Every family has traditions. One that we've had on my side of the family for years is going to my grandparents house in Oregon, Illinois for an annual fall festival called Autumn on Parade. Its a family reunion of sorts. My parents, brother, sister-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles and even great ones (when they were still alive) all descended upon my grandparents home, which sat right on the parade route, bringing a dish to share while my Grandma made a pot of chicken and noodles or creamed chicken on biscuit. We'd start the day walking downtown to view all the craft and food booths then make our way back to the house to watch the parade, which sometimes exceeded 2 hours in length. This tradition has been alive for as long as I can remember and the thought of missing it causes me great anxiety. In all the years that this tradition has been alive I've only missed it a couple times, one being two years ago when I was too pregnant to travel.
My Grandma passed away 7 years ago. Since then we've kept this tradition alive by rotating who would make the main dish (which has varied the last few years) but still stuck to most of the other aspects of the tradition.
Autumn on Parade isn't just a festival to me. My Grandma was very big on get-togethers. There was always too much to eat, lots to talk about, and stories to share. In my Grandma's later years there were always something we could find to make fun of her about. (One year she was bound and determined to convince us that she put green beans in her chili recipe. We still talk about that one.)
I remember the last Autumn on Parade my Grandma was alive. Distinctly and by detail. She was pretty sick (suffering from diabetes and going blind.) She was dead set against getting dressed and no one could make her. Everyone always tiptoed around Grandma. Not me. I drug her sorry elderly ass into the bathroom and told her in no uncertain terms she was getting dressed and I was going to put the damn clothes on her. She was so shocked, she couldn't even say anything. I distinctly remember putting her in lavender slacks and a lavender and blue blouse. For some crazy reason she seemed to think she didn't need a bra and I told her that no one wanted to see her boobs fall out under her shirt and to put the damn thing on. To this day, I wonder what she thought of me talking to her like that. She probably had another "Her mother deserves her" moment that I was always hearing about.
Grandma was important to me. In so many ways. We never lived more than a few hours apart but I'd call her for every little thing I needed help with. How to get a stain out, why my cake fell apart, how to make ribbon jello, and if my noodles were too thick when I cut them out. (Toward the end of her life when she couldn't see she could only feel them and tell us if we did it correctly.)
So a few weeks ago was the annual festivities. So much has changed in 7 years. Grandpa is almost 90 now and is confined to the first floor of the house. Oliver was desperate for a nap so I took him upstairs and laid him in my grandparents bed, which he fell right asleep in. His first time in a big bed. I can't help but think my Grandma had something to do with that.
While Oliver slept I snuck over to my Grandma's sewing room and started rummaging around. Most of her sewing supplies have come home with me but there are a few things I have left to get. I found material she had purchased just months before she passed that we have no idea what she was planning on making with it. It was an airplane print so it had to be something to do with my brother or dad. And then I found it. A quilt. The last one she ever made. I sat in that room, on the end of the bed I use to sleep on during my nights there, and just hugged it. I buried my face in it and inhaled as deeply as I could. I could smell her. She was still there. She was still looking over me. She has to be. There are nights I dream about her and every facial feature is there, every wrinkle, every bony finger. I still use Oil of Olay to this day because the scent reminds me of her.
I was lucky enough that my Grandpa let me take the quilt home. I am sad to think about the day the scent disappears from it, as I know it will, being in a new home. But if it doesn't, I know she had something to do with it.
Grandma, I miss you. I never told you how much I loved you and I regret that often. You have impacted my life so much more than you will ever know, when you were here and even after you've been gone. Your wisdom, strength and cooking skills stick with me. (Though I will never get over the fact that you never taught me to make a decent pie crust or to iron properly.)
I dread the day Grandpa leaves that house. I know life goes on but losing that house, that sanctuary, will impact me greatly. Not just because the Autumn festivities will no longer take place there, but to know I can't go sit upstairs catching your scent and feeling your presence.
I am still sniffing the quilt. (Sounds kinky, huh?) It humbles me on bad days and reinforces me on good days. Its just a material object but means so much more to me.
As I sit here, unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I think I will go bury my face in that quilt and cry a little (well, cry some more) and hope she can give me some reassurance from up above. That quilt isn't pretty. But to me, its the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. And is so much more than needle and thread.
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