the bag

                this bag along with the wooden [suit]cases behind traveled with my grandfather some sixty-five years ago across the Atlantic on his final journey home, returning from Argentina. he was part of the wave of immigrants between the two great wars - went there twice, lived and worked in and around Buenos Aires for some fifteen years. meanwhile grandmother was struggling to meet life's ends, raise and feed the kids - my father and aunt. during World War II all legs of communication were severed - there was no traveling or letters, no financial support whatsoever. no word if one was still alive, or had perished. times were really tough then. people were tough too.

                after the end of the War and by 1948 the world had gradually re-opened - old routes were re-established, goods flowing, news traveling once more. word from my grandfather flew across the ocean. he was alive and thriving - had saved enough to buy a pub. "the wife would cook. son (my father) and i would run the show," he thought. but when asking grandmother to bring the family in the new land, make a life there, she was grappled with fears - new people, strange language, unfamiliar surroundings. "they will be all over me talking gibberish," she has been remembered saying, "i won't be able to understand anything." thus she refused to move, wanted to stay in the village where she was born, had always lived in, among relatives and lifelong neighbors. hesitant at first, but left with no alternatives, grandfather packed up and boarded the last ship home. this bag was carrying a dandy suit he brought with him. grandfather was a fine man - not highly educated, but clever, resourceful, brave. 

                i found the bag full with spools of yarn this time, that mother has been storing inside for years. a few i used to knit my first pair of woolen socks after quite a while (couple of decades).

                i love this bag - it's story so dear to me, the dainty cotton cloth in pastel colors and lush patterns - mesmerizing, the feel on my fingertips - spellbinding. oddly enough, the twist of the knot reminds me of a rosebud - petals pushing to flower. now i (the granddaughter) am bringing it back - once again across the Atlantic some sixty-five years later.  ~

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