My mother has always been gracious in passing on to me her childhood dolls. Little teeny dolls with even teenier dresses crocheted by her grandmother. Her grandmother would sew, knit, crochet whole wardrobes for her dolls. Elaborate little wool pantsuits complete with beret and little socks.
Dresses, with bonnets and ribbon adornment.
I think of all the thoughtfulness and how she lovingly sat and made each piece. I display them on little shelves here and there, when I think of it I walk by and blow the dust off. Although as you can see in the above picture that system isn’t very efficient.
I went to an auction recently where no one was buying any of the handiwork items.
Little dresses, doilies, edged hankies. Of course I had no trouble buying it except from the person who is playing the part of my husband (we have a legal contract). And truthfully he is always generous in his emotions when dealing with my love-of-old-stuff gene. He has his own old stuff gene that has less to do with handiwork and more to do with old signs and clocks.
It’s just all that love and sentiment in each item. It is kind of heartbreaking!
These things are from that sale:
It’s been quiet around here lately. I’ve been restless, the kind that you are too fidgety to read a book so you rewatch Mad Men in time for the new season next month.
It must be affecting me because I set the table last night with only vintage Butterprint Pyrex and I put my hair up in a twist. Geek alert?
