I’ve never been what you might call a “minimalist.” The stuff – some might call it clutter – that surrounds me helps me tell my story – whether it is through an old book, a photograph, a quilt, or a rocking chair. This material culture – objects made by humans – gives me context and grounds me.
But what is material culture? A dictionary may define the term as anything produced or used by humans: written records, household furnishings, decorative arts, machines, buildings – you get the idea.
I tend to think of material culture as objects, and separate from what I study day to day (buildings). Henry Glassie perhaps said it best when he described material culture as “human work made permanent in buildings and books, in clothing and tools…”*
I see that “human work” every day in a handful of small, cotton baby blankets made by my great-grandmother.
Early 20th century photograph – Georgia Elwood Latta is at right in the back row.
We have long generations in my family, and as the youngest of four children, I was born too late to know many of the people whose names I’ve heard since before I could walk. My mother’s Granny is one of those figures.
I never attended daycare or preschool, so when my sisters were at school, I followed my mother around the house like a limpet (I found the sound of the vacuum strangely hypnotic). Sitting on the floor in front of one sister’s closet as my mother cleaned, she told me about the girl named for a man, in hopes that some money might trickle down to the namesake.
This comfortably well-off bachelor uncle was named George Elwood – so in 1884, a baby girl with brown hair was christened Georgia Elwood in his honor.
He didn’t leave her anything.
Granny is seated, front row, on the left. There were six girls and two boys, and she was the eldest. Their mother married at 16, and was dead at 35.
As the eldest of eight children living in rural Mercer County, Kentucky, Georgia was 17 when her mother died. She took care of the other children and managed the household until she married four years later.
Like many women of the period, she knew how to do most anything – especially when it came to sewing. She made dozens and dozens of pieces of clothing for my mother, the only granddaughter. And when her grandchildren started having children, she made baby blankets.
A duck on one of the baby blankets.
These blankets are a treasure – white, with decorative figures and flowers in the corners – and tiny, perfect stitches.
Roses on another blanket.
My mother used these blankets with her children, and now, some 50+ years after they were made, they are still in use – but sparingly, and not to wipe up any baby drool or spit-up!
Edging on one of the blankets.
When I touch these blankets, I hold so much more than fabric or a utilitarian item in my hands.
Baby blanket at work! (The quilt in the background, “Wisconsin Cold Snap,” was made by my middle sister.)
I touch love – love and skill and the hands of a remarkable woman. As I unfold each baby blanket, I wrap another generation in love, and story, and memory.
* Henry Glassie. Vernacular Architecture. Indiana University Press, 2000.
Love this! Due to fires affecting both sides of my family, I have very little to pass down. My mother in law was a prolific quilter, though. Treasured pieces.
Thank you for reading and I am glad you enjoyed it! Fires are so scary – I am sorry you and your family were impacted by them.
I love this so much! It explains why I can’t get rid of any family items. “I touch love.” What a good phrase.
Beautiful story, beautiful baby!