From Generation to Generation

When I was a little girl, there was always something magical about going to my Gramma’s house. My Gram was the kind of person whose warmth just radiated wherever she went. Just being around her made you feel good. Her home was warm and welcoming, her cooking and baking was phenomenal (and she always did it so effortlessly) and she just seemed to enjoy the little things in life – like tending to her garden and being a good friend to her neighbors.


I have countless memories of visiting and staying with my mother’s parents. Some are so vivid it is as if it happened yesterday. I remember being terrified to go down into her basement alone, but loving sliding down the “firemen’s pole” to get there when Gram was down there. I remember going up into her attic and admiring my mother’s wedding dress – and occasionally being allowed to try it on. I remember walking with her down the big hill on her street to go to the post office, and then to Garden State Farms to get the freshest, coldest milk I’d ever tasted.



I remember staying up on New Year’s Eve to watch the ball drop and listen to Guy Lombardo sing Auld Lang Syn. Just before midnight Gram would fill a plate with her amazing Christmas cookies and make huge ice cream floats with cream soda and vanilla ice cream, and at midnight we’d dance around the sun parlor and sing. I’d go to bed shortly after midnight and sleep until noon the next day, and when I’d wake up, Gram would let me have “coffee” (half coffee, half milk with about 3 spoonfuls of sugar) out of the demitasse cup of my choice. She’d make French toast covered with cinnamon and sugar and drenched with warm maple syrup. (Thinking back on that I have to laugh -- Gram was just pumping me up with sugar before returning me to my parents after they’d been out celebrating on New Year’s Eve. Maybe that was her way of making sure they didn’t celebrate too much! )


I could write a book about my Gram – but I think you get the point. In my eyes, she was just a phenomenal woman, who brought joy to every life she touched. When she died during my junior year of college, it was the first time I really felt the sorrow that comes from losing someone you love and truly adore.

Gram & me

I’ve spent the past 20+ years of my life trying to be someone my Gram would be proud of. I try (albeit I’m not always successful) to keep my attitude aligned with how I remember hers to be – ever-positive, ever-generous, ever-loving. I am so far from “there” – but I keep trying just the same. At times when I’m feeling confused about something, I look up to the heavens and I ask my Gram how she would handle it -- and do you know what? She usually finds a way to send me an answer. I guess she just can’t stop helping.

So, I’ve told you an awful lot about my very special grandmother, but that is hardly a story that warrants the title of From Generation to Generation. So what’s missing?



What’s missing, is a glimpse at two other phenomenal females in my life -- my mother and my daughter.

My Mom
I’ve already introduced you to my Mom in my Patchwork Pillows post a few weeks ago. The thing I really didn’t realize growing up, is that my Mom is an awful lot like my Gram. She spends every day of her life just giving. Giving. Giving. Giving. She gives hugs, praise, gifts, love, and she always – always – has time for her family and friends.

Growing up, she sacrificed so much for my siblings and me. She was always there – for every sporting event, every play, every recital – every day, she was there. She helped me with every assignment that I successfully put off until the eleventh hour, and unlike me with my own kids, she never complained and never lost her patience (at least not that I knew).

As a mother of three teenagers myself, I now see my Mom in a completely different light. The truth is, I could sit here all day and never find the right words to describe just how good a person my Mom is. She is gentle, kind, loving, optimistic, upbeat, generous, nurturing….the list could go on and on all day.

My Daughter
My daughter, Amy, a “next-generation” gentle soul, really summed it up the best. After celebrating Easter at my parents’ house a few weeks ago, we were in the car together and she turned to me and said, “Do you know what I realized last week on Easter? Mom-Mom is just the cutest little woman in the whole world. I was watching her on Easter, and while everyone was busy doing their thing – there was Mom-Mom, just puttering around, smiling, and making sure that everyone was happy and comfortable. I just love her.”

Amy's recognition and appreciation of my mother warmed my soul, and was very reminiscent of my feelings of admiration towards my Gram. It made me very proud to know that my sweet daughter was attuned to that kindness. What followed later that week, however, left me speechless.

Amy made another comment following a get-together with some friends. She said, “You know what I realized, Mom? Someday I’m going to be the cutest woman in the world.”

“Oh really?” I said, “How’s that?”

“Well, you know how they say that as we get older, we become a lot like our mothers? Well, I was watching you last night, and you reminded me of Mom-Mom – just staying positive and smiling, and making sure everyone was happy and comfortable. It’s happening to you, and it’s going to happen to me. Someday, because of Mom-Mom, I’ll be the cutest little woman in the world.”

Talk about a great gift from your daughter.


Who knows exactly how far back we can trace the line of kind-hearted, smiling women in our family? All I know is that whether I’m looking back and remembering my Gram, or trying to find the words to describe my mother – or even looking to the future and the amazing young woman my daughter has become, I can’t feel anything but honored and humbled to be a part of this family.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Patchwork Pillows

I realized today that patchwork pillows are really just art for the artistically challenged.

When I was in third grade, my grammar school had an art show – it was like a science fair for the artistically blessed. Unfortunately, I was not one of those people. I couldn’t even get all the crayons back in the box, let alone make snowflake garland or fold an origami tea set. Participation in the art show was not optional, and I upon receiving the assignment, I immediately envisioned all the parents and teachers snickering as they walked past my pathetic display. I knew that unless they let me submit a haiku, I was doomed.

In the weeks leading up to the show, I lived in denial about my required participation. I had convinced myself that if I didn’t talk about it, I could will it away. No such luck. On the night before my project was due, I sheepishly went to my mother with the assignment, prepared to take the wrath for my ill-preparedness. Fortunately my Mom was (and still is) the kindest, most forgiving mom in the universe, so she didn’t dwell for too long on my superior ability to procrastinate, but instead cut to the quick and started figuring out how to get an art show-worthy project done inside four hours.

Unlike me, my mother is incredibly gifted artistically. She is also incredibly honorable. So unfortunately for me, when I suggested that I re-sign one of her oil paintings, or blow the dust off one her handmade dried flower arrangements (she even used to grow the flowers herself, then dry them), she wouldn’t go for it. Instead she reminded me of the importance of working to the best of my ability, using my God-given talents, and doing my own work (a lesson I am so blessed to have learned).

“So you want me to fail,” I thought?

But failing was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead she took off up the stairs and started digging through the storage closet in her bedroom. She had nearly vanished amidst the garment bags and the Christmas wrapping when I heard her yell, “I found it!” With that she tossed a black garbage bag onto the floor of her room.

One of my mother’s many artistic talents was her ability to sew, and the bag was overflowing with remnants and scraps of every fabric she had ever worked with in her 24 years of marriage. I looked at her blankly. I didn’t know the first thing about sewing, and with three and a half hours ‘til bedtime, it was not the time to learn.

“You’re making a patchwork pillow,” she told me, “start picking out fabrics.”

Still confused, I emptied the content of the bag on the floor and started looking at all the fabrics. There was every color and texture imaginable -- florals, stripes, checks, plaids, denim, corduroy, taffeta, lace, velvet, eyelet, pastels, and jewel tones. Before we even did a thing with it, this pile of fabric looked like a work of art. My mother was a genius – even I could do this.

I started pulling out the fabrics that I liked, and laying them side by side on the floor, moving them around to see which fabrics looked nicest next to each other. My mom showed me how to cut the perfect little squares, and pin them together in the layout that I liked. Once I had the patchwork pinned together, she would sew it on the machine, add the solid back panel, and then I could stuff it and hand stitch the small seam to finish the pillow.

I ended up picking out ten different fabrics in all. Each one representing a special occasion my mother had made something for throughout the years. Among the swatches were fabrics used for prom dresses, Easter dresses, Halloween costumes and much more. The backing was a sturdy fabric that she used to make curtains in our family room. When it was all finished the pillow told a story of many happy memories for our family.

After each square that she joined together, my mom showed me how beautifully it was all coming together, and the whole pillow was completed with time to spare before bedtime. I felt badly that my mom had done the sewing, but she assured me that it was “the creation of the patchwork layout” that was the art – the sewing was just the mechanics. My mother had found the perfect outlet for the artistically challenged.

My patchwork pillow didn’t win any awards at the art show, but I didn’t hear anyone snickering as they walked by my display.

Thirty-some years later I’ve realized that life is a lot like a patchwork pillow. Every experience is its own piece of fabric, joined together to create a special little work of art with intricate texture and dimension, held together by a sturdy backing, and filled with a stuffing that you never really see – but it is what makes this hodge podge of fabric a pillow.

Yes, I do believe life is a lot like a patchwork pillow.