When I turned 12 Mama announced that I would make my first quilt. It caught me by complete surprise because I thought this was her skill, not mine. I did know how the process was done because I had watched her and Aunt Ruby made quilts all winter long and it was fun for them. This was how they spent the winter months. So why was making a quilt now something I should do? Her answer was rather simple: I needed to fully understand this process because "it was what mountain people do." I protested, but Mama simply answered by saying that I would start after Christmas to make a 'Nine Square' pattern because it was easy and I could do it. She went on to say that I'd have the rest of winter to cut the pieces and sew each square together. Then she announced, "You should have the quilt top finished by the time school is out and you, Aunt Ruby, and me will have all summer to quilt it."
Oh, Lord, what an awful year this would be! I had plans to learn twirling, read movie star magazines, cook some neat desserts and talk to friends on our new telephone. I didn't want to do a quilt!! Mama never bothered to answer me or argue. She just put me to work each night cutting out quilt pieces and sewing them together after my homework was completed. Just as she planned, the quilt top was completed by April and the month of May found Mama, Aunt Ruby, and me in front of the quilting frames starting the process of quilting. Mama said, "We'll have this done by the time you are ready to go back to school in August." Aaaaah, I was doomed to misery all summer! And just as planned, the quilt was finished about a week before school started.
We put the quilt away in a trunk for later (whatever that meant) and I was just thankful to have survived the summer of quilting without loosing my mind or the sex appeal I was growing into. My hormones were taking over and I had to learn about a lot of other stuff that Mama and Aunt Ruby appeared to know little about. I had made the damn quilt; it was out of my sight in the trunk; I never liked it nor the colors in it, and I never valued the sewing skills I had mastered while doing it. I moved on with high school, college, marriage, and moving away from home. The quilt remained in the trunk, rarely looked at, never used, just a memory of a miserable summer.
Mama died and I finally had to confront the trunk and the quilt. It still looked ugly to me. Why, on God's green earth, had Mama chosen hot pink for the set up color which surrounded each square. She didn't like hot pink as a color, but there it was all over my quilt! I took it out of the trunk, placed it on the bed and looked at it fully. For the first time I had to acknowledge the skill of the quilting, at least Mama's stitches. Mine were 'beginner' stitches and could be found, and yes, there were Aunt Ruby's stitches, those awful, crooked, wandering all over the place stitches which were her trademark because she talked so much while quilting that she paid little attention to where her hands and the needle were going. Suddenly I remembered their fussing and fighting over the stitches as they worked. They had done this all of my life and neither one of them ever listened or changed their behavior.
What I now understand about THAT summer which I could not grasp for over 40 years was the lessons I was learning about my mountain heritage and the incredible people who helped raise me. It was not about the damn quilt, really. Now I get this quilt out periodically when I want to laugh and remember Mama and Aunt Ruby and my mountain heritage. I really KNOW quilting now! I'm proud of my quilt. I have earned the privilege of conversation with other quilters and I've forgiven Mama for the 'hot pink' color. I now just laugh at it and wish I had asked her about the choice. I still don't use the quilt on my bed because it's too precious to get 'wore' out, as Mama would say. Guess Mama did know what she was doing after all.
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