Simple Gestures

In a world that is getting increasingly louder and bigger, where everything is improved and upgraded, in a place where the more the better, in a life where money equates happiness, it is always nice to find some solace in small things. Sometimes, as you pile-drive your way through life, you can miss the things that sit quietly on the side of the road. Every life can be complicated, every decision can be wrenching, every horizon can be cloudy. But that in itself is a choice. It has been my experience that it takes as much, if not more effort to be miserable than it does to be happy. Sometimes, it can be the little things that do set you off. If you imagine a glass that is full to the rim and just one more drop of water will cause it to overflow, that is what life is like sometimes. But all in all, a small gesture is what is needed at times.

I am certainly not suggesting that everyone go out and do something nice. That in itself would be too forced and too phony, too much like a random act of kindness and a little too Hollywood for my taste (coming from a screen-writer that says a lot). Sometimes, the best of all gestures are when you are really unaware that you are doing something nice for someone. Maybe, in fact, you don’t even know you have brightened someone’s day. It could be holding a door open for someone, or smiling, just because you feel like smiling. Just a small gesture to someone to let them know how much you care for them. It doesn’t have to be flowers or presents, it doesn’t have to be dinner. A simple touch of the hand or a knowing smile, it doesn’t have to be anything big. It just has to be.

Just a few weeks ago, my cousin called me one evening and mentioned to me that his parents were downsizing their possessions a bit. His father had given him a coat and he thought it might be nice if I had it. He told me it was one that my mother had knitted for his Dad, my mother’s younger brother. He said it was in great shape for a 50 year old wool garment. He just thought maybe I would like. At first glance, just a small gesture from a thoughtful cousin.

Over the years, my wife and I have been given things from my father that belonged to my mother who passed away in 1961. We have some furnishings from their first home, some wedding presents and even a silver trophy awarded to my Mom from high school for winning the Junior Broad jump and the Junior 75 yards race in 1933. But nothing really tangible, nothing that was quite literally from my mothers heart and soul. When Stephen brought the jacket over and I felt the weight of it, it really hit me that this was something that she had worked on, spending hours knitting away. The more I thought about it, the more meaning this has had for me.

A few days later my sister dropped by to visit and I showed her the jacket and she told me that the pattern was a Mary Maxim design and made with Mary Maxim wool. Apparently, this lady was the Martha Stewart of the 50's. Sell the lifestyle, sell the design and the accompanying product. It was the design my mother always used. She always used 100% pure wool (hence the weight of the thing).

Over the past few days as I weighed this jacket in my hands and looked at the continuous ridges in the wool. I saw the flowing change of colors in the wool, which line by line eventually became a recognizable design. I can only imagine the hours of planning and detailing that would occur to knit something like this. The occasional mistake can be seen, a missed loop, but that only adds to the reality of it. Looking closely at it, this jacket, even though the implications to me are immense, it is simply made up of a few simple movements of knitting needles. The love and effort put into knitting this and the anticipation I am sure my mother felt when my uncle first slipped the jacket over his shoulders, brought real joy to my mother. I am sure many people who, in any way, creates something for someone they love have felt this rush of euphoria. It was then that I realized the irony of what I held in my hands. How could she ever have known, that so many years after she left, I would be the recipient of her hours of love. Just simple movements of knitting needles that becomes something more. Kind of like a series of simple gestures.