A stitch in time….

My Mother loved to embroidery and sew.  She made most all of her own clothes and Mary and Michaels clothes too.  She was an excellent seamstress.  I personally was never taught to sew as my Mom never sewed so therefore I was never taught.  Possibly I was passed down this talent from my Mother and I just have not discovered it as of yet.  I have good intentions to try my hand at embroidery someday in my near future. 

During one of my conversations with Mary, it was mentioned that Dorothy embroidered.  I asked Mary if the next time she came into town if she would bring some of our Mother’s items to show me.    One Friday afternoon when I was getting my mail from the mailbox I received a package and it was from Mary.  I could hardly wait to get inside my home to see what Mary had sent to me.  Mary sent to me several pieces of our Mother’s handiwork.  Two pillowcases, a dresser scarf, two guest towels for the bathroom and a doily. All of these pieces were placed neatly in a large zip lock bag with a note saying that our Mother made these and that they seemed now like they were intended for me all along.  I held the bag to my chest and danced around my kitchen in tears.  To hold something tangible that my Mother had made with love, every stitch sewn with love as this hobby brought her so much joy.  In the note it said that the items were washed and starched by our Mother and given to Mary as a wedding gift.  Mary never used any of the items.  When I opened the zip lock bag it had a slight scent of ivory soap.  Which now when I think of my Mother I am reminded of that scent. 

Immediately I knew that the doily would have to be framed and hung proudly in my home, this is something I will be doing once I return from my vacation.  Mary mentioned in her note to please use the items, that our Mother made the items to be used.  I have yet to use any of the items.  Somehow it seems to me that if I use the items they will wear out and I will no longer have them.  What are your thoughts on this?

I admire the items and wonder if my Mother somehow knows that I have her handiwork.  I wonder if she knew when making the items that I would end up with them someday, probably not, but maybe she “hoped” I would.  To hold in my hand what my Mother held in her hand is priceless.