In the last few weeks, mom has been sorting through her
linens, opening up blanket chests, linen closets, under-the-bed storage
thingies. Out come the linen table clothes and napkins, the hand embroidered or
tatted or pulled-thread finger tip towels, the crocheted throws in some of the
most hideous shades of vomit, dad's layette set - all in pink because for
whatever reason, my grandmother Gwen loved dad in pink (which in honesty with
his dark hair, pail skin and blue eyes, he did look good in pink - or muted red
as he preferred to call it), Victorian children's clothing, a cotton and lace
underskirt from the turn of the last century which mom promised would look
wonderful under a long skirt (...). And it goes on, with representation from
both sides of the family. I felt like a Betty Neels heroine counting the
linens. Mom has kept a few pieces, but mostly my siblings and I took what we
wanted. Because you can never have too many linen table clothes or napkins. And
my powder room just screams finger-tip towels.
When I was in high school, I was introduced to the idea that
all of history, all the past, everyone's past, gave rise... to me. I could draw
on anything and everything for my writing and my creativity. I simply had to
own it. The other idea was finding my place to be - which I think was from a
poem/short story about the bull in the ring, pitted against the matador, finding
his place to finally die. I know, that is one of the random bits I learned in
English and creative writing under the mustachioed gaze of Dr. Martin Galvin. (Another
was putting in a detail about a character - like he always sat with both feet
flat on the floor - to add authenticity. But that is getting off track.)
Some people feel that sense of past when they walk into an
old church or cathedral. Others, it comes from walking down a street in Europe
or Jerusalem, feeling the footsteps of those who walked before. For me, it
comes from handling these old objects, sometimes accompanied with notes. I
imagine how proud Grandmother would have been, how carefully she ironed each towel
or clothe. I imagine the frugality of a
wise housewife, sewing a small flower applique over a cigarette hole in a
tablecloth.
In Kathleen Gilles Seidel's book, Please Remember This,
heroine Tess Lanier opened a shop selling vintage linens. That character always
rang true with me, because I understood the quiet love for women's handiwork.
She wasn't a "big" heroine, who at a relatively young age ran a
national chain of stores, or even the type of heroine that everyone wanted to
shag. She opened a small store in a small town where she was a stranger and her mother had achieved notoriety. The book was about the relationships of mothers and daughters, and
isn't that what linens are all about?
Sure, sure, my brother took one of our great-grandmother's
bed spreads because he totally respects the hours of work that went into it.
But by and large, these items, particular the very old pieces, were no doubt
part of a dower chest, like the one my grandfather made for his bride, with the
sheets and pillow cases the young girl started making for her home. This sense of future, of running her own home
and raising her own children, is woven tightly into the pillow cases and
dresser scarves. They are haunted, in a sense, by the hands that made them, the
hands that used them and the hands that carefully folded them away in tissue
paper.
When I create a character, and write that his foot is always
tapping, jiggling, twitching, somewhere in him is a matriarchy that at some
point carefully folded away tea-towels. Maybe they were poor, maybe they were
unbelievably wealthy, maybe they hated every moment holding the needle. But
they were there. I may never, ever mention his feminine antecedents in the
whole of the book, but his history is still comprised of them.
