I am sitting here with my coffee, reflecting on this morning’s walk in the unseasonably cool summer air. I find that when I walk, my mind opens to new ideas, new ways of thinking about old ideas, and connections between things that did not previously seem remotely related.
Today, I started off thinking about a book I read by Silas House and Neela Vaswani, Same Sun Here, which is the story of a twelve-year-old boy and girl who are pen pals. It begins as a school project. The girl lives in New York City, a recent immigrant from India. The boy lives in southeastern Kentucky near the Tennessee border. Clearly these two children come from diverse backgrounds and yet many of their thoughts, desires, and needs are comparable. Through their letter writing, (and yes, they actually write letters, you know those things people used to take the time to write by hand, put in an envelope, stamp, and send through the mail), they become acquainted and learn to appreciate the similarities and differences between them. They continue to communicate even after the assignment has been completed.
I felt an immediate connection with the characters in this book since my mother is from southeastern Kentucky and my father is from upstate New York. To my New York relatives I was a country bumpkin. To my classmates in Kentucky, I was a city slicker, in spite of the fact that I didn’t set foot in New York City until the ripe old age of twenty. I am well acquainted with all the stereotypes about hicks, rednecks, city slickers, and snobs. Based on personal experience, I’m inclined to believe membership in these groups is not determined by geography. The characteristic attitudes exist everywhere. Having lived in both the north and the south, I’ve met quite a few and am even related to some.
This line of thinking evoked a particular memory this morning, one featuring my maternal grandmother. She was born, grew up, lived, and worked on a farm most of her life. She was a petite woman, about 5 foot nothing. I remember that I was almost as tall as her by the time I was ten. I’m not sure she graduated from eighth grade. She was married at the age of 14 and gave birth to six children, including a set of twins. They both died, one at birth, the other before reaching a year of age. So four children survived to adulthood, the youngest of which is my mother.
Most people would consider my grandmother ignorant and backward because she was not well-educated or worldly, and simply because she was from southeastern Kentucky. She would probably have been one of the first to agree with them. She never tried to be anything she wasn’t. She was neither ashamed nor prideful. She was simply Grandma and she taught me many valuable lessons. Some of her soft-spoken reminders still resonate – “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” “Before you go criticizing, walk a mile in their shoes,” and “You treat others the way you want to be treated.” But the lesson that came to mind today was one that occurred when I was about seven.
We drove up to visit my grandparents most Sundays. Grandma would have dinner ready for us and then we would spend the remainder of the afternoon exploring, playing, and listening to the grown ups tell stories. On this particular Sunday she taught me to embroider. I remember her ironing a pattern onto a scrap piece of material. It was a pair of cardinals perched on the branch of a flowering dogwood tree. First, she carefully placed the stamped cloth into hoops so that it was easier to handle. Then she separated the thread so that I could work with just two strands. Next, she deftly threaded the needle and knotted the end. She patiently demonstrated how to make the basic embroidery stitch and watched as I made my first hesitant attempts. I stuck my finger numerous times, but I was determined and spent the remainder of the afternoon working on that picture.
When it was time for us to leave, she came to check my progress. She sat down next to me and asked to see my work. She said, “Now Carolyn, you know how to tell a good stitcher?” “How Grandma?” I asked with wide-eyed curiosity. She carefully turned my work over. “You look at the back. If their work looks just as neat on the back as it does on the front, then you know they’re a good stitcher.”
I carry that memory with me to this day. Whenever I pick up a needle, the echo of her words resounds. But it was not until this morning that I recognized the metaphoric nature of that sewing lesson. If I endeavor, in all things, to be and do my best, then my life should “look just as neat on the back as it does on the front.” Although the two may not look exactly the same, hopefully they reflect that just as much care has been taken with one side as with the other side – the inside and the out.
