The trouble with textiles

Any fans of Portlandia, out there? I'm thinking of the episodes where they deploy a trope to comic effect, such as, "Put a bird on it!" or "I could pickle that!" For the last three months I've been starring in the adult-child-of-Silent-Generation-parents-helps-them-downsize episode, where the catch phrase is, "Get rid of it!"

Mom: What should I do about fill in the blank (bank statements from the 1940s, refrigerator art by my then toddler brother, 400 mismatched black socks, fraternity paddles from the 1950s, a case of olives, the house full of pre-Industrial Revolution antiques)?

Me: Get rid of it.

On a recent trip to visit my in-laws it's amazing my MIL didn't consign me to sleeping in the garage next to the hot water heater; anytime she asked me a question about anything, I'd say, "Get rid of it!" Or give her the don't-you-understand-we're-just-going-to-have-to-move-that look.

Us, Babyboomers, we're charming, eh?

Some things managed to weasel their way through my expedience. Mom knew my weaknesses. All she had to do was dangle a quilt, tablecloth or coverlet and I'd be drooling and packing my car.

The above quilt was from my grandmother's collection. There are plenty of qullts tucked safely away in museums, all cozy in their archival conditions. So, yes, I'm using it. The coverlet is a family piece; sheep raised, shorn, fleece processed, dyed, carded, spun and woven by my great great grandmother.  It's already become a favorite of the Big Orange Thing.

So teasing and tropes aside, I'm delighted to have these women-made goods in rotation. I won't be getting rid of these anytime soon.

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