Gener-cre-ations

Snip, snag, snag, snip, snag, thump!

“Ugh! These scissors won’t cut,” I’d complain.

My sister would whisper, “Let’s go get the ones that work.”

Grinning I’d say, “Ok, but not Dad’s nice pair; last time we used them he was not happy!”

“But, they work so good,” she pouted.

Frustrated with our little school scissors that refused to cut anything but paper, my little sister and I would scamper off to sneak into Mom and Dad’s scissor supply. Our goal was to make clothes for our Barbies from scraps of fabric; my first recollection of creating. We would get into trouble for not putting the borrowed scissors away, especially if we took Dad’s expensive upholstery scissors he used for his side job. The clothes we created were terrible with frayed edges, tape, strips of fabric, or staples to hold them together. Sewing needles hurt when they poked you, and we didn’t have zippers or buttons anyway. We did have hours of fun making hats, dresses, skirts, and shirts (pants were a bit out of our league) pretending they were fit for a queen. Before long, Barbies became “baby toys” and were pushed aside along with the love of making their wardrobes.

Sometime around that awkward stage trapped between a child and teenager, Grandma moved a couple blocks away. Grandma was a master crocheter. I remember the afghans, gorgeous Christmas ornament coverings and thousands of special bandages sent to third world countries. Whenever we went to visit, her crocheting supplies were always by her side. With Grandma’s influence I had to give crocheting a try. What splendor seeing my own crochet hook reach in, grab the yarn and pull it through. All too soon, I decided the crocheting gene had not been passed on to me. Oh, I could move that hook as fast as Grandma, I thought, but my work had rippled edges and ended up increasing in width. Unraveling row upon row of stitches was entertaining but gut-wrenching to see hours of work undone in seconds.

“You have to count the stitches,” Grandma would say.

“I am,” I’d groan.

Grandma would nod and grin as she said, “Uh hum,” knowing full well, as did I, that my count was lost with some distraction. The delight in crocheting returned to watching Grandma with newfound awe. Scissors and yarn in hand, a snip, a smile and her magnificent creation was set free to bring joy to another.

Not long after I gave up on crocheting my oldest sister got engaged. The wedding quilt filled our living room for weeks and quilting became my new happy place. I recall the words of advice from many family members, friends, or neighbors who came to help.

“Cut off about a foot of thread to use at a time. You don’t want too much to work with; it gets tangled and that’s a pain.”

“The easiest way to make a knot in the thread is to wrap it around your finger three times then roll it off and pull tight.”

“A thimble will save your fingers from a lot of pain.”

Some days I’d work alone and dream of my own wedding and the man who’d be by my side. Other days there would be chairs all around that quilt, everyone talking excitedly about the wedding preparations. “Pass the scissors please,” could be heard amongst the chatter. I’d stop quilting and watch totally amused as the scissors would glide down the middle of the quilt sometimes making it to their target, sometimes not. When they didn’t make it I’d get to climb under and help those scissors along until they could be reached. Eventually the last stitch was completed, the binding sewed on and the quilt lovingly handed to the happy new husband and wife.

Children now older and not demanding as much of her time, my mom began to pursue her crafting dreams at a new level. Scrapbooking was the latest rave and mom, always the photographer and worker of magic with paper, had found euphoria. She purchased a small building and the scrapbook supplies began pouring in. Each week something wonderful would arrive; we’d “ooh” and “aah” as we found a spot to display it. I remember the day the neatest Fiskars scissors ever came. “Mom, look at the pattern these make! These are the coolest scissors eeevvvverrrr!” I’d squeal in delight as I picked up a different pair examining the scalloped blades before cutting, fascinated by the bumps they left like ripples in sand. With anticipation, we had the grand opening for Memories Unlimited, a store filled with every possible scrapbook supply. All through high school we’d drop mom off at the store before school, and once the last bell rang we’d head back over. In between helping customers, fixing the messes they made and finding homes for new items, we would sit in scrapbooking heaven. We’d visit as we cut and trimmed, punched and glued our stilled memories onto patterned papers framed by love and fancy cut edges.

Before I knew it my scrapbooking adventures were limited to Christmas and summer breaks as college courses took over my life. That first year I was introduced to the most fantastic thing ever, Super Saturday. One Saturday a year the women’s group at my church would do a day of crafting. We would gather together and women more talented than I would bring carloads of supplies and share how to make their favorite creations: cards, wreathes, garlands, centerpieces, doilies, toys, gift tags, hair bows, blankets, pillow cases, jewelry, and decorations of all shapes and sizes for every occasion. We would sit surrounded by crafting supplies as directions were given on how to create something splendid. “Where did the good scissors go,” would be called out, and like stories, laughter and smiles, the scissors would get shared around the table as we crafted the day away forgetting life’s worries.

Shortly before graduating and moving onto “real” life, the man of my dreams came along. Those first years trying to pave our way together we lived like starving college students. Instead of buying expensive gifts for family and friends we found joy in making them together. We would use what we could from items we had or found for cheap or free. “You’re doing great! Fantastic job! I love you so much!” We would coo to each other as we crafted together. The most memorable project was making a wood sign. We had an old desk that fell apart in a move and we both agreed carving a saying in some of the pieces would be perfect. Neither of us have great handwriting, so we found a nice font on the computer to print and use. I carefully cut out each letter to make a stencil so we could trace the words “Live, Love, Laugh” onto the wood. My husband completed the project by cutting the words out with a router. That Christmas we smiled as we held up our creation for parents and siblings.

A few years later we smiled as we held our most perfect creation ever. We caressed tiny fingers and kissed rosy cheeks marveling at the little masterpiece we had created together. Later, two more unique masterpieces joined our family. Now, our home is filled with the magical creations of three growing boys: cardboard forts, swords, shields and helmets, paper hats, planes, rockets, boats and for whatever reason, piles of entire papers cut into tiny pieces, “because it’s fun!” I smile inside as I chastise them for not returning my scissors or using the wrong pair on cardboard. I revel in the moments when they join me in knitting, my latest escape from life. My oldest makes scarves for a girl who is “just a friend,” my middle boy enjoys picking out yarn, my youngest will snuggle near and try to help. I delight, as do my parents, in the moments my boys look in wonder at their creations. Grandpa stands proud as my boys stroke their new motorcycle seat saying, “Wow, the hole is gone!” Grandma’s eyes twinkle as my boys show the same excitement I once did trying out her fancy Fiskars scissors. I wonder what creations my boys will discover they love making, and I ponder what I’ll be enjoying when their children stop by to visit. Perhaps, I’ll watch my grandchildren, frustrated with the snagging of little school scissors, learn to use the nicer adult scissors as they trim off troubles, cut out cheerlessness and snip away sorrow, all while discovering their own joy in creating.

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