This quarantine has provided time to explore those forgotten boxes tucked away under the stairs. Childhood sampler projects, unfinished knitting, hooks, hoops, and needles of every size, are all reminders of a creative upbringing. My teachers were my grandmother and aunts. Among the tangle of yarns and accessories I found a box of embroidery thread that was given to me by my grandmother. The old box is riddled with tiny holes and I imagine her using it to hold her threaded needles nearly a century ago. I was given that thread to decorate teenage jeans and jackets when it was all the rage. My grandmother used it to decorate pillow cases to supplement the family income during the Depression. I was told the whole family helped including my grandfather who would embroider at night. When I was handed-down that thread, the world I lived in was one she hardly recognized as her own.
While rummaging a couple of weeks ago I came across a collar crocheted by my grandmother. It immediately reminded me of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I fleetingly toyed with the idea of sending it to her, but instead, I kept it as a reminder of the strong women in my family. I am glad I did. Suddenly Justice Ginsburg is gone and the world is turning into one I hardly recognize as my own.