I will always remember the year I turned 10.
There was something about turning ten that seemed a little extra special to me. Something about turning a whole two hands full of fingers just made me seem older. A little more important. A little more mature.
And perhaps it was the way my grandmother talked about me turning 10 that made me a little extra excited. She kept telling me, “I have something very important to give you.” Now in my nine-year-old mind, I was thinking of presents along the line of Barbies, Polly Pockets, or that new Lego set I wanted. Grandma Garretson was always the one who spoiled me silly and went over the top with presents on Christmas and my birthday. My mother always pointing out, “You don’t have to get her that much next year! She has enough stuff.” I couldn’t imagine what this present could be now, even after my grandmother said it herself that it was very important. In the days that led up to my 10th birthday, I dreamed of what this very important present could be.
My grandmother and I always celebrated our birthdays together, because we were born on the same exact day. I would always hold a unique place in her heart because I was the one grandchild born on her birthday, and the last of her granddaughters. She loved the girls, because she gave birth to all boys. My mother gave me her middle name, Viola, and that sealed the deal for our one-of-a-kind connection. Every year, we would have Grandma down to the house for a birthday dinner with cake and presents. But on my 10th birthday, I remember her coming down late in the morning one Saturday to give me this one special gift. I noticed the small gift bag right away and my heart sank a little knowing that this gift was no new Barbie or Lego set. I began to wonder, how could something so small be so important?
What I loved most about my grandmother, and what I worry we are lacking more of in today’s world, was her sentimentality for the old. How she would tell us stories of her mother’s mother, of her upbringing and family traditions, how she held onto childhood heirlooms and would bring them out from time to time to show me. She valued her family’s history, and it was hard not to see. She was a walking artifact of the way the world used to be. Proper, polite, always put together, always speaking with a purpose. We called her the “Queen” of our family. How she held herself to such a high standard, just like any queen would. And if she was the Queen, then I was her little princess. Absorbing and holding onto every story she would tell and keepsake she would show me. It was a beautiful relationship and how I yearned to be like my grandmother in every way.
She put the neatly wrapped gift bag in front of me at our sunny, dining room table. “Now that you are turning 10, I feel like this belongs to you,” she said as I began to unwrap the tissue paper. In the bag there was a thin square shaped box, held shut by a string. I undid the string and opened the box, and there inside lay the most delicately made beaded handbag. It was small and dainty, but beautiful. This color of blue, mixed with silver beads, showed just how old it was. The beads perfectly fit together and dangled off the bottom, glittering in the late morning sunlight. It was a purse fit for a queen. There was a note inside the bag that read, “Viola hand crocheted this evening purse for her mother when Viola was about 16 years old.” Viola being my grandmother’s mother. My great grandmother. I was amazed at how such a young girl was able to make something as stunning as this, in a time not nearly as advanced as now. How now, living in such a developed world, I could not fathom making something as intricate as this.
I held the bag in my hands, running my fingers along its smooth beads, questioning why my grandmother decided to give me this now upon turning 10. What was I going to use this bag for? Why did she feel the need to give it to me? I thanked her and gave her a great big hug, trying not to show my slight disappointment in not getting a “real” toy for my birthday. Once she left, I took the box up to my room and placed it in my keepsake trunk at the foot of my bed. It would stay there for years to come. Only being brought out and admired, on the occasion that I did need to go into my trunk. I would pull out the small box and hold the purse in my hands, running my fingers along the beads that dangled off the end, realizing that my great grandmother once touched these same beads. Slowly and over time, I would come to the understanding that the purse was never meant to be played with, it was meant to be cherished and valued. Passed down from one generation to the next, with the hope that its beauty and craftsmanship would never fade away.
Recently, my father cleaned out my old bedroom and put all my childhood belongings into totes, which he carefully packs into my car every time I come home to visit. “Dad, I don’t need all this stuff anymore,” I tell him slightly irritated and thinking where I am going to put all this stuff now in my adult home. But he never listens, and in a way, I am grateful, as he continues to pack the totes into my car. On his last visit out to see me, my father brings three new totes. One full of photo albums and yearbooks, one full of old college binders and schoolwork, and one I wasn’t expecting. This tote was heavy and held my grandmother’s old China collection. Even the tissue paper smelled like her. Rummaging through the tote of old China, I came across the small square box. Having it been years since I last held and felt the purse in my hands, small tears bubbled up in the corners of my eyes. There it was; the purse. The same way it had always been. I undid the string, uncovered the thin tissue paper, and looked down at the blue beads, that hadn’t seen light in years. I picked it up and held it in my hands, feeling my grandmother close by. I ran my finger along with beads and admired the creation of a young 16-year-old through teary eyes.
It was in that moment that I understood why my grandmother gave the purse to me. It served not only as a way to hold onto her memory, but all the great memories before her. All the women of my bloodline. That tradition should never be lost or let go. How family heirlooms like the purse, aren’t made anymore, and it is our duty to hang on to and cherish the ones that are. That someday on my daughter’s 10th birthday, I will give the purse to her and explain the story, and all the other stories that my grandmother passed down to me. It is our job to be the story tellers and memory keepers of the family before us. If there was one thing the purse taught me, it was that. From one small gift that I never expected, the past once again becomes our present. And if we take the time to pass it on, the stories and heirlooms will never be forgotten.
Just how my grandmother always wanted it to be.