Savannah's Blanket

When my older sister and I were little Mother made most of our clothes. As our family grew and her interests expanded, she didn’t do that anymore. But one thing she always continued was crocheting. Mother had a real love for the craft. All “her girls” learned to make granny squares almost as soon as we could hold a pencil. Mother would sit behind us and help work our hands. I have a left-handed sister and Mother diligently taught her too, sitting across from her, hour after hour, until she could crochet.

Over the years my life took different twists and turns and crocheting certainly wasn’t one of my activities. And I didn’t have any girls. Nevertheless, Mother would always chide me, “It’s important to keep your hands busy.” My reply, “Oh please Mother, I have more important things to do.”

But then Mother got sick and crocheting became the focus of her life, and of everyone who came to visit her. Beside her “comfortable chair” sat a huge basket of wool and more crochet hooks than we could count. She had “masculine” colors and “feminine” colors to cover all her bases. “Sit down,” she would say, “let me teach you how to crochet.” This wasn’t really a request and virtually everyone who walked through her door had a crochet project going.

Of course if you really knew Mother, you would know that this was her way of not having people sitting there feeling sorry for her. It was also her way of not talking about being sick. “How are you feeling?” someone would ask, and she’d reply, “Oh I really have nothing to complain about. Now how is that crochet project coming along? Let me see it,” and she’d offer her expertise on the project. Aside from myriad granny squares I made while caring for her, I actually made a pair of baby booties, a monumental accomplishment for me.

Unbelievably, the day came when Mother couldn’t crochet anymore. She wanted to make an afghan for her great granddaughter Savannah, but she just couldn’t do it. First she read and then re-read the pattern, complaining that she just couldn’t get it in her head. Day after day, she’d sit there with that darn pattern trying to understand it. Not being experienced at this craft, I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the pattern either.

Mother’s frustration was heartbreaking so I mentioned it to our hospice social worker. She told me about the many people who volunteer to come and sit with hospice patients. She asked Mother if she would like someone to help her with the afghan. Mother said that it would be nice to just have someone help her get started. Our social worker, then set out find someone who knew how to crochet.

Soon after, Joanne came into our lives. She quickly saw that not only was Mother unable to understand the pattern, her fingers were not nimble enough to crochet anymore. But Joanne was determined to help Mother, so of her own volition she purchased a baby quilt that just needed some easy stitches here and there to complete.

Joanne was only supposed to spend one hour per week with Mother, but that hour turned into a few hours more than once a week. Although Joanne took an intense liking to Mother (everyone did) it was also clear that Mother was failing. It became Joanne’s goal to finish the quilt together. Sadly, Mother never did finish. She passed away well before the quilt was complete. But we had an angel among us. Without telling us, Joanne took the quilt home and finished it.

Savannah’s first birthday was just a few short months after Mother’s passing and we were all with her happy to celebrate a joyous occasion! What most of us didn't know was that one beautifully wrapped box held the quilt that Mother and Joanne had so lovingly made.

It was in that moment, when the box was opened, that I knew Mother’s legacy would live on. Hopefully Savanna will share the story of how her great grandmother made that quilt especially for her. Hopefully she will pass it down to one of her children who will share the story too. I have written this to help Savannah remember and to give her a first-hand account of how much her great grandmother loved her.

As I think about it, I wonder what Mother and Joanne talked about when working on the quilt. What had Mother shared with this woman she hardly knew about her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren? What did she say that would spur Joanne to finish the quilt? I’ll never know.

I’ve since lost touch with Joanne. But my heart is at peace knowing that somewhere in the world there is a woman who works miracles one person at a time. And I am grateful to her. Because of her, Mother’s legacy lives on in one simple quilt hanging on Savannah’s wall.