When my Grandma, Grammy to me, passed away, I looked and looked for her recipe box but I couldn’t find it. My aunt had taken it, and it took years for me to finally get them to make copies of. I was so happy to have them again! I color copied them so they looked as close to the originals as I could get. They were all faded and yellowed from being around for so long, some had notes that my grandma had written on them. Her handwriting was so pretty and old-fashioned. When she was in school you had to write really perfect cursive. I loved her hands too. They were strong hands that had worked hard, but she would still do her nails sometimes. She was a doodler, when she’d talk on the phone she would draw really intricate doodles and her leg was always going to. My Grandpa said I was just like her, couldn’t ever sit still for a second. I am bouncing my leg right now as I write this too, I always do. I miss her so much. It helps a little to have things like this recipe book I made of her cards, and her wooden spoon that is displayed with it, in my kitchen, but I wish I could hear her voice again. I used to call her the minute I had any good news and the minute I had any bad news too. I hope she still sees me today and is proud of me for how hard I work to make a life for myself and my family. I hope she knows how much I remember her, miss her and love her, and that she, is who taught me, to be who I am.
Have you ever known someone who hoards craft supplies? You do now. I have the most ridiculous collection of stuff in ‘the craft room’ that you have ever seen! It’s too the point now that I feel guilty walking past and seeing it all lined up in it’s little bins, unopened, brand new, mocking me for ignoring it. It knows that it has been MONTHS since I have even attempted a handmade thank you card.
I sort the stuff though, and lovingly gaze at it from time to time. I even promise to devote all my free time tomorrow to it, ignore the computer for a whole evening. I will ignore all facebook messages, all reality tv shows, all bags of tortilla chips in the cabinet. And I will craft. I will turn paper into project, fabric into FAB. And I will be able to walk past that room and know that it is OK that my husband, and all of his belongings, are sent to the garage where they belong, while I hoard all the extra room in the house- for that moment when creative inspiration hits and I must have an entire room- the only extra room in the house, TO CREATE.
I really do believe myself when I tell myself these stories too, but then the phone bling, blings, the tv show comes on, the chips call out my name and there I am: chatting, watching mindless crap on tv and snacking on some chips. My only solace is the little shelf in the corner where the scrapbooks I have created in the past, and the other random projects I’ve made are displayed. It tells me to chill out, it’s all good, you’ll come back someday, you always do! I won’t tell you what my husband says.
