Cross-stitching (32 of 40)

Every other summer from kindergarten through junior high, I spent a week with my grandparents in Colorado. My parents have continued the tradition with a version of their own dubbed 'Camp Gigi and Rompa.' In fact, just this weekend, I boarded my children on an airplane to fly by themselves to Arizona for their annual trip; their love for this magical time with my parents and their cousins the only mitigating factor for the unholy anxiety of watching a plane take flight with my tween babies aboard while my feet remain terra firma. 

My first solo flight was ventured at the age of 5, believe it or not. While I can concede it was a different world back then, I honestly have no idea how my parents let kinder-Caity out into the world without sheer panic informing every part of their being.  

To be honest, I was scared to go. I can still vividly picture the scene I replayed in my mind the night before I left; one in which I arrived to body-snatched grandparents who planned to boil me in their basement cauldron. (Some may call that an insight to my psyche. I'm just going to call it “wildly imaginative.”) Fortunately, I arrived (and survived) unharmed that year and for the many years after. 

My grandfather took my cousin and I fishing for the first time. We listened in horror to his detailed explanation of cleaning and gutting our catch, after which we tearfully insisted he return the now very dead fish to the pond. 

My grandmother taught us to play cribbage and boggle, and showed us off to all her friends at church.

We rode bikes, played pool in the (cauldron-free) basement, and visited Colorado-famous landmarks like Casa Bonita and Swetsville Zoo. Mostly, we made memories and learned skills I never would have without the investment of my grandparents in my life. 

Last fall, my grandmother, Mary, passed away. She loved my grandfather for over seven decades, raised three accomplished and quality children, and adored her six grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren. I can't imagine a more successfully spent life. We teased her at times about her Mary Poppins-esque fanny packs and her questionable gift-giving (think soap-on-a-rope and ill-fitting cat sweaters), but we never wondered if she cared.

One skill my grandmother taught to my cousin and I during our summers together was cross-stitching: a type of embroidery that predominantly uses an x-shaped stitch. Before she died, she was working on a would-be gift for her twelfth great-grandbaby. Over the years, she had made something similar for each grandchild and great-grandchild born into our family. 

Though in her 90's, the timing of her death was not expected and when the realization set in that she would not be able to finish this project, she asked if I would be willing to take over and complete it. I had not cross-stitched in years, but being so far away, I was beyond thankful for the opportunity to contribute. One of the last requests that my grandmother had was to know the name of her final great-granddaughter. My sister, who was keeping the name a secret until the birth, conceded to share it with her. Grandma Mary thought it was a nice name. 

Lennon Olivia was born a few days after my grandmother passed and I humbly stitched her name in the announcement my grandmother had prepared. 

I have taken the hobby of cross-stitching back up. It's yet another amazing alternative to the varied electronic stimuli available to me at any given moment. I've tried to persuade my daughter to learn the skill as well. She's not quite there yet, but she will be. And she'll know that this is something from our family passed down through the generations. Something small, but something meaningful.