On this day in 1919, my grandmother was born. And sixteen years ago, almost to the day, was when she died. I was ten. There's a lot I didn't get the chance to do with her, and there's a lot I never got the chance to ask her. And being adopted, it can be hard feeling connected to your own family because whether intentional or not, people equate blood with family. Like there's something that people who don't share genetics are missing, even if those people literally raised you.
Though her health didn't really allow it during my lifetime, my grandma used to be an avid crocheter. There were doilies she made on every end table. There were crocheted dresses on the extra roll of toilet paper in every bathroom. And there were crocheted glass covers, only used on the sacred of days, the rare Rootbeer Float Friday. I tried to learn, but grandma couldn't teach me, and my mom is left handed. (Nowadays I can crochet left handed in order to teach others, but at seven or eight it was beyond my ability.)
But even though there was a lot that couldn't be passed on, a desire to be crafty was instilled in me. That and the fact that a house isn't a home without copious yarn crafts. As I grew I learned how the things I saw everyday were made, and through books I taught myself the skills I had been surrounded by.
Now, almost two decades after her death, I make my bed with purple sheets in remembrance of her, with pillowcases that I cross-stitched with violets and lace trim I crocheted. I top my bed with the quilt that I made, and add a crocheted counterpane that I inherited from her. And I know that even though we didn't share a drop of blood, she was family, and I wouldn't be the person I am today without her influence.
I love and miss you, Grandma.