Quilts. Patchwork Quilts. A gift of a patchwork quilt, hand stitched and given as a gift to an 8th grade girl in 1962. Received with a “Thank you” and Mom’s additional comment, “She’ll really appreciate that in years to come.” Or words to that effect. I remember receiving the quilt and loving my Grandma Fisher so felt gratitude but little enthusiasm. It was a quilt! I was 14. I saw a jumble of colors and shapes – nothing stylish, just a patchwork quilt.
Another hand-stitched quilt top arrived for my high school graduation; this time, from Aunt Sarah. Same childish reaction from the recipient.
Over the years, I received more quilts from Mom. She gave not just tops, but the finished product – pieced by hand and each block linked with mathematical precision – on her sewing machine. She filled quilts with cotton or wool in early years, then used polyester batting in later quilts – and all quilted by hand one needle full at a time.
My enthusiasm grew as I began to understand the time spent in crafting the quilt, and the artistry demonstrated in the variations that came from Mom’s distinctive eye. Hand quilting! With arthritic fingers, she did not get 12 stitches on the needle, but never fewer than 9. Symmetry. Mom’s Iris quilt, instead of straight rows, crafted in diagonal rows. It is a visual delight. Back off and you see the geometry and color matches. Up close, you see individual prints in the petals of each Iris. Mom noticed that modern beds were larger than her first married woman’s bed, and she gifted me with a queen sized quilt.
When Alzheimer’s and cancer took her in 2004, my sister and I sorted and divided Mom’s remaining household things, including glassware and quilts. It was the one time that we almost disagreed – the division of quilts – because I finally envisioned the artistry and the family history in those quilts, along with the mathematical precision. Pinwheel quilt vision: “Oh! There’s a piece of my favorite sun dress. Aunt Sarah made that red print dress for me for my sixth birthday. I wore that dress until I could no longer tie the shoulder straps.” Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt: “There’s one of dad’s shirts. There’s another of my dresses. That piece is feed sack print!”And so on. The small pieces of fabric that made up the blocks and the quilt as a whole evoked visual memories – scenes from childhood.
People – adults – who see Mom’s quilts now see the whole piece and admire her creativity and craft. I see scenes from my childhood – sights, sounds, smells. Running in the yard with Tippy and Penny (dogs). Wrapped in a ragged old quilt – probably one from Grandma Ragland – with a comic book and two or three cats on a bench in the shed (lean to on the garage-grainary-chicken house) during a cool summer rain. My first fishing trip to the pond. Wading in Uncle Hugh’s creek and trying to catch tadpoles.
I remember packing the completed Grandma and Aunt Sarah quilts, complete thanks to Mom, stomach knotted with anticipation and anxiety as I headed to college, one short week from high school graduation. But most of all, I see Mom’s unique touch in each quilt. She never followed any pattern exactly; she “saw” with the artists’ eye, her vision of the quilt. Those quilts – priceless, always in fashion now – for me – and always comforting.
No matter how stressful the day, as I crawl in bed under Grandma’s Flower Garden, I feel a degree of comfort that no designer inspired quilt can provide. I’ve had my share of designer comforters and bedspreads, now long gone to garage sales and thrift stores. Now I want nothing but Mom’s quilts, and rotate them through the seasons. In late fall, I’ll put the Log Cabin quilt on my bed. But for now, perhaps to hold onto sights and sounds of summer, I want Grandmother’s Flower Garden to keep me company each night.
~ Joyce Collean Ragland 9-14-2010
