Gigit

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

She is my second child. Not the first, that much is true, but she is my favorite child.

My sampaguita flower. 

Gigit. 

My rainbow. A promise of sunshine after rain.

Her firsts were lasts for me - last crawl, last rock-to-sleep, last cry to hush. 

She was the last lullaby I'd ever sing. 

Endings are generally sad, but she was such a joy that I wanted to preserve  something of hers for the next world and beyond.

Her quilt.

It smelled of her. That one with the chipmunks and their toothy smiles. 

So, what was a mother to do? Grab the threadbare quilt and cut off an image from the least tattered part of it. Should it be that of the mischievous troublemaker Alvin, or Simon the bespectacled intellectual, or chubby Theodore? 

I really wasn't sure which one it was, or if this was actually Chip or Dale. Regardless, it was a delight blanket stitching around his pudgy cheeks, large, glossy eyes, and that ever-present goofy overbite - immortalized, sort of - on a new piece of baby blue fleece. 

That was ages ago.

It is amazing how time barrels along when you're not doing much of anything. The hours are passing so quickly that I sometimes forget what day it is because days are all the same without school or schedule.

I hang on. I wait.

No more tooth fairy. No fighting in back of the car that was hushed by Hubby's short but stern, Girls! No giggles from Ali as she sits n' spins. No more of Gigit's bandaged knees to heal.

Only my voice saying, Why don't you grow up? and the silence echoing, We did.

My shoulders slump as I realize that I have come full circle. My whole life has started to make sense to me - a story with a beginning, a middle, an end. 

As it had been for Fat Mother and Mum, sewing has been a way to mend my soul. Like them, I want never to drop my stitches.

Like four-year-old Ali who, bright-eyed and with a lisp excitedly suggested, Mama, the sweethawts can sing Awky-awky together, I'd like to be attuned by stringing my blessings into chords of thankfulness so they don't unravel.   

I try to keep my yarn stash plentiful and should I run out of fabric and my bobbin need re-threading, I stay assured, as a two-year-old 'Git told me once, Mum, it wiw be o-wight.

I'm grateful for a life bound by family, the thread that ties us all together.

P.S.

And what do you know?

A seven-year-old fifth generation cutie is following sooth. 

One.

Stitch.

Two Bone Pillows for Sam. Photo. L-R: sewn by 
Grandma and Second Granddaughter, respectively.

At.


A.


Time.

Ali

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

Ain't nothin' so precious as a firstborn child. - Paul Congress

She is my camia flower, fair and pretty. My favorite child.

Ali. 

Named after a dark-eyed, long-tressed, tall, and beautiful model and actress.

I love her best because she was our first miracle. She was the beginning. A fulfillment of love, the promise of our infinity.

I wanted to remember that moment like a snapshot I could go back to whenever I wanted. So, why not preserve something of hers, like her name, perhaps - for all eternity.

Maybe have it engraved on a brass star that would be embedded in the sidewalk along the Hollywood Walk of Fame.  

Or why not stitch it on her baby tee?

Embroidery was both fun and relaxing, plus it was an easy way to create beautiful art with fabric and thread. Mum showed me how to select the needle, snip the bit of string, and find the eye. I could certainly start with that.

I chose to use the stem stitch, perfect for creating smooth outlines but would work as well for both straight lines and curves.

Carefully following the penciled outline of the letters, I began taking dainty little stitches with a two-strand red DMC floss. First I followed the curve of the A, looping its end across and back around. With the next lowercase letter, I knew that I was halfway toward a finished project.

Embroidering the i was a cinch. It was the French knot that capped it that was the challenge. This stitch involved wrapping the needle to form a knot on the surface of the fabric. It could be tricky, as I had earlier learned in sixth grade Home Ec, but I remembered to hold the working thread taut, but not too tight.

And voila! I was done. Spare and simple.

Time had inched by since then. Limped along. Then it slowed and stilled, focusing back on that time in my life. Suddenly, I could see clearly, as through a looking glass, and I couldn't help gushing.

Delicate.

Precious.

So was the embroidered tee.

Mum

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

The best things in life... are made by hand.

It was siesta time. 

Unlike the boys, I always managed to get away with not taking the requisite nap because I was old enough. Plus I knew what today's forecast would be.

100% chance of sewing.

Mum always used this time to go over her stash of fabric to patch a hole on the brothers' shirts or just mend socks. Or she would pick up one of my dresses, hemming the skirt with a neat blanket stitch. 

We had developed a routine of sorts. Like a royal subject, I would stay by her side on the floor while she presided over her Singer sewing machine.

As she altered shorts and sewed ripped pockets, she would lecture me on good manners and health habits. She always said the words slowly in separate chunks so I'd be sure to understand. 

Ab-so-lute-ly no giggling during the sermon. No answering back, clean hands, clean hair, always up, no scraggly bits.

That particular day, I remember interrupting her and pleading, Mummie, can you make me an H-line dress? Like Vickie's. 

The silhouette of the H-line had two clean and straight sides with a slight accent on the waist (the bar of the capital letter H). It was the fashion rage among young teens.

Her hands slid up to her face and she brushed straying hair out of her eyes.

My chatter continued, Jeanne Young wears them all the time. (The latter was a Filipino actress and movie star known for her roles in I Dream of Jeanne and Boom! Bang-A-Bang.)

Hala, stand up and let me measure you, she conceded.

She spent a long time making sure, over and over, that the measurements were right. 

Then she stitched. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as if protecting her heart. And she sewed. And stitched some more - the whirring of the machine's foot pedal being the only sound on that quiet afternoon.

I patiently waited. It was getting late, still light, but the sun had dipped. The brothers had awakened and seeing that merienda was not ready yet, they went outside to play. Night would soon fall, but Mum had continued to do some finishing touches. 

Now, just the hem, she softly said.

When it was finally done, she declared, clasping her hands together, beaming an abrupt, brilliant smile. Isukat mo. Try it on. 

Christian Dior, who introduced the silhouette, would have been proud. It was the most amazing outfit. 

An ensemble for the ages.

I had planned on hiking my hair up to the ceiling to complement its sleek line. The crowning glory to an incredible ensemble. 

She dipped her glasses slightly, but only slightly, down her nose, and studied me carefully. A soft gray light showed down her face, revealing a smile like I hadn't seen in a very long time lighting her even brighter. 

The days had seemed to pass by in a kind of blur since then. But I still remember that moment.

Kind of.

I have dim splashes of memory of that time like an unfinished watercolor. I remember a soft voice in my ear, her arms around me.

Bagay sa 'yo, 'Chon. (That was how I had pronounced my full first name when I was young and the nickname stuck.) It looks good on you. 

A warm glow spread over me as she spoke. 

Like being wrapped in a cloak of invisible warmth that was home that was Mum.  

Fat Mother, Part Two

Women In My Life: The Tie that Binds

I still remember when Fat Mother gifted us with a pair of full-sized filet crocheted curtains. Mum hung them, flanking each side of the doorway to the sala.

A gentleman on the one panel was facing a Victorian lady who was on the other panel - the image formed by rows and rows of tiny blocks and diamonds and roses. (Aside: the photo used here is an approximation of how the completed panels would have looked.)

At the time they were given to us, all of the hours and hours and hours of work she had spent on the project were totally lost on me.

I was young.

I was full of decorating opinions.

I wanted something that looked like it came from Pinoy-Style Real Living magazine. Something new and modern that...

…did not include anything hand-crocheted by my grandmother.

The seasons passed. I got older, and the hours ticked away. I'm not sure what happened to those vintage curtains. They could have been tucked away, forlorn, and neglected. Or faded and lost and discarded.

I wish that I had kept them.

For now I realize that home wasn’t about silk curtains. Or the exquisitely-embroidered pina panels from Tesoro's.

It was about patience and determination. Hand-craftsmanship. Long hours of rendering beauty in thread.  

It was about creating a gift of love.

Stitched from the heart.

Fat Mother, Part One

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

She works with her hands in delight. - Proverbs 31:13

It’s a new month. I'd really like to look outside to see if all my April showers brought some May flowers.

I'd also like to celebrate Mother's Day in a special way, making it a month-long event and talking about the women in my life.

Starting with Fat Mother.

This was how everyone called Dadee's Mum, maybe because she was squat. (You may remember a reference to her in a 2016 blog.)

Crochet was her happy place. 

She could whip up an entire dress or sweater using only an aluminum crochet hook and cotton thread. That was when it struck me that crocheting was a bit like being a magician. You mumbled to yourself and wagged a stick around and no one else had a clue how you did it.

Fat Mother always pulled me into a bear hug, and I liked that I would probably always feel little inside her embrace. Her eyes narrowed into slits when she laughed. 

She was normally of very sweet nature. But not when she got waylaid while doing her special kind of needlework project.

Filet crochet.

This was a technique with which you created wonderful pictures, words, and intricate patterns using solid blocks of crochet in combination with open mesh. 

I can remember Fat Mother, her jovial face following a filet crochet chart that showed you which blocks to fill in and which blocks to leave open. She was a study in concentration. It looked like she was reading about the evacuation procedures on an aircraft.

Open blocks were made using chain stitches, and solid blocks were filled in with double crochet or extended double crochet stitches. 

Every movement was concise and deliberate. It involved, very importantly...

COUNTING.STITCHES.

Any questions asked while she was counting crochet stitches would be answered with louder counting. Heaven forbid that she would lose count. An eavesdropper might have deemed her the 'Daughter of Curses' whenever that happened.

(To be continued)