Heirlooms

On my bookshelf, I have my grandfather's and great-grandfather's flags. Framed in wood and glass, these are the flags that draped the caskets of the Navy electrician, and the Army Cavalry Veterinarian. Someday, no doubt, mine and my husband's will join them, on the shelf of one of our children.

In my bedroom, there is a jewelry box, given to us for our daughters. In it is the jewelry that belonged to BJ's late grandmother. She lived through troubled times, but found great joy in her visits with Bryn. My sweet girl, with her caring heart and gentle smile, who always vanished into the quiet of Farmor's room for the majority of every visit. She passed away when I was pregnant with Astrid, although she did know we were expecting, and I think she would have loved Astrid just as she loved Sam.

In January of 2010, BJ took a knee in front of me (and our whole National Guard Unit), and placed on my hand the ring that belonged to his great-grandmother. His mother had showed it to him, surprisingly early in our relationship, telling him that she had saved it for him, when the time was right. Evidently, everyone but me knew which way the wind was blowing. I love it so much that I opted not to add a band. It sits on my left hand, a symbol not only of the love of my husband, but of the love and acceptance of his mother. It had been left to her by her grandmother, who she loved dearly.

These are the objects we carry from our family. The little things that tie us to our history.

When I was five, my godmother sat me down with a tea towel, a hoop, and an iron-on embroidery transfer of a spotted puppy with a ball. I poked my fingers with the needle more times than I could count, and, even in my distant, foggy memories, it was mess, stitches going every which-way. I don't think I ever finished it, and I have no idea what became of that little towel. But I can still remember her voice as she explained how to do a satin stitch, a back stitch, a lazy-daisy.

Thirty years on, my stitches are neater now. My mother loves to marvel at how small they are, how straight. Over the years, I've accumulated quite a collection. Tea towels, pillow cases, baby quilts, bibs, wall hangings. It's difficult for me to look at a plain pillowcase without thinking about what I could stitch onto it. Every member of my family has at least one set that I've made for them. When BJ deployed to Iraq, I made him monogramed handkerchiefs to take with him. A silly, impractical gift that somehow seemed right for a civilized man in an uncivilized pursuit.

To earn my cooking badge in Girl Scouts, my mother helped me bake an apple pie the year I turned seven. I remember cutting the shortening into the flour, rolling out the dough. I remember licking cinnamon and sugar off of one of the apple slices, then sneaking it back in the pie when her back was turned. I remember the painful wait until it had cooled enough that we could eat it, and the pride I felt that I had cooked something yummy. That remains one of my greatest joys. While my specialty is now bread, I enjoy any chance I have to bake a pie, and I clearly picture the pattern of the countertop at our little rental house every time I work the rolling pin across the dough. And, just like my mom, I take the scraps of pie crust dough, bake them, slather them with butter, cinnamon, and sugar, and dole them out to my eager, dancing children.

When I was ten, my grandmother taught me to quilt. Not piecing, not yet. She gave me a small square of fabric, printed with a quilt-like pattern, and taught me to stitch at the joining of the different patterns. It wasn't hard, with five years of embroidery under my belt. I liked it, but, again, I don't think I ever finished that little project. Two years ago, though, I took the things I remembered from that long-ago lesson, added some tips from the internet, and taught myself to piece a quilt, as a baby gift for a friend.

In Jr. High, I worked in an antique store owned by some family friends. Let me tell you; being a 7th grader with a passionate interest in depression-era glassware tends to make one stand out amongst ones peers. My nerdy little heart rejoiced at carnival glass, milk glass, and the pale, translucent colors of Depression glass.

The family who owned the shop had a small farm not far from my house. Beyond the obvious allure of the herd of ponies that ran, nearly wild, in their pasture, and the windmill water-pump that I found endlessly fascinating, it was also my first experience with chickens. I was afraid of them, at first, but it didn't take long for me to discover the joy that is pulling fresh eggs out of a nest for breakfast. It felt like a treasure hunt, one that, with their large flock, was always wildly successful. It left such a lasting impression on me that, at one point, a psychologist asked me, the "shell-shocked" veteran sitting before them, what I really wanted from my life. "I want chickens!" I declared, through tears. To me, they meant simplicity. Peace. A life lived according to the calm routine of a walk to the chicken coop with food and water, and back to the house with eggs.

This is the knowledge. The information and the passions we take with us, and, hopefully, pass along again.

At my in-laws home, there is a wall of photographs of little blonde boys, starting with my father-in-law, running down through my husband and my two brothers-in-law, landing on my son and his cousin, who resemble each other so strongly that one would be forgiven for thinking them brothers. Several months ago, when she dressed up for "90's day" at school, I walked into the kitchen and actually jumped in shock, so strongly did Bryn resemble my sister at her age. When I look at Ian, I can see the features of the boy I was crazy about my sophomore year of high school...but also, around the eyes, something that reminds me of my father. Astrid Elizabeth, her middle name chosen to honor my mother-in-law, was well named, and seeing a one-year-old mimic the facial expressions of a seasoned critical care nurse makes me laugh. Every day I find myself standing, sitting, or speaking in a way that echoes my mother nearly perfectly...not to mention our bizarre, slightly annoying habit of showing up at a gathering or event wearing the same clothes.


These are our true heirlooms. Always. No matter what, they are always with us. Ten generations down the line, someone will have my dimples. My husband's eyes. Bryn's freckles. Sam's blue-green eyes. Astrid's reddish hair. This is how we leave our mark on the world. This is immortality.