© Bruce Goodman 8 July 2015
When old Mrs Bradshaw wasn’t knitting she was sewing. How she could sew a button back on a shirt in thirty seconds without hardly looking was anyone’s guess. How she could knit the most complex pattern while watching television was a marvel.
And generous to a fault. She would sew doll’s clothes for every doll in the street. There wasn’t a girl with a doll within a radius of a mile who hadn’t at some stage knocked on old Mrs Bradshaw’s door. And out came the clothes patterns: books and books of fashionable clothes designs. It was a girl to girl thing. Old Mrs Bradshaw would spend hours discussing and suggesting. You’d think the doll was about to walk down the carpet to the Oscars.
Year after year, old Mrs Bradshaw won the quilting section at the annual craft show. No one minded her monopoly on the first prize.
“Yes of course, dear. You buy the wool and I’ll knit you a pullover. What sort of pattern would you like? You get the fabric and I’ll make you a quilt. Yes, yes. Bring your trousers here and I’ll take them up.”
And all for nothing. She never charged.
To think that now she’s dead. Dear old Mrs Bradshaw. Always so generous. Even her pre-planned death notice stated: In lieu of flowers please make a donation to the Salvation Army’s charitable fund. Her funeral was packed.
The Salvation Army got two dollars seventy.