Knitting to cope with grief

On the anniversary of my Father's passing, I was not up to writing about it. 
Or talking about it. 
To anyone. 

Believe it or not, he died a couple of weeks before my 15th birthday.  And that was 37 years ago.  And still, every year it's a difficult day.  It "gets easier"?  Maybe, maybe not.

Now, looking back on it, I know that I really should have had some counseling, and maybe a lot of help, way back then.  But, it wasn't "the thing to do".  If you ever find yourself or a loved one in a similar situation, I urge you to Seek Help.  It's out there.

But, following the counsel that I have had since then, I went through the day carefully.  I avoided stressors, immersed myself in all things positive, stayed around supportive people.  And I spent a lot of time with my knitting in my hands or at least on my lap.  And, probably because I've also been spending a lot of time on geneaology research, I thought about my Grandmother, my Father's Mother. 

I don't really remember her.  She died, I think, when I was about 2 years old.  She lived with my family for "a while" before that, but there are conflicting reports on if that meant 14 months or 14 years.  Grandma had owned a house in the little home town, and I did get to know her house.  I know that sounds odd.

Family Reunions were always a big deal for my Father's Family.  There were a lot of kids in his generation, and they mostly had several kids each.  And by the time that I was born, my Aunts and Uncles were Grandparents and some were Greatgrandparents themselves.  When I was little, I thought that's what they meant when they said someone "was from an Old Family".  So, every year, on the appointed day, well over a hundred of our family would congregate in this tiny little town that normally had only 50 residents.  The town struggled to keep a gas station open, much less a hotel.  And very few of the family members still lived in the town.  So, the eldest Aunt that lived the farthest away bought my Grandmother's House.  It was empty most of the year, but Aunt Grace and her family would stay there when they were in the area.  A great many of the things in the house stayed just as Grandma had left them when she last was there in about 1960.  A Victrolla that we all played nonstop whenever we were there.  Knowing what those are worth now makes me question the Aunt's sanity.  A steel frame bed with very squeeky springs.  Hand made everything you can think of:  quilts, afghans, pot holders, lace doilies and table cloths, aprons, anti-maskars, braided rugs, dresser scarves, rag dollies, chair cushions, couch pillows, hot pads, water bottle covers, toilet paper cover dolls.  And clothes that they let us play dress up with;  crochet slippers, hats of all kinds, house dresses, scarves, all vintage in the extreeme. 

Eventually the time came when Aunt Grace's family decided to sell the house.  It was about 25 years after Grandma had died.  We hadn't all gone to the house for several years because the family had outgrown it for the Reunion, it being held in the Masonic Lodge by that time.  But each family was invited by turns to come over and take an item or two from the house.  As an adult, not having been there for years, everything seemed so small.  And of course everything was so worn out and broken down.  Some of the furniture had pretty much disintegrated. 

But what struck me hard was the sudden realization, when it was far too late, that my Grandmother had been a Crafter.  And now I also know that she was somewhat of a hoarder too.  All those years the house had been empty, noone had really cared what was in the Attic.  The Family was hauling out boxes of patterns that she had cut out of newspapers and magazines.   Stored in an attic all those years had destroyed them to confetti and mouse nests.