I went on a closet-cleaning binge a few weeks ago, prompted by my need to find space for five boxes of books. Ever hopeful, I’d ordered a hundred more copies of Shifting Currents. One thing led to another, and I found myself scurrying from one closet to another. Eventually, I was face-to-face with my three family heirloom quilts.
One was a gift from my mother just a few months before she died. It’s a handsome and warm bed cover, sewn entirely by hand. When mom passed it on to me, she said “You’re the one who should have this, since you’re quilting now too. It’s true. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for it now, but for quite a few years, I made quilts for us, for children, for grandchildren. I know how much work and care goes into them.
I didn’t know the great-grandmother who made this, but when I look at the tiny, even stitches on the back, I imagine her cutting the pieces, sewing them together by hand, sitting at a quilting rack in an old Pennsylvania farmhouse, perhaps hosting a quilting bee.
The other two came to me years ago as quilt tops, discovered in my grandmother’s house long after her death. We don’t know who began these projects and left them unfinished. I chose backing material and had a neighbour hand-quilt them for me.
They looked great, though. The pink one became our daughter’s bedspread until she left home. We used the other on our bed until it began showing signs of wear.
At some point, probably twenty years ago now, I folded them up and stored them—at first in plastic and then, thinking perhaps they’d survive better if they could “breathe”, in a wicker chest. Every once in awhile, I took them out to admire them and hang them out to air. Each time, the old cotton had deteriorated more.
A few weeks ago, when I found room for them on a closet shelf, I decided it was time to pass them on to the next generation for safekeeping. So, a few days ago, when our daughter was visiting, I asked her if she wanted her old quilt back. Her eyes lit up. But when she saw it, she shook her head. “I’d love to have this if I could use it. But it’s beyond repair.” She fingered it nostalgically. “They all are.”
She was right. But still…
“You’ve made quilts, mom. What would you say to your great-great-grandchildren when the quilts you’ve made are falling apart in a hundred years?” I paused. They really are at least that old.
“Ditch ‘em,” I said sadly. “Give ‘em to somebody for their dog.”
Her turn to nod.
That’s what I’ll be doing, I guess. It makes me sad.