Ok, so now I know all of you will think I am a complete lunatic. I might as well tell you the whole story, so you will KNOW I am an idiot.
Here's the beginning of the reason why I wanted to learn to quilt. Warning, it is kinda sad. And then I promise I won't post any more about quilts unless asked, at least until I finish another one.
My Mama’s Quilt
By motomom
When I was a young girl growing up in Podunk, my Mama made a quilt. I was perhaps 10 or 11 years old, and I had tried sewing enough to appreciate the months of work she put in on the lovely creation. It was a tulip quilt, not made in blocks but appliquéd with embroidered accents.
When it was finished, I was allowed to have the beautiful quilt on my bed. It always looked wonderful there, with its graceful red tulips, long flowing green leaves and green scalloped edging.
The real beauty of the quilt was not in the pattern, although it was a good pattern, but in the execution of the stitching. I remain convinced that no one could have sewn the quilt like my Mama. Her stitching of the appliqué onto the white bleached fabric was flawless. Only if you looked very close could you see the tiny stitches around the edge. The embroidery and quilting stitches looked as though she counted the very threads of the muslin to measure the stitches, and nowhere was a knot or loose thread to be seen.
The quilting surrounding the tulips was very fine, and the lines of stitches were very close together. The quilting stitches were fascinating to me, surrounding the delicate tulips and stems at perfect intervals, white on white. When you looked closer to the edge of the quilt, the intervals became crossed lines, which blended into the beautiful thin scalloped green edging.
In the 40-plus years since, I have constantly been comparing every quilt I see to this exacting standard set by my Mama, and I have never seen anything like it. Some may say that my memory is exaggerated by her absence, but I disagree. Sadly, I no longer have the quilt, but I have many other pieces of her fine stitchery that attest to her skill. Even the small pieces from her youth show her high standards. Her sisters and her mother (Big Mama) could all sew, but all knew that my Mama was the best.
We had other things in the house that my Mama had made. We had a set of huge pictures, one of a chicken and one of a rooster, completely made of different kinds of beans glued onto a board. I had many examples of my Mama’s fine sewing skills; as a matter of fact most of my clothing was carefully sewn on her machine. I still have a table on which she had attached pieces of tile into a mosaic and then grouted. Making beautiful things were second nature to her.
I am not sure if she became sick before or after she finished the quilt, my memory is a little fuzzy after so many years. But Hodgkin’s Disease soon took my Mama’s life. Many folks in Podunk may remember her death in 1969, just 20 months after the birth of my little sister. I am not sure that very many people outside of our family ever saw the quilt. To my knowledge, it was never entered into the County Fair, but it would have won a blue ribbon handily.
Five months after my Mama died, my Daddy married the woman whose ways were so foreign to me. She didn’t cook like my Mama, or sew, or garden, or put up any black-eyed peas or pear preserves. Her idea of cleaning house was to hire someone to do it. She did weird things like raking all of the stuff on the bathroom counter into one of the drawers, and never cleaning the kitchen cabinets. She used odd-smelling perfume, which made me sneeze. She had three daughters, who had grown up in California. There were wild and crazy, and so different.
She treated my little sister like a doll, dressing her up for church with ringlets in her hair, and baby doll shoes with ruffled anklets. But she made no quilts. In my world, that meant she was not a real woman like my Mama.
We soon moved from the house where I had spent most of my growing up time, into a bigger house with gold-brown carpet and a fancy bay window in the kitchen. There was no room for my Mama’s quilt; everything in the new house was gold to match. None of my Mama’s things were quite good enough, and they disappeared. I vaguely remember being shipped off to Big Mama’s house for a visit, and when I came home they were all gone. I never saw the quilt again.
A few other things slowly disappeared, too, like all of the silver dollars my Granddad had purchased for me because I had been born on his birthday. They were probably spent by one of my older siblings for cigarette money. But nothing has haunted me as much as the disappearance of my Mama’s quilt.
I have for over 40 years now cruised every antique and craft show, flea market, and quilt bazaar that time would allow. I have looked, hoping against hope that I would see the quilt. I have even looked for the pattern everywhere, so that I could at least have a picture. I have been horrified at the thought of my Mama’s quilt being cut up by some stupid person to make a purse or vest.
I have scoffed at the poor quality of quilts made by others, obviously amateur. There was one quilt shop in Fredericksburg, TX where the owner proudly announced that hers were the finest quilts made anywhere, silly woman. Her crude efforts couldn’t hold a candle to my Mama’s beautiful quilt.
My Aunt Sis, bless her heart, still asks the dreaded question of me. “I wonder what ever happened to your Mama’s quilt?” I have no answer, just as I had no answer when she asked me 40 years ago. She is the last remaining member of the clan, and my Mama was the first to go. Mama’s death had been so hard on everyone, and now that she is in her eighties, Aunt Sis still can’t let go of her baby sister, or the lovely quilt she made. Since losing my little beautiful baby sister, I can understand.
For in the quilt was stitched the grace and beauty of my Mama. The stunning red flowers against a white background, bright contrast, bold colors, were so brave for a time when the popular hues were muted gold and copper. She was proud of her work, and she cared that it was perfect in every way possible. My sister had the same sense of style and color, even though she arranged flowers instead of making quilts.
One of my sons is now married. According to some newfangled technology, they know they are expecting a little baby girl. I am about to become a grandma. If I could give this little girl one gift in this world, I wish I could give her my Mama’s quilt. Nothing would represent the hours my Mama would give to her family better than each painstaking stitch of the quilt. Even though anyone can go to Wal-Mart and buy a quilt made overseas, those cheap copies with their big gaudy stitches cannot compare to the real heirloom that she wanted to leave to me.
So, I write this letter to the women of Podunk. I write in the hopes that some lady, somewhere, had the intelligence to know quality and rarity when they saw it. I describe the quilt in detail, in the hopes that some girl may have noticed my Mama’s quilt in their family things, and might perchance be willing to return it to me. I write in the hopes that my Mama’s quilt didn’t end up in someone’s trash or doghouse, but instead is carefully hidden away in a closet, or hanging on display in some loving person’s home. I would gladly pay any amount of money for it. My Aunt Wanda still lives in Podunk, perhaps some sweet girl will leave it on her doorstep. She will see that I get it. And, thanks.
