I have seen worn out blankets, teddy bears without eyes, bald headed dolls, limbless stuffed animals, and other items that are loved beyond belief. Those treasures held by others are of little significance to anyone else. In fact, if I feel sick or tossed by waves of nostalgia or sentimentality, I still cover up with my quilt made by my grandmother and my old, patched teddy bear with a floppy neck made by my mother. Somehow, those riches bring me comfort.
It was common to find miniature pillowcases or tricot scraps laying around our house. All the kids in the extended family received the coveted pillowcases made by their grandmother. For my kids, it was more than a cover for a miniature pillow, it was a security blanket. The cases were rarely on a pillow at all. Rather, they were usually crumpled up in a little fist and dragged through the house or across the dirt in the yard.
One day, there was an emergency – not the kind when you call 9-1-1. It was more serious than that. All the pillowcases and remnants of tricot were dirty. I washed them and hung them on the line to dry. My little boy was a bit agitated and almost in a state of withdrawals. I tried to divert his attention by sending him outside to play. Every few minutes I peeked out the window to check on him. When he disappeared from view, I went out and looked for him. At the side of the house, there under the clothesline, was a little boy. His hand was lifted up holding on to a corner of a long narrow strip of unsewn tricot, thumb in mouth. He gripped the wadded up cloth tightly as if holding on for dear life. Had I not known better, I would have thought I stepped into a Charlie Brown comic strip with Linus clinging to his security blanket.
It wasn’t just my son who was attached to his tattered worn pillowcases. My daughter suffered from the same addiction, and yes, it also served as a pacifier. One day the kids and I went shopping with a friend and her little boy. I pushed the stroller with an irritable little girl in it as we went from store to store. Her whine turned into a cry. There was one way to put a stop to that.
I unsnapped the diaper bag and reached in to get her pillowcase. Uh-oh! It wasn’t there. That was trouble! A crying child can disturb the whole community with their wailing. I happened to be wearing a skirt that day, so I stepped behind a rack of clothing, jerked off my half-slip, and handed it to the crying toddler. Immediately her little hand clutched a corner of the case, and in a matter of seconds, she was content and sucking her thumb. We averted disaster that day!
The grown-ups of the family were about as testy as the kids about a missing pillowcase, full size, of course. Some of my siblings, myself included, still use those wondrous, cool, soft pillowcases made from tricot. Recently while rummaging through some of my mother’s fabric scraps, I found some of the coveted fabric, several pieces bigger than scraps. Those remnants were divided amongst us in hopes of having pillowcases for many years to come.
Now I wouldn’t say I might get a bit testy, but I will say, “Don’t touch my pillowcase!”
A slightly worn pillowcase and tricot scraps