

The the Trucker reappeared, the truck was fueled, the countdown complete and the day's drive could begin,

Ron Weaver

55 mins · 

I guess I can go now. Splash in a little fuel and head for home.

5Mark Weiler I'd give it another minute 

Just to be sure 
😜

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Ron Weaver Mark Weiler I put it in granny low and creeped to the fuel pumps before starting the clock.

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Nate Ebersole Like we said back in the day "Hammer Down" !! Have a good day

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Jolting out onto Ohio roads, the clock ticking.  An onion truck ahead; the season is a bit late for onions on a flat bed, as they dare not freeze.  Though the photo did not capture the black smoke pouring from his stacks when he shifted gears, it was plentiful.  The Trucker commented that his load would be well seasoned and "fume"igated upon delivery.

The Trucker de-bugged the windshield this morning, though the squeegee provided was less than adequate.  And the wiper fluid tank appeared to be empty, or the correct switch could not be located, or possibly both!  So there are onions on the far side of those smudges.

Thinking back to the previous day in Nebraska.  Crisp and clear and dry.  Fields of corn and soybeans, while mature, were parched and brown-gold in color.  Massive combines, tractors, and trailers traversed vast acreages, brown clouds of dust twisting above them.  Forecasted rain for the week was measured in tenths of inches, unlike the deluges experienced on the east coast recently.

And before that, arrival at long last in Lincoln, Nebraska. Early Monday morning.  To the Kenworth facility where the Green-and-White waited, wearing a new transmission.  In the early morning, the Passenger packed up the Penske, transferred bags to the Kenworth, and remade beds and stocked cupboards while the Trucker settled paperwork and drove the Penske down the road from whence it came.

Upon his return, the mandated pre-trip inspection.  And the un-mandated photo.  

During which an air leak was heard.  Too serious for the road.  Replacement air bag needed.  Another delay.  Shoulders slumped, the Trucker returned to the shop.  Yes, they can do this today.  Give them an hour, and it will be in the shop.  So far, so good.

The Passenger has been working this year on a project.  Names of Jehovah stitched on fabric.  meditating the while on reminders of Who He is.  The hours in the truckers' lounge produced, among others, Shalom (He is Peace), Jireh (He Will Provide), and most needed for the journey, Shom (He is There).  This last name is also the root of the word guard, as nearly as the Passenger can understand.  So needed today, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  

The Passenger is rather slow on the uptake at times.  Especially in the driver's lounge, when it dawned on her that the book she packed to study this week parallels her stitchery project.  How could she not have made that connection before??  God Himself planned that!

And now, the homeward stretch.  Five hours and fifty-two minutes til a mandatory "break" which is more like a high pressure rush to accomplish all that is necessary before hitting the road again.  Careful management will allow the Trucker to reach Philadelphia, deliver his load

of pears, and arrive home, before the clock insists upon a ten hour break.  

The sun is shining, the Son is here.  

Moonlight on the Salt Flats

Eastbound rest stop on Route 80, 112 miles west of Salt Lake.  The sun has already dropped off the western edge of the world, the moon has long since risen in the east, having showed its face over the mountains since midafternoon.

It was the hour of half light.  That blue-gray time of not yet darkness, and not still light.  But for the roar of trucks passing on the highway, the land rested quietly, awaiting night.  The nearly-full moon spread its glow land-ward, mirrored in a small pond of water behind the buildings.

For many miles already, Route 80 had sliced through the Salt Flats.  Here the land was low, and white.  Occasional small bodies of water showed, and the area round them where water would be when more appeared.  It was not sand, exactly, but not rocks either.  Small pebbles, very small, but not rounded smooth as happens in flowing water.

With the Trucker's permission, the Passenger stepped inquisitively down the shoreline to meet the water that remained.  Touched an experimental finger to the whiteness.  The hardness was surprising.  But firm pressure caused the white to yield like wet sand.  Touching the finger tip to her mouth, taste buds assaulted by the extreme saltiness caused her to spit it out immediately.

Sprinting up the beach to where the Trucker sat, she kissed him.  He too tasted the salt.  Together they gazed across the land, the moon reflecting on the water, the vast expanses of salt glowing white in its light.

Then they walked back to the waiting Penske as darkness dropped around them.  Sky became deeper blue, then blue-gray, ever darker but not quite black.  Eastward on Route 80, the white land luminous under moonlight as a snowy evening in winter.

And the Passenger found an apple in her bag, though even that did not erase the salt from her highly insalted and unforgiving taste buds.

Level, straight Route 80 brought the Penske and Passengers toward Tooele, Utah.  As the moon climbed through the sky, its light became sharper, brighter, and more focused.  Dark changed shades to reveal outlines of mountains ahead.  Behind and above them glimmered lights of Salt Lake City.  Along the road now shimmered  a lake, the moon spotlighting a path across the ripples.  Beyond, lights of Tooele reflected white, yellow, red, orange on the water.

The Trucker remembers a time when this stretch of Route 80 needed rebuilt.  The lake had risen, it's waves slapping the shore and overspreading the road, the salt damaging trucks and pavement alike.

Now a parking space at the Tooele TA.  Weariness of yesterday is still present, and the pressure of schedule is done.  Now to match schedules with the little black box when meeting it again Monday morning in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Curtains are drawn, paperwork completed.  A small vibration in the bunk is creating cricket-like chirps.  A homey touch.  Good night.