By Rosalie Grangaard Grosch
Tears streamed down my face as I reminded myself, "It's only a thing."
Earlier in the day, the ringing of the telephone had startled us. It was the snowplow operator at our lake home. "I noticed that one window is broken and another is open."
With great haste, my husband set out on the hour-and-a-half drive. Not wanting to face the fear of the unknown, I stayed home.
Ken's call came. "They must have had lots of time because the place has been ransacked. They broke the bedroom window when they entered and exited with the loot through an open kitchen window."
Sawdust on the counter looked familiar to Ken. Checking the basement, he realized his chain saw was missing. That, along with other objects, must have been packed on the kitchen counter.
The drawers in the upstairs dressers were upside-down on the floor. Things were strewn around all over. A container of pennies was missing, as was the microwave from under the counter and guns from the closet.
With Ken's second phone call, I asked, "Is the quilt still there?"
"Just a minute. I will look." The phone was silent while I waited.
"It is gone. They must have wrapped everything in it when they fled."
I was heartbroken. That quilt meant everything to me. We were living out of the country when Mother died, and I was not able to attend her funeral. The quilt had been her project. Each piece told a story from my family's past. The partially finished quilt was given to my daughter. While at college, she finished the piecing. On an unforgettable trip to the other grandma's house, my two daughters and Grandma sat around the big frame, stitching everything by hand.
"We are doing this for Mom and Dad's twenty-fifth anniversary," our daughters sang as they stitched. In the center, embroidered in bright colors, was a special square: "Ken and Rosalie, 25 years of love and laughter."
We wept with joy when the quilt was presented to us. We pictured so many hands lovingly working: Mother cutting and piecing the old remnants; our daughter sewing the pieces between college classes; our two girls sitting around the quilt frame, stitching with Grandma.
Now, it was gone. I took off a day from work and went on a scavenger hunt, stopping at antique stores on the way to our cabin. No one had seen or heard anything of the quilt. I put up flyers with pictures asking people to call if they ran across the quilt.
I dream of someday finding a stained and worn quilt with our names stitched in the center. With a few left-over pieces, my daughter and I replicated the quilt in a smaller size. And as I look at those familiar fabric pieces, I give thanks.
Tears streamed down my face as I reminded myself, "It's only a thing."
Earlier in the day, the ringing of the telephone had startled us. It was the snowplow operator at our lake home. "I noticed that one window is broken and another is open."
With great haste, my husband set out on the hour-and-a-half drive. Not wanting to face the fear of the unknown, I stayed home.
Ken's call came. "They must have had lots of time because the place has been ransacked. They broke the bedroom window when they entered and exited with the loot through an open kitchen window."
Sawdust on the counter looked familiar to Ken. Checking the basement, he realized his chain saw was missing. That, along with other objects, must have been packed on the kitchen counter.
The drawers in the upstairs dressers were upside-down on the floor. Things were strewn around all over. A container of pennies was missing, as was the microwave from under the counter and guns from the closet.
With Ken's second phone call, I asked, "Is the quilt still there?"
"Just a minute. I will look." The phone was silent while I waited.
"It is gone. They must have wrapped everything in it when they fled."
I was heartbroken. That quilt meant everything to me. We were living out of the country when Mother died, and I was not able to attend her funeral. The quilt had been her project. Each piece told a story from my family's past. The partially finished quilt was given to my daughter. While at college, she finished the piecing. On an unforgettable trip to the other grandma's house, my two daughters and Grandma sat around the big frame, stitching everything by hand.
"We are doing this for Mom and Dad's twenty-fifth anniversary," our daughters sang as they stitched. In the center, embroidered in bright colors, was a special square: "Ken and Rosalie, 25 years of love and laughter."
We wept with joy when the quilt was presented to us. We pictured so many hands lovingly working: Mother cutting and piecing the old remnants; our daughter sewing the pieces between college classes; our two girls sitting around the quilt frame, stitching with Grandma.
Now, it was gone. I took off a day from work and went on a scavenger hunt, stopping at antique stores on the way to our cabin. No one had seen or heard anything of the quilt. I put up flyers with pictures asking people to call if they ran across the quilt.
I dream of someday finding a stained and worn quilt with our names stitched in the center. With a few left-over pieces, my daughter and I replicated the quilt in a smaller size. And as I look at those familiar fabric pieces, I give thanks.
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