Grandma's Doily

Five years ago, my older sister gifted me with one of my Grandmother Peck’s crocheted doilies. It has sat in a frame ever since and brought me joy as it is the only physical memento I have from Grandma.

Recently, it’s become much more.

I sent my memoir draft, “Three September Fires” to a good writer friend to review. My friend Jody has a master’s degree in creative writing and she’s brutally honest; just what I was looking for. She reviewed my work and sent me her critique. She had some very positive comments about my writing which I appreciated and could believe because of her honesty. She also pointed out weaknesses that had to do with structure and point-of-view. I’ve worked as a technical writer professionally so my feelings are sufficiently numbed to criticism and this was no different. In fact, I appreciate constructive criticism because it helps me to grow and become a better writer. I knew there was something wrong with my essay before I gave it to Jody, but since I’d become so involved with it over the months I couldn’t find the problems myself. Since Jody lives in Seattle, we spent time talking on the phone about my work and her opinion. I really appreciated her feedback but it now takes me back to writing again as I need to scrap the structure that I have and give the essay a new direction. I spent so much time writing my essay (almost every night for seven or eight months), that I sometimes feel guilty. I see becoming a good writer takes a lot of time. I enjoy it but I don’t want to be missing out on more important things. When Jody and I were talking she said with a laugh that writers had to be egomaniacs because they have to believe people will want to read what they write. That made me worried for a day or two. I already felt guilty for taking so much time to write, time I could be using to serve others. After hearing her opinion about writers, I started to worry that I might have an ego. I don’t want to have an ego. I want to serve others and be kind. So I wondered if writing work was selfish work.

Grandma’s framed doily had fallen behind the dresser a few months ago. I don’t know why. When we moved furniture this week I found it resting with crumbs in the corner of the room. Seeing it again fresh caused me to take in its beauty anew. I was and am mesmerized by the intricacies of Grandma’s work. I remember as a child watching her work in her soft brown rocking chair. Her nimble age-spotted fingers worked the crochet needles with all the deftness and agility I associate with spinning spiders. I imagine this one doily took hours and hours to complete and the skill it took to master the pattern must have taken years to perfect. Grandma was always watching a BYU game or the news on TV as she worked.

As if answering my question about the self-centered nature of writing, Grandma’s doily seemed to speak to me. My grandmother was a selfless gift to humanity in and of herself. She was the picture of giving and service. I know crocheting is different than writing but the goals behind it may be the same. Perhaps Grandma wanted what I simply want, to create something beautiful to give to someone else and create a little immortality to go right along with the gift.