Domesticity

I don't know why I've entered this weird world of old-fashioned domesticity. I've started a quilt...nowhere near finished but I started it. I'm canning up a storm and making soups to freeze from our garden. And now... I'm making pie. Not just any pie, apple pie completely from scratch from my very own apple tree that we planted 5 years ago. Why am I doing this? Sam even asked me why we've all of sudden jumped into this world. I think I've figured it out, at least for me. My grandmother, Mama Joe, was an amazing woman. She, to me, was the epitome of a feminist whether she realized it or not. She worked, she gardened, she raised her family, she cooked from scratched, she canned, she played baseball, she hunted, she cradled her dying husband, she crocheted baby booties, she hugged you hard, she disciplined, she loved. She was everything. And she was unexpectedly taken from me before I turned 17 and my world crumbled.

And now as I get older, I'm losing my memories of her. I've always struggled to retain memories. I don't know if it was because I fractured my skull at a young age or because my brain doesn't have the capacity...I don't know. But I reach for fragments of her and come up with barely a wisp. I can barely remember the sound of her voice or feel of her arms or the sight of her nimble fingers creating something beautiful. So in a way, I'm trying to find her in these tasks. I talk to her in my head sometimes while I blanch tomatoes for canning. I imagine what she might think of her oldest granddaughter mixing ingredients for her first pie crust, praying she gets it right. I bet she would get a good chuckle at my frustration at the sewing machine. By throwing myself at these old fashioned, some would say out-dated activities, I'm reconnecting with her. I can feel her again. I know that she is proud of me even though I cuss up a storm while doing all of these things.

I'm finding my way back to her, one jar, one quilt square, one pie at a time.