Whispering Value

There's value in homemade.  

That value has nothing to do with money.   It has everything to do with the sense of creating, of making something with your two hands. 

It was a Sunday evening, sitting in my parent's living room with a fire warming my feet.  On my lap was a piece of fabric and in my hand was a needle and thread.  That needle and thread was finding its way through button after button to create something for my home.  

Running through my head was, "There's something about homemade.  There's value in this idea of creating.  Maybe Grandma was onto something all of those years she was sitting on her couch in the evenings with a crocheting or embroidering needle in her hand."  Then, my mom looked over and me and said through a little tear that was running down her cheek, "I wish I could take a snapshot of this and send to Grandma."  

I looked up at her and replied, "I was just thinking about her too.  She's here.  She sees it; I feel her with me."
 

My project involved Grandma's buttons and her hoop to hold the fabric tight.  If there ever was a person who truly understood the value of homemade, it was Grandma Gladys.  She could make something out of nothing.  She had to out of necessity; surviving the depression years on a farm in rural North Dakota forced her.   That belief of needing to save everything and make everything stayed with her the rest of her life.  The thought never abandoned her that if you could make it, then you did not buy it.  I always scoffed at this ideology of hers, this idea of homemade.  Thinking in my youth and adolescence, really Grandma...just go buy some vegetables and eat them or why don't you just go buy fabric to sew a quilt, you don't need to cut up every last scrap you have or there's really no need to save buttons off of pieces of clothing when you can go to the store and buy them or just throw that old thing away.  Slowly, over the past couple of years, my thinking has shifted.  Now, I treasure and crave homemade.  

And, earlier that same afternoon when my mom and I were sitting at her kitchen counter sifting through the hundreds of buttons that used to live in Grandma's "button box," the thought first entered my mind and started tugging at me; the thought that nothing would have made my grandma more happy than to see me using something she saved.  Buttons from the last eighty years.  Every different shape, color, and texture possible.  Some with the original thread still wound.   

Yet, in the naivety and arrogance of my youth and adolescence, I missed the boat that there was value in that saving and now, it's too late for her to know that I.do.get.it.  If only I could go back to all the moments in those eighty years when Grandma was clipping buttons off of worn out clothing and whisper in her ear...

"Grandma, 

...someday, I will create something for my home out of those buttons and I will think of you every second that I'm making it.  Everytime I pass by the finished product, I will feel your presence.  Thank you for realizing that those hundreds of buttons off your parents'--your siblings'--your children's--your husband's--your clothing will someday mean the world to me.  Thank you for knowing and believing that when I couldn't.  Thank you for embracing with your whole self the value of homemade and the value of creating and the value of saving.  Thank you for believing in old and not letting the modern world take that way.  Thank you."  

Now, I just have to hope and believe...she saw the snapshot.

Of course she saw; she's the one who has always, and will continue to guide my needle and thread.