Gracie's Grandma

My mom, for whom my dog, Gracie, was named, was obsessed with quilts.

She made them, by hand and by machine, with infinite patience and precision that boggled my mind.

She styled her finished products with flair, draping them across the open door of an antique cupboard, folding them just so over an old trunk, or of course, spreading them out over a bed with coordinating but contrasting (she was never a matchy-matchy kind of lady) pillowcases and maybe a vintage teddy to boot.

And when it came to protecting her beautiful quilts, my mom was all over it. She washed them by hand and dried them in the fresh air, and stored them safely away from the fading rays of the sun. And while she always allowed - even encouraged - my little daughters to climb up and explore her quilts at close range, she also made a habit of subtly turning down her fragile pieceworks just before the girls hopped up into the bed at night to minimize the wear and tear.

Now that she's gone, a handful of her oldest and most prized quilts lives on in my linen closet; now and then, they come out, one by one, to make an appearance on one of our beds where they are treated with the utmost care. As they deserve.

The sturdy red and white quilt she used on her bed every day spends several weeks during Christmas on my bed. In these mornings, I wake up to find my big red hairy beast of a dog swaddled in my mother's precious quilt. 

It's a jarring sight.

And I often struggle as I imagine what my mom might say to this gross appropriation of her pristine workmanship.

But then I remember. If there's anything my mom loved more than quilts, it was big red dogs. Especially of the hairy beast variety.

And I imagine her beaming down from heaven - much closer than we think - to see her namesake puppy dog wrapped up in her lovely quilt. 

And everything feels just right.

Happy birthday, Gracie, from your grandma and me.