I love quilts. In particular, I love old quilts. I love the look of them, the feel of them. I love the way those who stitched the quilts worked with what they had--the scraps and pieces of living.
I am fortunate to have several quilts inherited from my mother, ones she and her mother and sisters made during the Great Depression. There was no money for new fabrics so they cut up old shirts and dresses to provide material. One quilt bears the words from a cloth flour sack. Nothing was wasted. Ever.
These quilts are now eighty years old. I would never think of getting rid of them. They are precious, representing the history and art of "my people," my family. Each is unique, fashioned from imagination and ingenuity.
As I finger the fabric of a sun-bonnet quilt, I am put in mind of a dear friend. Like the quilts, Dorothy was unique. Though nearly thirty years separated us, we became fast friends. We shared an off-beat sense of humor that occasionally baffled others. We told each other naughty jokes and laughed over the inanities of life.
Dorothy had weathered the deaths of three husbands, a child, and numerous operations, but she retained an enthusiasm for life and for living to the fullest. On her eightieth birthday, she threw herself a birthday party. She arrived wearing red, white, and blue, a tribute to the country she loved. Though she frequently was in pain, Dorothy defied it--and her years--by insisting that life was good.
Over the years, the quilts have faded, the fabric now fragile, the hand stitching undone in places. Dorothy's skin was also fragile, throwing the webbing of fine lines into stark relief. Scars from the stitching of various operations puckered her skin, but she viewed them as badges of honor and delighted in showing them off--to everyone.
In a culture which prizes youth and beauty above all else, Dorothy served as a reminder that age gives a diferent kind of beauty, one that is far more lasting than silicone implants and "nips and tucks." Dorothy passed away a few years ago, but her example remains with me.
So, for today, I am grateful for quilts which have stood the test of time and ... and for people who have done the same.
Love it-love it. My Grandma Bushar was a quilter, my mom was a beatiful seamstress, she made all my clothes, she saved the scraps to give to her mother, who would piece them into beautiful quilts. I remember sitting on quilts at different times with my Sister and Mom and reminisce of outfits we had from the material on quilts. My "dream" when I finally retire is to be a quilter, I've taken a few classes to learn to piece, I'm probably a lost cause. This same Grandma lived to be 94 years old. She was also one who stook the test of time. She dug for night crawlers so she could go fishing, she collected rocks, tumbled them and made jewelry from them. I have a container of tumbled shiney rocks from her. I also have a rock tumbler that one day I will fire up and try to duplicate her life a little. Thank you for letting me ramble about my life, I'm finding it rather cathartic. You are a "Gem" of a person. I'm so glad I know you and am getting to know you better through your blog. You are awesome in your gratitude and remembrances of the seemingly small things, but they are really GREAT things to remember. xoxoxoxoxox
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely, heartfelt tribute to quilts, age, maturity, quality, uniqueness that is so missing in life today. I, too, love the feel of old fabrics, the once coarse texture smooth by years of touch.
ReplyDeleteI think we don't stop often enough to touch the world around us.
Thanks for this timely reminder, Jane. No matter how hard I try, I always need a gentle tug on my sleeve to remind me to slow down and cherish the moment.
I miss Dorothy and her courage.
ReplyDeleteAlso, what is this generation producing that is of lasting value like a quilt? I seriously doubt that anyone will save their mother's old cell phone. "She used to text me reminders about my math book on it," she said with nostalgia. I doubt it.
I used to tease Dorothy, telling her that "her scars looked like a road map of the back roads of New Jersey."
ReplyDeleteShe laughed and asked me how many times I'd been to NJ. When I said, "never" she would slap her knee, say "shoot" and roar with laughter.
We have all lost a treasured quilt in her passing.