There are some details that I will share with you, and some that I will only keep for myself. Some are truths, some are embellishments, not on purpose, maybe just for flair or just my own brain fooling both of us.
What do I have of my own personal history. Really only my own thoughts and examinations. It is not clouded by what others have shared or told me. There are not many records or pictures. It is only my thoughts and my words.
I do have a picture of my Grandfather. I took is when I went back home before he passed. It is one of my favorites. It is exactly how I remember him. Yes, that one snapshot embodies almost everything that I defined him by.
He is standing tall, even though I do not suppose he was really that tall. He is standing tall in front of his garage with his red hair fading to white in his coveralls. He worked on cars, and that was his shop. One of the first buildings to be built in this small town. He built his home, too.
I remember being at his shop with him when I was so small. He would pick me up, and his red chest hair would just be peaking out of the top of his coveralls where the zipper stopped. Not much for fashion, but comfortable, purposeful, determined, ready wear.
My grandmother would hem the pants of these coveralls for him. And when the zipper broke, she would put in a new one. She did a lot of sewing.
My grandparents are both past now. My grandmother the last to go. The chore of going through the things of the dead. That chore is such a strange chore. It brings out the greed in some, the sadness in some, the joy in others....all the while, the dead don't care - they are beyond material things. All the items we amass left to beggars, robbers, hoarders.
I was of the later, a hoarder. A hoarder of memories, and scents, and touches. Yes, I am a hoarder of such things.
In one box, was a pile of my grandfather's coveralls. I took several pairs. No, I did not have a plan for these items. There is no reasoning in hording, only shame - the shame that I wouldn't have a purpose for them. These items would lay waste in my own boxes, in my own closest and I would die and any memory of their purpose would cease with me.
But, there they were. The two pairs of coveralls, these particular pair - in bright colors - Colors that I was familiar with. And my hording shame turned to laughter and glee - so, much that I almost cried from laughter. These coveralls were in the colors of my own man's football team.
I would make him a gift. This gift would be funny and cause celebration and laughter. This gift would be from my family history of past, to my family history of the present. The coveralls would live and start a new tradition. I was so excited.
I never cared for sports. But, my man does. I supported him before, by making pigs in a blanket, and getting beer, and a large TV, and even a tattoo. We were good to each other like that. Both of us different and supportive.
When I got home with all of my things, I went straight away for the bag containing the coveralls. I showed my man the bag, and told him that it was a surprise for him. I made him promise to try them on as soon as he took them out of the bag. And not to argue with me, because it was important.
I shouldn't have worried that he wouldn't like them. Once he saw what they were, he stripped and donned the first pair immediately. He's a bit taller than my grandfather was, I would have to let out the hem. I showed him the picture of my grandfather. He understood the importance and hugged me; however, not without hiding his own delight with the gift. Although, their purpose would change, the history of past and future would remain and begin - A fantastic collision.
He went to get a patch of his football team to put on one of the pair of coveralls. But, he couldn't sew, not to say he didn't try. I awoke the next morning with the plea of help and a crudely placed patch.
I had not sewn for years. Although, I had been taught by my grandmother. It wasn't a skill that I particularly concentrated on. It didn't hold an interest for me, in the least. So, slow and boring. But, now, my man and the coveralls depended on me. In good conscious, I could not let my man go to his fantasy football draft in his fantastic coveralls with some half-assed patch. It was my blood that depended on this moment.
I still had the sewing kit my grandmother gave me. The coveralls were so cumbersome to work with, already sewn and divided into their folds. I couldn't find a place to put them, to lay them out straight to line of the patch with the pocket. I searched my home in vain for hours.
Then I found it, my eyes fell on it. Within the boxes of my grandparents things was my Great-Grandmother's sewing kit. Actually, it was right on top of the box that I hadn't put away yet. My Great-Grandmother had really been the super star of sewing - so, it's been mentioned. I found her old embroidery hoop and some thicker thread. I worked beautifully in holding the fabric still.
I squinted to thread the needle, just as I remembered my grandmother doing. I tacked the patch down with the stick pens from my kit. I knotted the thread at one end. And recalled the stitch my grandmother taught me to do.
As it would turn out, I had estimated the thread to be the exact amount that I needed to do the entire patch and only pricked my finger once... It was just a tiny drop of blood on the inside, no one would see. It was finished and secure. My man would be ready. He would look good. He would look proper.
I sat eyeing my work with some degree of pride. It was such a small thing. Such a small thing that represented three generations of the making. I was suddenly connected to so many threads. The thread that was the women in my family. The thread that was the men in my family. The thread that was my family now.
I took a picture.
