LinnAnn posts "The Thread Box," a sensitive andwarm tribute to family heirlooms and what they mean to those who keep and participate in the tradition.
The thread box, literally, contains sewing artifacts mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers used to coplete their sewn creations. No doubt, sewing assumed an important place in the lives of this family. Mothers sewed garments for their daughters and mended damaged clothing. The box contained the resources used to perform care-giving activity. Someone thought the tools of caregiving, perhaps along with the values, should be passed along, mother to daughter, through the generations.
Yes, the box contained threads of various color and texture to be put to practical use. It also contained threads of a different type: threads of tradition, threads of duty to family, threads of caring.
The box, however, missed a generation. The narrator found, not her mother's tread box, but her grandmother's box. The mother left the narrator when the narrator was only three years old. The mother did not fully participate in the rearing of her daughter nor in the traditions and values the box represents. But the box lived on, waiting in repose, to welcome its own unlocking by the narrator only too willing to resume the eirloom traditions and to pass them to her own daughter when the time comes.
The writing generally serves this piece well. It is objective, sparse, and clean. I only wish the author would take pains to avoid a rether persistent use of forms of the verb "to be" often used together with a gerund verb form. This sucks some of the life from the account.
I do not do line-by-line edits. In this case, however, I took the liberty to re-write he first paragraph, only, to illustrate the point about use of passive verbs. May I?
As written: I entered grandma’s small one bedroom apartment, feeling somewhat like an intruder. I could almost feel her spirit. I was thinking of walking out when I saw it, the old trunk. One of it’s keys had been inserted into the lock and it’s match was hanging by a small cotton string. It’s brass corners were darkened with tarnish. I knelt in front of it, turned the key and slowly opened the black lid. The faint musty smell of age and memories tickled my nose. The paper lining was yellow and amber from the passing of time.
As re-written: As I entered grandma's small, one bedroom apartment, I felt somewhat like an intruder. I could almost feel her spirit. I thought of walking out when I saw the old trunk. One of matching keys protruded out of the lock. Its match hung by a small cotton string. Tarnish darkened the brass corners of the trunk. I knelt in front of it, turned the key, and slowly opened the black lid. The faint musty smell of age and memories tickled my nose. The passage of time had changed the paper lining to shades of yellow and amber.
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