Tribute to My Grandmother

Written in memory of Teresa Haines, my grandmother
January 4, 1904 – May 9, 2003

The buffet in her dining room — the same one in my aunt and uncle’s dining room now — was filled with treasure. Table linens, for sure, but also other fascinating stuff: tatting needles, thread, buttons, lace, doll bracelets, wooden needle cases and pin cushions.

When I inherited her fabric scraps I found a wealth of calico, polyester and cotton scraps, some of which I had given her. I also found a piece of hot pink sheer, a silky orange and fuchsia floral print and a stash of beads and sequins, all bounty from the making of four cathedral window quilts and sewing sparkly costumes for my Aunt Nina’s dance recitals.

I watched and learned from my grandmother how to make the ultimate comfort food: homemade noodles and chicken, but I never fully tamed the piecrust. Grandmother came from a time when women cooked three solid meals every day. It took me years to understand that “dinner” was the big meal at noon. Granddaddy came home every day from the shop to get a home-cooked meal, including dessert.

I remember sewing clothes on her Singer straight-stitch sewing machine when I came home from college on the weekends.

I remember drinking sugary Lipton tea in her cantaloupe-colored kitchen. Maybe that’s where my penchant for brightly colored walls originated. The rest of the house was tasteful and conservative, but the kitchen was powerful medicine.

Grandmother was a world-class worrier, worry and love being intricately entwined. There wasn’t so much to do in the 30-some years after Granddaddy died. She worried about all of us; she even worried about people she didn’t know. Maybe we’re all still here and safe because she worried. But maybe she could have worried less and been happier, and we’d all still be here.

Let me tell you a family secret: my grandmother went to high school with Elvis. One time, she told me this story: Elvis, or his proxy, visited Autumnwood. She said, “See this scarf? Elvis gave it to me.”

And then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “We went to high school together.”

I never knew my grandmother when she wore fanciful shoes. Only, ever and always, she wore sensible shoes. I imagine that she must have worn strappy, flimsy sandals at some time in her life, but it was always “Cobbies” when I knew her: sensible lace-ups, or sandals with solid straps and buckles, hardly deserving of the label “sandal.”

I have mostly measured my adult life in sprints, bound by deadlines. I now, finally, find myself at a point where I value (and try to practice) steadiness and consistency.

A month ago, I began walking up a steep hill every morning. It is a hard hill to climb, and every morning when I get to the steepest part, I pass between two trees, like a gate. I say a little prayer to the hill: “Thank you for teaching me.” And I walk up the hill, step, step, breathe in, step, step, breathe out.

My grandmother learned the lesson of steadiness much earlier in her life. Life taught it to her, the Depression taught it to her, the care of her husband and children (and later grandchildren) taught it to her.

I have learned this lesson in the middle of my life, in the forest, walking up hills.

A few years ago, when Grandmère fell and had to be moved to Autumnwood, she had a few weeks when she wasn’t fully conscious. What I remember about that time is that she held the edge of the sheet and sewed, one hand holding an imagined needle, the other holding the sheet. That motion was most familiar to her. Sewing is, after all, a useful thing to do when you’re off your feet, when you’re not cooking or cleaning, or doing the books for your family business, driving to get auto parts, or watching your grandchildren after school.

My grandmother, Teresa Haines, did what had to be done. She was a steady, constant influence in all our lives, the original glue of our family. It is a good thing to know that we’re all capable of that quantity and quality of steadiness, that we come from strong-willed and hearty stock, that we are all capable of climbing hills, of making noodles and we are also capable of sewing sparkly bits onto dance costumes.

Darcy Falk
May 10, 2003