There is a quilt that resides in my bedroom, on a quilt stand that once belonged to my mother.
The quilt is old and tattered, obviously a utilitarian quilt and not one that was put away and kept for use “when company comes.” The quilt once belonged to my Great-grandmother Perry, who machine pieced it and quilted it with what looks like heavy-duty white cotton thread.
I think about my mother’s grandmother the first of each month, as that’s the time when I take the quilt off the stand, inspect it for excessive tearing or fraying, and carefully refold it. As I examine each block, I wonder where the fabric came from and how it was used. Mom has told me that she remembers some of the fabric from her grandmother’s dresses or her grandfather’s shirts. I wish I knew the full history behind the quilt. I wish I knew where the fabric came from.
I wish I had known my great-grandmother better.
Some of the background on that quilt is known. Great-grandmother Perry lived in Eden (back then it was Spray), North Carolina. Before the mistake that is NAFTA, Eden was a textile hub. No doubt the fabric came from local stores. And the quilt contains no batting. It is quilted on top of an old blanket. From what I understand from local quilt historians, that wasn’t unusual. There was a local textile mill that produced blankets. Once a month or so, this mill would sell second-run blankets and scraps to the locals. No doubt that this second-run blanket was a lot cheaper for Grandma Perry to purchase than batting during the Depression, and much easier than growing her own cotton for batts, as some quilters have been known to do back then. If Grandpa or one of her children worked in the textile mill, they may have even been given the blanket.
But it’s that quilt that speaks to me. And its voice has gotten louder over the last couple of years as I began to actively research my family tree. My mother’s family came from Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. They settled in Maryland and migrated to Virginia and then North Carolina.
From there it was like they were shot out of a canon. They headed west with a determination that is to be admired. Kentucky. Kansas. Texas. Colorado. And finally, California. Besides discovering the sheer grit and perseverance of these people, I discovered quilts. Lots of quilts. Many of the obituaries of my great-great aunts and grandmothers list them as quilters. Some even tell what quilt bee they belonged attended in the same sentence they tell what church they belonged to – as if both organizations are equally important. There are pictures of these women made with their quilts as the backdrop. There are photos of infants wrapped in quilts.
And it’s this history that keeps me stitching. Quilting is a tangible link to my past. Whether I’m piecing or quilting (and there is a difference), I remember that this is something my mother does, my grandmother did, and my great-grandmother participated in. I hear their voices, feel their presence…and miss them.
I quilt because of the history of the art. I quilt because it’s a stress-relief. I quilt because it slows me down. It’s not something you can do in a hurry. The slow, steady pace of hand work allows me time to think and dream of other quilters and other quilts – it allows me, if only for an hour or so each week, to forget about my work, forget about my problems, and just …be.
I quilt because I need to and because I have to. Quilting, while it did begin in England hundreds of years ago, has become an American art form, just like banjo-playing and bluegrass music. It needs to be remembered. It needs to be passed on to future generations. I look at myself as a link from the past to the future – preserving the art, but eventually handing it over to the next group of quilters.
And so, as I’m gathering fabric for my quilt projects, all of these thoughts circle through my mind and tug at my heart. I’m currently working on A Southern Album Quilt. It’s a quilt that sings the praises of sweet tea and kudzu and corn and beans and cotton. It’s distinctly part of who I am and where I’m at. It’s pieced and hand-appliquéd and going to take me probably two to three years to finish.
But I’m in no hurry. As I piece and do the handwork, I remember the women in my past that faced the western frontier with a strong-will and a desire for beauty. I honor the woman that dealt with the Depression the best way she knew how, using an old blanket and fabric scraps to keep her family warm. I think about my mother and the quilt that is on her bed now as well as the log-cabin one she made me years ago that is carefully folded up in a sheet and kept in the chest at the foot of my bed. And I pray that somewhere between my daughter and the first wave of grand kids that will hopefully come my way in the next few years, there will be another quilter or two to pass down the family tradition to.
It's a process. Pick the pattern. Chose the fabric. Measure twice, cut once. Match and stitch. Layer. Mark. Quilt. Like history, it doesn't happen fast. Like the future, it comes together a little at the time. Like any heirloom, it tells a little about who you were. And like a mother's love, it keeps you warm and dry.
The quilt is old and tattered, obviously a utilitarian quilt and not one that was put away and kept for use “when company comes.” The quilt once belonged to my Great-grandmother Perry, who machine pieced it and quilted it with what looks like heavy-duty white cotton thread.
I think about my mother’s grandmother the first of each month, as that’s the time when I take the quilt off the stand, inspect it for excessive tearing or fraying, and carefully refold it. As I examine each block, I wonder where the fabric came from and how it was used. Mom has told me that she remembers some of the fabric from her grandmother’s dresses or her grandfather’s shirts. I wish I knew the full history behind the quilt. I wish I knew where the fabric came from.
I wish I had known my great-grandmother better.
Some of the background on that quilt is known. Great-grandmother Perry lived in Eden (back then it was Spray), North Carolina. Before the mistake that is NAFTA, Eden was a textile hub. No doubt the fabric came from local stores. And the quilt contains no batting. It is quilted on top of an old blanket. From what I understand from local quilt historians, that wasn’t unusual. There was a local textile mill that produced blankets. Once a month or so, this mill would sell second-run blankets and scraps to the locals. No doubt that this second-run blanket was a lot cheaper for Grandma Perry to purchase than batting during the Depression, and much easier than growing her own cotton for batts, as some quilters have been known to do back then. If Grandpa or one of her children worked in the textile mill, they may have even been given the blanket.
But it’s that quilt that speaks to me. And its voice has gotten louder over the last couple of years as I began to actively research my family tree. My mother’s family came from Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. They settled in Maryland and migrated to Virginia and then North Carolina.
From there it was like they were shot out of a canon. They headed west with a determination that is to be admired. Kentucky. Kansas. Texas. Colorado. And finally, California. Besides discovering the sheer grit and perseverance of these people, I discovered quilts. Lots of quilts. Many of the obituaries of my great-great aunts and grandmothers list them as quilters. Some even tell what quilt bee they belonged attended in the same sentence they tell what church they belonged to – as if both organizations are equally important. There are pictures of these women made with their quilts as the backdrop. There are photos of infants wrapped in quilts.
And it’s this history that keeps me stitching. Quilting is a tangible link to my past. Whether I’m piecing or quilting (and there is a difference), I remember that this is something my mother does, my grandmother did, and my great-grandmother participated in. I hear their voices, feel their presence…and miss them.
I quilt because of the history of the art. I quilt because it’s a stress-relief. I quilt because it slows me down. It’s not something you can do in a hurry. The slow, steady pace of hand work allows me time to think and dream of other quilters and other quilts – it allows me, if only for an hour or so each week, to forget about my work, forget about my problems, and just …be.
I quilt because I need to and because I have to. Quilting, while it did begin in England hundreds of years ago, has become an American art form, just like banjo-playing and bluegrass music. It needs to be remembered. It needs to be passed on to future generations. I look at myself as a link from the past to the future – preserving the art, but eventually handing it over to the next group of quilters.
And so, as I’m gathering fabric for my quilt projects, all of these thoughts circle through my mind and tug at my heart. I’m currently working on A Southern Album Quilt. It’s a quilt that sings the praises of sweet tea and kudzu and corn and beans and cotton. It’s distinctly part of who I am and where I’m at. It’s pieced and hand-appliquéd and going to take me probably two to three years to finish.
But I’m in no hurry. As I piece and do the handwork, I remember the women in my past that faced the western frontier with a strong-will and a desire for beauty. I honor the woman that dealt with the Depression the best way she knew how, using an old blanket and fabric scraps to keep her family warm. I think about my mother and the quilt that is on her bed now as well as the log-cabin one she made me years ago that is carefully folded up in a sheet and kept in the chest at the foot of my bed. And I pray that somewhere between my daughter and the first wave of grand kids that will hopefully come my way in the next few years, there will be another quilter or two to pass down the family tradition to.
It's a process. Pick the pattern. Chose the fabric. Measure twice, cut once. Match and stitch. Layer. Mark. Quilt. Like history, it doesn't happen fast. Like the future, it comes together a little at the time. Like any heirloom, it tells a little about who you were. And like a mother's love, it keeps you warm and dry.
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