: to make or produce with care, skill, or ingenuity.
Merriam-Webster
The annual Grammy’s Christmas break sleepover has evolved over the past few years, but simply must include crafting, hot chocolate, the movie Elf, at least one argument over who will sleep where, more crafting, and pancakes for breakfast. (And did I mention crafting?) It gives this grandma no end of delight that in this age of screens, all four of her grandchildren love nothing more than a pile of paper, pom-pons, glue sticks, markers, paint, tape, stickers, and whatever else is on hand in the craft cupboard. This year my ten-year-old grandson worked on a comic book, and his sisters made a stack of gifts to take home. My role is to make dinner, pour the cocoa, keep the snacks a-comin’, and nod, “Uh-huh” and “Oh my goodness that’s so pretty” and “You are so creative!”
Grandma has returned to her own craft basket and is busy stitching a new pile of Mr. Socks. After serving this past year as home base for my rescue kittens, I took my sewing room back–organized my stash, rearranged, purchased some new wool, and got out the ol’ Viking 3310. (forty-three years old, to be exact!) More often than not, my stitching is a kind of meditation or–dare I even say it?–of prayer. The colors, the patterns, the feel, the repetition. Poke, nudge, pull. Poke, nudge, pull. I’m guessing it’s that same soothing that calls us all to craft.
Last week I finished Anne Tyler’s French Braid. I “met” Tyler in 1987 when I worked at the bookstore, and The Accidental Tourist was a kind of required reading for us on staff. From there I moved backwards and read her previous novels, then forward as she published each new one in turn. I love that Tyler writes about families that aren’t picture perfect, that there’s always something (or someone) askew–slightly out of focus, maybe, or crowding the frame or missing altogether. French Braid is no different.
Mercy and Robin Garret’s love saved them, until it didn’t. Following the path set out for them in the fifties meant that Mercy set aside her dreams of becoming a painter and Robin took over his father-in-law’s hardware store. They raise three children who grow into successful adults. But then there’s that off-kilter photo Tyler is so good at. Those siblings, with families of their own, rarely see each other even though they don’t live far from each other. Resentments from the past shadow every interaction. And Mercy. Goodness! She rents a studio, begins painting again, and over the years moves sweater by sweater and pot by pan into the studio, sleeping there (at first only a night now and then) then returning home in the morning to fix Robin’s breakfast and pack his lunch before she returns. It’s the family secret everybody knows and no one mentions. When both Mercy and Robin have died, their son David–now a grandfather himself–muses that families are like French braids: “You think you’re free of them, but you’re never really free; the ripples are crimped in forever.”
Anyone who has, like me, lived for sixty-seven years has had their fair share of fractured relationships, fissures that develop over time even between those who were once close. My initial reaction is sorrow for what is no longer, and that’s especially true during the holidays. But, you know what? Those “ripples [and] little leftover squiggles” are still there, part of who I am. There’s a sweet kind of comfort in that. I don’t know what the future holds for me and these much-loved grandchildren. It’s possible that in true Anne Tyler fashion we may (God forbid!) grow apart one day.
But I do know that the ripples of the love we’ve shared “are crimped in forever.”
This is my symphony 