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Lined in cedar and crafted by my brother, my hope chest is filled with family mementoes. The hardwood was taken from the inner portion of a large wooden spool; it was used to hold cable. For those unfamiliar with a “hope chest�, it is a chest used to store a girl’s embroidered pillowcases, etc. created as she prepared for marriage.

Mine is filled with my mother’s doilies, hand-stitched quilts from my grandmother–such tiny stitches. When I look at the tiny ruffled, crocheted doilies and those stitches, I am amazed at the eyesight, the tiny needles and hooks necessary to create them.

I am in the process or reorganizing my hope chest, and in deep thought about my mother. I’m closer to her somehow, taking my time and thinking of her, smoothing her handiwork and remembering how she would sit and crochet, her peaceful time. And I wonder if we’re not missing some of this necessary gap from today’s daily pressure, this peaceful time.

Opening and organizing my hope chest became a very personal journey, though I have more to do. (I will never/ever starch those ruffled doilies.) This isn’t every day work, or something to hurry, but very intimate and treasured, this link to my mother.

Note the two handkerchieves, black and red. Black for funerals; red and red/green/white edging for Christmastime.

The crocheted edging or maybe tatted edges around the ladies handkerchiefs are perfect–my mother would rip/undo any crochet work that wasn’t perfect and redo it. Purchased for crocheting and/or tatting, handkerchieves had/have tiny holes around the edges, allowing attached handiwork. Feminine handkerchieves might have stripes or flowers, etc. and were used daily, reserving the edged ones for church, social meetings.

I found peace in hand-washing and ironing my mother’s handkerchieves. Fearing a dryer would be too harsh, I hung them about. The whole process, my journey, was a very gentle, reflective, personal time with my mother. She always had a neat handkerchief in her purse.

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