Crafty Lady
A Tribute by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
“You made this?”
Yes, she made that.
Mom had volunteered when my school’s sixth-grade classes combined for one big holiday celebration before Christmas break. She and a handful of “room mothers” offered to share responsibility for decorations, snacks, and activities.
Of course, Mom came up with a little something extra.
She started by crocheting one palm-sized holiday wreath on a brass ring—layers of ruffly bright green studded with pinpoints of tiny glittery ornaments, pipe-cleaner-tip pine cones, and a festive red-ribbon bow. Pinning it to my sweater, she studied it thoughtfully, mentally refined the execution, then proceeded to make several more. Some dozen or so wreaths into the project, it became clear she intended to make enough for every one of my school’s hundred-plus eleven- and twelve-year-olds to have his or her own. Never doubting the girls would gush over them, I voiced concern that boys might consider them a bit too, um, un-cool. Mom just smiled and predicted they would like them, too, even if some opted to save them as gifts for their own mothers to wear.
The first few boys to receive their homemade wreaths eyed them suspiciously, yet quickly found them irresistible, deciding they really were, indeed, quite cool—but only if pinned to a pants-leg. Any placement of the more traditional variety—on the breast, sleeve, or even collar—well, that must have looked girly. Yes, “leg-wreaths” proved to be a guy thing, and while the girls admired each other’s pretty ornaments, the boys strutted about, proudly showing off their macho holiday displays, grateful to “Aunt Lorene” or “Mrs. G” for her simple gift.
Still, what stood out to me that day, besides the pride of having the cool mom who put so much effort into making every youngster feel good, was the reaction of one quiet boy in particular, a lad whose name I’ve long since forgotten. As Mom pinned his very own wreath just above his left knee, he smiled shyly, big-eyed in amazement over such a thoughtful gesture. “You made this?” he whispered.”For me?”
I can’t possibly recount how many times I’ve heard similar sentiments expressed in the years since. Most of the people who have passed through my mother’s world now own a gift she made just for them. A master of all kinds of arts and crafts, known far and wide by the e-moniker “CraftyLady,” Mom stands as the all-time master of melding utility with whimsy, of fitting function with the funnest of forms. Usually her own design, always custom-made, her projects range from simple fridge-magnet knick-knacks to hand-carved saddles and clocks. My leather briefcase and desk set, the afghans gracing Loretta Lynn’s home, baby clothes for friends and kin, dollies and frillies, wallets and belts, cozies and costumes—you name it, and Mom likely made it herself.
You see, Mom understood something that day at the sixth-grade party, something I had only begun to learn. She knew those kids couldn’t help but like their homemade wreaths, for even the too-coolest of any big little boy is smart enough to recognize that a gift from one’s hands truly comes from the heart.
Those hand-crafted holiday trifles brought countless smiles to more than a hundred youngsters and their families, but I suspect that not more than a few, if any, are still around. Things don’t last forever, just as mothers don’t live forever.
We lost Mom on the saddest of days, the Ides of March in ’08. Much of what she made is treasured by those she left behind, but what lives on is the gift she shared with us all. It’s not so much the mere things she fashioned, but rather the smiles she coaxed, the caring she showed, the attention she shared. Mom filled our hearts with the art and craft of her love.
And even if you never met her, rest assured, she did make the world a happier place.
Yes, she made that.
For you.
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© The Fresh Ink Group, LLC, 2009
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