honoring edna
When I share that my family’s roots are Mennonite and Amish for the first time, people are generally shocked - and then the curiosity sets in. The many questions that follow remind me that I am woefully illiterate with my own past.
my grandma’s fabric scissors that were passed down to me
While I may not always be able to articulate the rules and traditions governing Amish life, I feel and live many of the values in ways I am still learning to this day. In high school and college, I distanced myself from my own cultural background, not seeing it as an asset. But as I learned more of the importance of understanding our own identities in order to be more culturally aware and invested in others’, I began to investigate my own roots. It pointed me towards home.
All four of my grandparents grew up in Amish homes, and at some point in time, transitioned into the Mennonite church. While I never knew my dad’s father, I was fortunate to know all of my grandparents well. However, my grandma Edna (who would have been 100 today if she were still alive) lived across the yard from me throughout most of my childhood years. I grew up running over to her house on a whim, there for five minutes or five hours - who could predict such a thing?
I think it is impossible to spend that amount of time with someone and not learn from them. My grandma was thrifty and industrious; born in 1925, she grew up during the Great Depression. She did not waste or spend frivolously, and she worked tirelessly, even when her body had decided it no longer wanted that lifestyle.
Back in her sewing room, my grandma’s stash of fabric scraps was carefully maintained and sifted through to find the best fit for upcoming quilt tops. She gifted each of her grandchildren a quilt on their wedding, and had other projects going on constantly. While she worked on her quilts, my siblings and I would often sit with her, taking over one of the less skilled tasks of sewing, such as snipping between blocks or ironing.
the quilt my grandma gifted my husband and I for our wedding
with my grandma Edna
At the time, I didn’t have any interest in sewing myself, and was mainly there for time with my grandma, and a monster cookie or two. But when she passed away in 2020, I was given her good pair of fabric scissors. I had never sewed, and luckily my mom has also always sewn. My sister found a $10 sewing machine at a garage sale, I drove to my parents’ house, and my mom gave me a crash course. In fits and starts, I struggled away at my machine, fighting to keep it threaded and functioning.
Last fall, after starting my business and taking the step to stay at home with our then 1.5-year-old, I came home to a surprise from my husband - a new sewing machine. No more constant re-threading, no more jams - just smooth sailing. Now, with an actual working machine, I felt myself doing things that I don’t remember ever being taught explicitly, but must have soaked up inadvertently. How to press seams, chain piece, backstitch. My grandma’s scissors had a comforting strength and precision.
All of that time since I had sewn with her and my mom, and there were still lingering pieces of familiarity. It made me think about the importance of maintaining skills for future generations. There is always YouTube for learning a new skill (thank goodness), but sometimes nothing can beat a physical presence to guide your hands and interpret the meaning of an obscure pattern. The allure of technology and an ever-present entertainment in our hands has caused us to let go of the knowledge that our ancestors hold in favor of another meme, another reel. If we don’t have the time to learn their practices, there will be no hands to redirect those in the future.
That’s kind of dark and gloomy, but it does give me motivation to keep learning and growing my own skills. And the more I create with my own hands, the less I find myself scrolling mindlessly. So, win-win! One of the creations that came from learning to sew was a quilt block sweatshirt for a dear friend’s birthday. As I tried it out more, I thought about how to make it into a product offered through my Etsy shop, and this is how the Edna Collection was born.
So, today on my grandma’s 100th would-be birthday, I celebrate her love for fiber arts, for sustainable living within her means, and the gift of creating by launching my website and a brand new collection of quilt block and embroidered sweatshirts. Reflecting on her influence and what I gravitate towards, I see that my past can be reclaimed as my own, with its own modern take.
In parting, I share a poem below that I wrote the day after my grandma Edna passed away. Yes, it’s long; yes, I was processing, but it conveys how close she was. Her memory is woven deep, and lives in the creating I do today. April 6, 2020
die Grossmammi
these years have been a gift
while I vaguely remember your brick house
the table spanning multiple rooms
as the Millers crowded in
clarity comes later
I remember sprawling on the vernal grass
sisters and neighbor kids as spectators
as the men smoothed the concrete foundation
expectantly awaiting the daily progress
a driveway previously a dead end
now forking, with endless options in a child’s eyes
and then you were there
you were never not
we felt you watching us
your loving laughing gaze
a blanket over our spanning yard
whether from your oval table
or the bench outside your door
you were never
not
it is a gift to grow
with your grandma so near
impossible memories made possible
you brought with you
a coveted concrete sidewalk
hugging around your home
we skateboard, rollerbladed
raced on bikes from the top of our gravel driveway
to finally cross the finish line of your cement
the many cases of roadrash and crashes
did not slow us down
I remember vividly
a dewy sunrise before my parents were awake
as I checked off my morning chores
so I could sneak across the lawn to see you
the way you made each of us feel special
a weekly lunch date
your butter-grilled chicken a treat
your love for your garden
the blooms you could coax
the birds you could woo
we watched as you grudgingly accepted a cane
a self-sufficient farm wife
with movement now restricted
but you walked the uneven gravel driveway
grabbed the mail and waved to the neighbors
I remember laying outside
breathing in sunshine
hearing your voice straining to reach my ears
“Hi, Sarah” it manages
sitting up, trying to place you
your wave across the yard
as you took a rest on your new seat
an equally begrudged walker
I bounce over
to share the rays between us
in your meticulous house
you had to cave
vacuuming and bending
were no longer within reach
a weekly Saturday cleaning ritual
punctuated with a rummaging
through your carefully saved vat of coins
picking through to find the quarters
occasionally resigning myself to dimes
I despised cleaning (some things never change)
but there’s something different
when you’re cleaning
with the tenderness of care for another
at night your kitchen light
a glance reassuring that all was well
sometimes your head poised diligently
over your current puzzle
sometimes piecing your next quilt
it was those days when
the kitchen light was a no-show
a drop in the stomach
fear crept in
we would push the garage door opener
and the designee would check
there you would be
lightly snoring in your automatic recliner
your groggy “was I asleep?”
as we got older
grandchildren became chauffeurs
haircuts, chiropractor, foot doctor, doctor
Wal-Mart, Save-A-Lot, Shipshe, church
when you could afford it,
and probably when you couldn’t,
a stop at Arby’s or McDonald’s
you loved to treat us
you treated us with love
no matter the pains
always so happy to see us
a ‘quick visit’ always morphed
when hours had passed
mom eventually had to break the spell
phoning over to say that supper was ready
a hug and a double check
– lock the door or not? –
you usually said to keep it open
just in case someone else would be back over
I remember the heart joy
of all your boys being near
tears ran freely
you raised your sons to cry
in laughter, in empathy, in pain
in helplessness and love
your tender heart carried on
and for that I am always grateful
it’s easy to see where they got it
you laughed with us
and at yourself
never taking yourself too seriously
the way you could barely squeeze a story out
laughter slipping between the words
as through a dam you couldn’t stop
pressure building until the laugh tears burst
ach, my.
you were humble to a fault
as our family circled your plates
we inwardly awaited and wondered
what would it be this time?
“the peas are a little overcooked”
preserving your humility
your artistry always had a flaw in your eyes
the feeling was never mutual
those gifted years
snipping the connecting thread between quilt squares
as you deftly nudged more through
even at this simple task I could barely keep up with you
despite the swell of your joints
they predicted the weather with growing accuracy
as you lost the precision to do what you loved
I remember popping in to deliver the mail
when that walk became too far
you’d count out cookies as currency
and sneak me an extra as a tip
I can feel the scratch of your davenport
the porous crocheted throw
orange brown yellow white
never quite warm enough
but entertaining to poke my fingers through
years later, you had a chuckle
when we broke the rules together
your pristine, petless house
gasped at the scandal
our newly adopted puppy
cozied up on your sofa too
we snuck our puppies in to visit you
when your home we’d always known changed
nails clicking on the tile
praying they wouldn’t bark
we trotted them through the sterility
and senility to find your shared room
bursting still with your bright wit
when Leo mistook your stuffed polar bear,
a prized Bingo trophy, for a threat
his ridiculous low growl
rattled our stomachs with laughter
last spring as summer teased Michigan
with an unexpectedly warm day
I asked you if you’d like to go for a walk
at first you were resigned to staying inside
as if the outside world were now an impossibility
but then I saw your resolve return
“I’d like that, Sarah”
winter’s chill hung sinister behind April’s sunshine
so we searched for one of your colorful headscarves
alas, none to be found
you cried laughing tears
as we wrapped a hand towel around your head
as I wheeled you outside
you closed your eyes and smiled
“that just feels so good”
complicit rebels, we left the nursing home property
prolonging the sun shower on your upturned face
it was a gift to grow with you
as I browse the grainy pictures it’s clear
that you were never not here
now we cope with a new distance
no physical hugs
your hand can’t squeeze mine tight but
you are ever here
a cross stitch piece inherited from my grandma
In loving memory of Edna Miller, 1925-2020
