MOM'S QUILTS

           Spinning motors are the only sound in the house. No one here but me and my memories, some precious some haunting. Outside thousands of white crystals fall without making a sound. Like a child running around with mouth open and tongue out,  the limbs of the walnut, sycamore and poplars reach out to catch the fluffy snow flakes. They pile up on winter's cold ground turning the yard into a Christmas Card Scene.

            The stillness takes me back to a small four roomed shack off a dirt road where a mom and dad raised nine children. Mom's winter chores included stitching remnants of worn out jeans and denim shirts together to make quilts. You won't find tiny stitches or a pattern in those cozy quilts she made. Their purpose was function only, they were made to keep us warm. Time and energy didn't allow her to create a work of art with tiny pieces and perfect little stitches. Most of her time was given to the needs of the family and the farm. She chose the best of the worn out threads and sewed them together by hand. The squares and rectangles and triangles were matched by weight and color, all of them, shades of blue

            Her quilt frame was another tool of necessity, made by her father. It  hung from the ceiling between two beds in the "front" room. The edges of the beds became benches for those who worked on the quilt. At night it was rolled to the ceiling for storage. There wasn't much space in that tiny house. She layered her work of love just like the works of art others made and entered into the county fair. The materials she used to put the quilts together were different than today and probably different from that used by most people back then. She first fastened the lining to the frame, "outing" or flannel, she purchased with money from selling eggs. To replace expensive padding, she used a second hand army blanket for warmth. The top was that conglomerate of recycled shades of worn blue jeans, memories of the family's clothes they once wore with pride even though they were handed down by family and friends.

            Making the quilt, like most things, was a family project. Mom would make the stitches using a darning needle.  With heavy tacking thread she made a large stitch then a small one then another large one. The large stitches were cut in the center and tied into a knot over the small stitch, a process called tacking. My older sisters, Garnett, Linda, and Loretta would tie the knots. Mom made me feel important by letting me sit under the quilt and push the needle back through to the top when she was making the stitches. "Make sure you hold it straight" she would say to me. Underneath the hanging quilt, well, that was a hide out for the younger ones, a place to keep them busy and safe while everyone else worked.

            Mom's quilts were to keep us warm in that tiny house where the cracks were stuffed with rags before the walls were papered. Old Man Winter welcomed himself inside. Mr. North Wind would find cracks around windows and accompany Old Man Winter into our home. They brought Freezing Ice with them. He lined the edge of the windows and made them glisten like diamonds in the morning sun. Fluffy feather beds and piles of mom's quilts kept us warm. The enticing aroma of perking coffee and baking biscuits woke us in the mornings. We weren't cold. The wood burning cook-stove in the kitchen and the cast iron pot bellied stove in the "front" room had roaring crackling fires. We gathered around them and got dressed for the day.

            After Papaw Burkes died, Granny came to live with us. Mom had a bit more time because most of her children were grown with homes of their own. Granny's age and health kept mom close to the house. The old shack with stuffed cracks and holes in he floor had been replaced with a new home, much warmer, much bigger, and much more comfortable. Mom had more time to do what she wanted to. She wanted to piece a Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt. Linda and I made sure she had the fabric she wanted. Yellow for the center of the flower, tiny prints of pink, blue, lilac, and purple to surround the yellow for the petals of the flower and grass green for its leaves. It was the most beautiful quilt top I had ever seen, and still is today. The corners were perfectly matched and each tiny piece exactly the same size. Years after she pieced it, mom gave me that flower garden top. A very special person, Della Adkins hand quilted it. Now, It hangs in my home as a precious piece of art.

            Last year Mom created a pattern and made a quilt for her son-in-law who was very ill. She pieced it by hand. There wasn't a room full of children working on this one. Instead it was Mom and Dad, side by side, working together. Mom, as always, made the stitches, Dad cut the large stitches and tied the knots.  I felt as if I was part of a New York Best Seller as I stood silent and watched them work on this very special gift of love. I told mom how much I admired the quilt. The next time I went to visit she was working on another one just like it. "This one is for you" she said.

            Mom and Dad tacked my quilt. The pride in her eyes when she gave it to me was brighter than any star in the midnight sky. It hangs on a rail in the cabin. I touch it every day knowing the two people who worked so hard to raise their children, also worked hard to create this family treasure for me. Bold pink, yellow, and purple threads hang from a background of flowered triangles, each one a  precious memory of my mom. Right in the middle of the quilt she placed a square with birds on it. "I knew you would like that", she said. "It was the only fabric I had with birds on it. I saved a piece for you".