HOW IT BEGAN

My love for needlework was gently stitched into me by my grandmother.

Marylyn Hill

She left us last year at 100, but the warmth of her hands and the quiet rhythm of her sewing live on in my heart. One of my earliest memories is of the little pillow she made for me — cross-stitched letters and animals lovingly spelling out my name — a treasure I still hold with the same comfort I felt as a child. She always carried a needle, thread, and scissors as if they were part of her. When those tools were taken from her at 98, it felt like a small light had been dimmed; I still remember the ache in her face.Even in the assisted living home, I’d sometimes spot scissors tucked into her lap bag, a gentle reminder that making never truly left her.

Her hands passed the craft to my mother, who took sewing beyond the needle

 and into the world of machines. I can see her at the Singer, foot tapping the pedal, then

 later mastering an electric machine — each stitch a quiet hymn of patience and care.

I hope, with all my heart, to pass this tender tradition of needlework on to my 

granddaughters, so they too might feel the comfort, the memory, and the 

love woven into every stitch.