The Richness of Shared Memories

Yesterday Jim and I were talking about chapter 17, the one about our wedding. I mentioned the kneeler I had chosen for the ceremony.

“Wasn’t it perfect?” I asked. “Having that kneeler depicting Jesus’ first miracle?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Hey, didn’t your father do that kneeler?”

Surprised, I said, “You know, I had completely forgotten that. Yes, you’re right. Daddy needlepointed that kneeler.”

When my father began to get arthritis in his hands he took up needlepoint to keep his hands limber. He loved it. My mother did needlepoint too and she helped my father get started. Many an evening they would sit in the den dividing their attention between a concert on television or some show or other on PBS while they worked on their respective projects. We have needlepoint pillows done by either my father or mother in almost every room of our house. My brother has a legacy bench that both of my parents worked on. It depicts things that were special to us as a family, the Wiygul coat of arms, our Boston terrier, Duchess, the farm house in Mississippi, and a bunch of carrots and roses meant to represent my parents’ love of gardening.

I had a brilliant idea. “Jim,” I began excitedly, “Let’s go to St. Mary’s and take a picture of that kneeler. Then I can put it in the story of our wedding on the web site.”

“Great idea,” he began. “wait, wait a minute, I think we’ve already got a picture of the kneeler. Hang on.” He ran upstairs and grabbed our wedding photo album. “Yes, yes, here it is!” he said in triumph. Back downstairs he removed two pictures from the album. “I’m going to scan two of these pictures. One of them shows the kneeler and the flower arrangement behind it. The other one shows the kneeler in close up. Hey, didn’t your mother do the flowers for our wedding?”

I had to think about that one. My mother had a true talent for flower arrangements. I used to love watching her as she worked. She’d begin with one long branch of Russian Olive and end with roses of all hews from the garden. “No, no, I don’t think she did the flowers for our wedding. I remember Lula Blackwell coming up to the house with the flowers for Sadie’s harness. I think Mrs. Blackwell did the flowers.”

“Right, I think you’re right,” said Jim. “Okay, I’ve got both of these scanned, coming to you right now.”


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