Connection Through Cloth

I come from a family that keeps things (on one side) and throws things away (on the other).

My mother is the keeper. I believe it has at least something to do with growing up in the war, and the way my Oma told stories and kept keepsakes – especially of my mom’s dad (he was killed in the war). The power of a momento, a memory, something someone gave you that held meaning has been passed along to me.  

But there is a tipping point, even for those of us who are sentimental. Mom and I had one this summer when we tackled her linen closet.  It was bothering her, so I jumped at the opportunity to help declutter it, and do something with her at the same time.

I tried to be strategic – a pile of “keep”, one for “give away” and one for “get rid of”. Some of it was easy; there were very old sheets and some tablecloths stained beyond redemption. Some of it was hard; her house only has double beds,  but mom insisted on keeping a set of twin sheets that she loves. 

There were some bittersweet moments, including when we found a small table covering that had the stitched signatures of friends and relatives in Austria – many of them no longer with us.

Mom read the names and told me of the woman (who was a refugee and whose name I cannot remember in this moment) who stitched over the signatures after the people had signed the cloth. I sent a photo of the corner above to my cousins. She died a few months ago, and her name was there, along with her mother and sister (also gone). Mom thought it may have been a going away gift when she left Austria, but she doesn’t remember.

Tablecloths

There were tablecloths with my mothers’ initials stitched into the corners and onto the matching napkins. This is how love showed up in the 1950s I suppose. And what you did when your daughter was getting married. Was it to be a reminder of who she was? 

There were also tablecloths I remember using as a child. One with stitched flowers in all four corners. Also with matching napkins. 

These are some of the things we kept.

The Placemat

And then there was the placemat. 

Soft. With different shades of faded brown in a rectangular pattern. Think 1970s. Fringed edges that were lacking the lustre they once held – now shorter and fuzzier. There used to be four.  I remember them from when I was a kid. I’m 56. 

 “But we could use it…” Mom started. And I had a moment. I swatted her with it playfully as I reminded her of our task – and pointed to the ever-growing pile of “keep”. 

We both laughed. A lot. 

It was a moment I will not forget. But still, I meant to fish that placemat out of the “get rid of” pile, just in case I need help one day, to remember. Not the placemat - the moment. The laughter. The real laughter. From our bellies. The kind where you can’t breathe properly. The kind that makes you pee your pants. One of the moments when my mom feels fully like she is with me.

Memory

We chuckled about it for a few days. But I’m not sure if she would remember the event now – over a month later.  Although sometimes she surprises me.

Ironically, I forgot to take the placemat out of the pile. In my haste to make sure mom didn’t go through the piles, I scooped up the “get rid ofs”, put them in a bag and took them to the garbage bin outside while she was in the bathroom.  When I remembered, garbage day had come and gone. I’m sad about that. Because I want to hold onto all the points of connection I can with my mom. And maybe the placemat would bring that one back for her.

I remember it every time I open the linen closet and take out a placemat. Maybe that’s enough, for now….