The Tuesday Towel

As a kid, I spent more time at my grandparents’ house than I did at home. My parents faced their own personal struggles that made home life a challenge. Make no mistake—they did the best they could—but they became parents at a young age, and the temptations of life, combined with their inexperience, meant things weren’t always smooth sailing.

I bonded deeply with my maternal grandparents, Mama Willie and Papa David. Their house is still in the family. My aunt and uncle live there now. When I visit, I still hear echoes of my grandparents’ voices—their laughter, the smells, the sound of the radio on race day. I have nothing but happy memories of that tiny white house on North Wall Street in Elkin, NC. It was my haven, my refuge, my peace.

Everybody knew I was Mama Willie’s favorite. She said it was because I was the first full-term, healthy grandchild in the family. That may have been true, but I think it was also because I was a soft, squishy ball of fat who loved nothing more than to curl up in her arms and be held. I was a low-maintenance kid. I didn’t disrupt her routines or her house. We both loved each other deeply and without reservation. I miss her more than words can say.

Mama Willie began to show signs of dementia when I was in college. She drove less and needed more help around the house. Eventually, we realized her memory was deteriorating and she would need more intensive care. In the meantime, she asked us to bring her some embroidery thread, pillowcases, and dish towels. She had always loved needlework and embroidery. She hoped that keeping her hands and mind busy would help her hold on a little longer.

And it did—for a while. She gave several of us pillowcases with floral designs. I still have mine and use it every night. Other members of the family received similar gifts, and we were all grateful. At one point, Mama Willie found a set of bird patterns for dishtowels—one design for each day of the week. Birds were her favorite subject. I remember sitting at the kitchen table in winter, watching the snow fall through the window. Papa had put up a bird feeder and a little house just outside. We’d sit and watch ruby red cardinals dart in and out, their bright feathers standing out against the sea of white between the kitchen and the henhouse. In the spring, Mama Willie put out her hummingbird feeders in the same spot. Birds came no matter the season. They brought her joy and comfort as the years passed and her body slowed.

She began with the Monday towel. It took her longer than her previous projects, but she finished it. A week later, she started the Tuesday towel. Weeks passed, and she had completed only a few stitches. I asked when she’d be ready for the Wednesday towel.

She said, “When I’m damn good and ready. I’ll let you know.”

The towel sat on the sewing box for a long time.

Then one day, months later, she picked it up and began again. It took a couple of weeks, but she finished it. That would be the last towel she ever embroidered. Soon after, her memory slipped too far for her to remember the stitches. Not long after, she moved to a nursing home.

The towels, along with the pre-Civil War wooden bowl she used to make buttermilk biscuits, passed to my mother. Now that Mama has passed, they belong to me. We keep them atop a cabinet in our kitchen, nestled between two windows that look out onto the farm behind our house.

Sometimes I sit at the kitchen table and stare at those towels. I get a little teary-eyed. I’m taken back to a simpler time, sitting in that tiny kitchen, watching birds through the window. No cellphones. No internet. No computers.

But a hell of a lot of love.