Mamaw

Mamaw passed away early this morning. I knew it was bound to happen soon, but I didn't know when. After her condition worsened from the pneumonia, it was only a span of a few hours.

As I have been making preparations to trek back down South and attend her final arrangements, it dawned on me -- I am much more connected to her than I had originally thought, and I will carry something of hers that no one else can carry.

Mamaw (Marie Kelley Cockrell) crocheted. She was the first person I remember who did anything interesting with string. She would sit in her brown rocking chair and fiddle around with white string, string so fine that I could hardly see it. Her old hands would contort in awkward ways while she moved her metal hook at lightning speeds. I watched her create rings of stitches, rings that circled around and around and around and spun out into other shapes -- diamonds, stars, and points. There were sometimes even hearts and pineapples. All from string.

It was magic to me then, but now that I know what truly goes into crafting something with ones hands, I know it's not magic, it's art. It is a step closer to God, our Creator, when we create. To create is natural, is necessary. Even the word "inspiration" literally means "breathe in", to in-spire.

Thinking about how Mamaw lost her grip on life after my father (then later, my grand-father) passed away, it breaks my heart. She completely lost the will to carry on, despite her family here, despite herself. She was so consumed by the love of her son and husband that when that was gone, she wished she could be, too.

Even so, for someone who preferred a slower, relaxed pace with little or no pomp or circumstance, she was a truly remarkable woman. She was a master improviser, a domestic genius. Having lived through the Great Depression and World War II, she had a very developed sense of family, devotion, and ingenuity. She could stretch one meal to its absolute limits (not that there were ever many left-overs). She would craft beautiful quilts from old shirts and tattered curtains, and any scrap of fabric left over was crocheted into rugs to be used around the house.

But most of all, it was her crochet pieces that drew the most awe-inspired comments. What I know now as fillet crochet is what she would do, seemingly effortlessly, while watching TV. While she doted on her grandchildren, she produced lace. Huge pieces of lace, bearing the family names of everyone related to anyone.

When I return, I hope to bring back one of her originals -- COCKRELL, it says, encircled by delicate points and is a work of true art. It is framed and shines behind glass.

I will always carry on her tradition of needlework. I didn't know that what started out as a hobby would become an homage, but I feel compelled to make the most of the craft. Most of all, however, I feel compelled to craft things for the ones I love, and hope that my pieces bring warmth and joy to them for as long as the stitches hold together.