Quilt Journal

Writer's Cramp Prompt: Diary entry containing the bold-faced words.


January 23, 2002

Dear Diary,


Well, I'm back . . . finally. The weasel squirrel and I (He's decided weasels are bad now, " 'cause they steal baby chickens."), have just about settled in. It's starting to feel more like home again, a little bit. I hung up curtains last week, the ones Mom and I picked out for my condo last year; that helped. I used her old Singer to hem them up.

It's odd what simple things can trigger a memory. There I was -- using the same cabinet, same chair, same scissors as she'd always used -- and it just felt . . . vanilla? I don't know -- ordinary, uneventful, like nothing really. I wasn't thinking about anything, except covering the windows. Not about the quilt she worked on every Christmas. Not about how she cut up scraps of our clothing, and wrote the story behind each piece used in her quilt-journal. I didn't recall the prom dress we designed and sewed together (patch M-22 as stated in the journal) for three solid months during my junior year. Nothing -- until I went to change the bobbin. It still held the thread she used for the draft-doggies she made last summer. I was unraveled by olive string. How ridiculous is that?!

I don't recall having wrote about them. It seemed so unimportant at the time. They were so awful . . . and wonderful. After the divorce, I'd thrown myself into the place, renovating everything (You wouldn't remember a page or two about that would ya?!) It was gorgeous: minimalistic, contemporary, and I detested it! In removing all traces of Charlie, I had eliminated every bit of character that made it ours as well. Little Squirrel and I were like trespassers in our own home. It was sterile. So, when Mom showed up with four folk-art-ish (How's that for a word?) draft-doggies for the doors, made from grandpa's socks and each donning a little straw hat and bandanna, I cried. She stayed with us that night. The next day, we hung her quilt up in the living room. I was supposed to give it back last month for its annual update. "Supposed to" -- I've come to HATE that phrase!

Squirrel's room is the only one set up. He's in my old room. We painted it Gecko-Green then stenciled on some robots. From ribbons and lace to gears and bolts -- I don't even recognize it! We still have to waltz around boxes through the rest of the house. Well, not too much in the kitchen and living room. I have to keep the floor clear in there for playing the Wii Weasel kiddo got for Christmas. Him and Grandpa are addicted! Fishing, baseball, bowling, or boxing -- it doesn't matter. Them boys have a good time together. I'm glad; they need it. Dad used to call me "an heir of the milkman" because we had so little in common. I guess it just skipped a generation. It seems a six decade age-gap is nothing a little friendship can't bridge.

I tried to get him to move in with us. I'm glad I failed. I can keep an eye on him and he can keep his dignity. I thought the whole "I don't need a baby-sitter" thing would have come by now, but it hasn't. In fact, he seems to enjoy having us underfoot. And, honestly, I'm enjoying being home. I'm getting to know him as a man and a friend, instead of just a father. We haven't butted heads on anything except Little Squirrel's bedtime -- Grandpa would keep him up all hours of the night if I let him!

Well, I got things to do: 'Wash the kid and put the dishes to bed . . ." or something like that. (Anything -- before writer's cramp sets in!) I'm gonna take the quilt, again, when I go see Mom tomorrow. I keep thinking, maybe if she holds it while I read through the journal, she'll remember something. Lisa's wedding, Tommy's graduation, our trip to Yellowstone. Maybe she'll run her fingers over the lilac patch of great Grammy's tablecloth and remember how the cake toppled over at their golden anniversary party. Maybe the tiny shred of Jimmy's uniform will remind her that she once had a brother who served in Vietnam. Maybe . . . something . . . anything. Maybe not. Maybe I'll just brush her hair and paint her nails again and listen as she talks about her only daughter . . . and how I should meet her someday.