My childhood memories are made up of little scraps of tangles thread and torn tracing paper. Garbage bags full of cut calico and a countertop full of cookie dough. Tiny treasure collections hidden everywhere: lost buttons, found rocks, lucky pennies and pressed pansies. And all of those little scraps are stitched together, somehow, by the heavy thickness of melted Crayolas and Elmer’s Glue, made into a whole that is no more significant than all of its intricately simple parts.
I grew up surrounded by Makers-of-Things, Tinkerers, and Inventors; otherwise known as Farmer Guys and The Women who Love Them. All in a place where the word “Handmade” wasn’t used as a trendy marketing tool but, instead, where it described what went on in everyday life. After all, there were broken parts to mend and holes to patch and children to entertain. And in each one of those activities, a window for just a little bit of creativity to come sneaking through and an opportunity to leave a personal mark behind.
Chances are, those things that you treasure and tuck away in special places are things that were made, once, by a real live person with two hands and some quiet time. The new mittens to match the new coat, crocheted every year by an attentive mother. The tea towels embroidered with the days of the week to make a menial task a bit brighter. Tatted lace doilies that made a house a home and a quilt pieced together to keep a favorite person warm at night. Loved and used and kept and handed down.
I believe that every object that comes into a life tells a story. I have found that those things made by hand speak the loudest. If you listen very closely, they’ll tell you all about their maker and the inspiration from which they were born and the event that led to the missed stitch or the mismatched button that added to their personality. A handmade object has a life and a purpose of its own and, when it quiets down just a bit, it will whisper to its owner to take really good care of it: to honor the time and patience and vision of the person who took a little piece of herself and made it into something tangible.
‘Tis the Season for giving. And when you do, underneath the brown paper and string, nestled deep down, what kind of story will wait for the person who receives it? What will be kept? What will be loved?
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