Romper room

We're digging for treasure, my daughter and I, excavating the cedar chest in search of booty for my impending grandchild. Some fabrics withstand the rigors of long-term storage better than others--what made me hold on to those sorry crib sheets and stained bumper pads?--and so along the way we fill a bag with discards, but we also unearth real treasures.

She holds up a simple white romper with blue trim on the collar and sleeves. Why hold on to such an unimpressive item? "We have pictures of your dad wearing that," I say, "and also your brother and maybe one day your son, if you have one."

A grandson would be fine but one of these days we'll need a granddaughter to wear all those adorable dresses I made when I had free time, young eyes, and nimble fingers: green velvet with red ribbon trim for Christmas, pink calico with cross-stitched collar for Easter, the bonnet I smocked for her christening and the ballerina tutu I made when she was two and twirled.

The smell of cedar surrounds us as we try to see the beauty through pervasive wrinkles. I smooth out three tiny tiers of wrinkled purple satin attached to a black velvet bodice. "You wore that to see The Nutcracker, remember?" I say, and she remembers the ballet but not the dress.

We strike the mother lode of baby blankets in pastel pink, blue, green, and yellow. "Your aunt crocheted that one," I tell her, and she wants to know which aunt. "Well," I say, "your uncle's ex-wife, which would make her your ex-aunt, I guess." A broken marriage removed her from our lives, but her handiwork lives on. 

Another damaged relationship becomes apparent when I keep mentioning an old family friend: "She made that blanket for your brother--she crocheted that afghan for you--she was with me when I bought the fabric to make that pink calico dress--we used to go to fabric stores together and attack the sale racks and remnants to find just enough fabric to make something adorable for our babies."

We used to see or speak to each other every day but then our lives diverged--who knows how these things happen? Today we're friends only on Facebook, but the cedar chest offers evidence of what we once meant to each other. Can this relationship be saved? And how big a cedar chest would you need to preserve a friendship without spot or wrinkle?

The cedar chest works pretty well to keep the bugs out of the embroidery but it can't prevent fine fabrics from deteriorating over time. That ballerina tutu has turned delicate and filmy, and the lacy white bonnet I wore as a baby is stiff, its pink ribbon faded. I hold up the black velvet trousers and purple satin vest I made for my son when he was too young to object to being dressed like a doll and I see not the vest but the boy inside it, the small quiet child who somehow gave way to the hulking blond man now moving confidently through the wide wild world.  

Putting these clothes on a grandchild won't bring back my babies or restore lost relationships, but it will extend a hand linking past to future and assure that we pass on some tangible legacy. Even if it's just a simple white romper.