My sister sent me a picture of a braided rug and asked me if I wanted it as none of her children seemed interested in it. It is a rug that my mother braided and sewed together. And while I am in a continuous mode of getting rid of things, gradually, this one I can't pass over!
Rugs are underfoot rather than filling up shelf or closet space, and every time I look down I will see my mother and the creation of that rug. In my mind's eye, I see Mother sitting in the front room of our childhood house in Hinkletown, at night - because seriously, when did Mother ever sit down much during the day in the midst of keeping a household of seven clean and fed?! These scenes float from the era of radio, because we would gather in that room around the radio to listen to our favorite shows - The Great Gildersleeve, Fibber McGee and Molly, Jack Benny, Ozzie and Harriet, Beulah, etc. I can still see her laughing as she listened, hooking the scraps of fabric together into a braid- even in that moment of relaxation being productive.
Do I want the rug? Indeed, because it not only covers a spot in my room but it encompasses sweet moments of childhood, weaving the strands of love to bridge the years.
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