Threads that Connect Us

We spread the quilt made from old Levi’s near the headstones. And set out the makings of afternoon tea: cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, cubed cheese, goldfish crackers (like she used to serve her little granddaughters), raspberries and pastries from the local bakery. 

I like to gather two generations of girls for any reason, but especially for a tea party, something my mom began when the granddaughters arrived in bunches. After 5 grandsons, there were 4 granddaughters born within 18 months. More boys. And 3 more girls. 

The first tea parties involved dresses, Beatrix Potter stories, goldfish, Nilla wafers, lemonade and good manners. Now that my mom is gone, we like to remember her this way. We’ve hosted tea parties at home and gone to fancy restaurants with afternoon tea. This time one of the girls suggested meeting at the cemetery and doing it picnic style. 

Five of her seven granddaughters joined my sister and me. We gather at my mom’s and dad’s gravesite which is right next to my sister’s (who died as a small child). It’s the day before her birthday. The girls ask about their aunt. We tell stories, look at pictures and see the heartache from a different angle this time. One of the granddaughters is a new mom to another little girl. 

We laugh as we clink our plastic glasses of lemonade and toast the strong Bingham women who came before and the Bingham Babes still here. 

The girls want to hear our stories about their grandma. Her youngest granddaughter, now 21, was just 4 years old when her grandma passed. We remember and laugh and cry a little. It’s healing to remember her with others who loved her and feel her love still. 

Then we get to us, the ones still here. The youngest granddaughter asks us each for advice. Everyone shares something. We savor the feelings.

Another granddaughter comments on our gathering. She says we could get closer and really lean on each other when we need help. We have different strengths that give perspective. She’s not sure what that looks like, but she feels there is more. Like getting together and thinking of each other more often. The girls make plans to see each other after I leave town. 

Just before the sun dips behind Mount Olympus, my sister and I pull out the letters. One of the granddaughters tells the story of finding them in the basement and asking her grandpa if she could read them to him. 

My parents saved every letter they wrote between 1958 and 1959 when they were dating and engaged. He was a student at Utah State and she was an English teacher 132 miles south. The granddaughters each chose a handful of letters to keep and promised to share what they read. 

There’s something to being with women who have lost what you’ve lost. Who remember what you remember and feel what you feel.

Nostalgia: a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.

Oxford Languages

When we look back, we see that life is full of experiences – though some are sad or difficult – that bring meaning to life. And motivate us to connect to the meaning and connect to each other. 

We’re women who share a mom and a grandma, a sister and an aunt, and each other. We share DNA and memories – our own and those of someone else. We share recipes, homelands, handwork and traditions. We share loss, grief and hope. 

We are connected like the dozens of quilts my mom made, with threads mostly hidden under the fabric. Threads she gathered and threads she received, over and under and through. 

So much is gone. 
So much is still here.

We belong to them.
We belong to each other.
We belong.