A friend who has been toting around a box of little dresses for the last two decades asked if I could step in. They were the tangible memories of four small girls, in smocking and puffed sleeves, corduroy and lace. She wants each daughter to have a small quilt, to carry the memories on to her grandchildren. 

 

Mind you cutting up a dress that once fit a toddler does not yield a lot of fabric for repurposing. Still there were dozens of frocks. I tried to save pockets, and buttons, and embroidered collars. I smiled as I thought of my own five daughters and years of  sewing for them.

 

Another friend brought me a bag of her father's clothes, to go into a lap quilt for her mother to snuggle under. It seems like a good way to remember him and keep him close, now that he is gone. 

 

To tell you the truth, the fabric is by definition old. Faded in places. Yet since when does old equate with less valuable? The antique quilts on racks in my home are beautiful, not only for their color and design, but for their history. I have a Carolina Lily from the Civil War era, and several double wedding rings from the Hoover administration. I had, and sold, a redwork in fabulous condition with an image of Teddy Roosevelt.

 

Having things we can touch and see that open the doors to memory is like storing cans of soup in the pantry. It can get you through a blustery night. It is akin to hearing your father's stories again as the clattering plates are being cleared at a family gathering. You already know how it ends, in our case that he sang in a barbershop quartet at the opening of the Baseball Hall of Fame. There he was with every living iconic ball player, including Yogi Berra and Ozzie Smith.

 

It felt good the first time you wore the dress, or slept under the quilt, or heard the story. Then the nostalgia grows with every subsequent wearing or telling. 

 

One time I invited the members of our marriage group to each bring a sentimental object, and to tell us about it. I felt transformed by the details behind and within the necklaces, and photographs, and a carved bowl with opals embedded. One couple brought the matching shirts they wore on their honeymoon, and another the specialty cheese they often share. 

 

Pieced together, those fragments spin the legend of where we have been.