I love rainy days. I love stormy days even more.
Rainy/stormy days take me back to my childhood. Until I was seven, we lived in a house with a porch swing and Dad would take my sister and I out on the swing to watch storms. We lived on a one mile stretch of country road which only contained four houses (at that time three), and we were all on the north side of the road while the south side was farm land sloping away from us. It was especially beautiful in summer when the wind would play through the wheat, making it look like an ocean.
At the age of seven, we moved into a house up the hill which my parents built. The original house (a Sears Roebuck catalog home) was sold with eight acres and we kept the other 72. That house had an even better view of the fields. I remember storms rolling through while Mom worked on her latest quilting project and I made Barbie doll clothes. More specifically, Dawn doll clothes, if you are old enough to remember those.
My mom’s clan is full of crafters. Pretty much everyone can sew and many other crafts are represented as well: crocheting, needlepoint, embroidery, quilting, etc. Both of my mom’s parents were from large farm families, which should explain enough right there. That’s probably also why so many in the family can bake from scratch and have at one time or another preserved food. My aunt was an accomplished enough seamstress that she made jeans for her four kids without anyone knowing they weren’t from a store.
I can’t imagine being one of eleven or one of thirteen children, I can never remember which number goes with which grandparent. They were close clans – until a child left to pursue their own interests. I learned the story of my grandparents just within the last ten years, and not from them.
Grandpa and one of his brothers wanted to travel, so they would go where they liked until money was low, then stay put and work until they had earned enough to travel further. One of those stopping points brought Grandpa to my grandmother’s town. They met at a church social. Later, my grandma moved north to be with grandpa. He was ‘kicked out’ of the family for leaving for a while, and she was kicked out for moving north to Yankee territory. Apparently, Grandma missed out on her portion of the sale of the family farm (all but a portion with the house) to developers. Love over substantial money.
The estrangement from the south didn’t carry too far forward, and I always loved when Grandma’s sisters would come to visit. They were graceful ladies and of course I loved listening to their accents.
From rainy day crafting to part of my family history. This path could continue on to just about anywhere, so it’s best to stop and find a porch swing.