Glinda writes: In some moments, directions along the path are perfectly clearly. We see the light. Signposts are there. A door which had not been present or noticed is opening. We are moved to take that first step. The image above is just that for me. Permit me to tell a story...
In 1985, I was doing a family book on Richard's Mother and her quilts (Ethel Kirkpatrick Crawford and her Quilts, 1985, unpublished). Although she was ill at the time and her boys with their families were scattered, we all gathered her quilts (with her direction) and we took pictures of them. They were considerable, which was no surprise.
A few weeks later, Mom C. (which is what I would call her) was feeling better. At this time, she and I had regular phone conversations across the miles between her home in Missouri and ours in North Dakota. We went over the pictures, one by one. A rich panorama of stories unfolded. While in my naivete', I had expected only to tell the story of the quilts; the stories tucked in the seams of those quilts were those of her life and that of her family. And as always with story telling, one gets off-track. Being off-track is sometimes where one is supposed to be all along. This is one of those "off track" stories.
Mom C. told me that the next time we came home, she would show me some quilt blocks tucked away in the dresser in the little bedroom. Those blocks were at least 100 years old. She was not sure who had made them, but they were family blocks. A quilter had begun the blocks and never finished them. I never saw the blocks. But, as the years wore on, I became entrusted with them since I was the only one who even knew part of the story. She and I never discussed them again.
In 1989, I headed on sabbatical to Columbus, Ohio. I tucked those blocks into my already overstuffed car. Surely, in a larger metropolitan area and the quilt country Ohio was known to be, I could find a quilter who would help me finish the blocks into a quilt. I did indeed.
On an excursion to Germantown in the heart of Columbus, I found a magical older lady who was a quilt historian. She also collected and sold old quilt fabrics. As I remember, the front room of her shop looked somewhat conventional: stacks of fabrics, quilt tools, and books which I immediately knew could become fast friends. Beyond, other rooms had stacks of fabrics laying about as if she had just returned with armloads of treasures from an estate sale or rummage excursion. The scent of Grandmother's stash was tucked around the fringes, as if we were visiting her attic, closet, drawers outside the reach and rush of modern time.
I told this magical lady what little I knew of the blocks. She became animated. She laid the blocks out, stood with a posture of alertness and held her hand beside her cheek as she reached across the boundaries of time: "What would the quilter have said?" "What story would she wish to tell through these blocks?" It was if she could touch an earlier person, time and place, something for which I yearned.
The story unfolded. She could tell the blocks would have been done in the late 1800s, by the thread used in seams and vintage of fabrics. They were made by one quilter, since the hand stitches and thread were the same. The design was "Wagon Wheel". As with many crafters, designs came straight from the lived experience of her time; and yes, wagon wheels were important motifs in daily life and in westward expansion. The fabric pieces must have been from her scrap bag. In some cases you could see seams from clothes that had been worn and cut for a future quilt. Nothing should be wasted.
After explanation of what she knew might be the story, the quilt historian carefully arranged the blocks, suggested a blue gabardine for border, muslin for back. She had both on hand and went right straight to where they were stored. She told me in no uncertain terms that I should do the stitching by hand. She suggested handquilting 1/4 inch from seams and a rope-like design for the border. All these things would be consistent with what the quilter would have chosen in her time.
After the rush of my work day, I began handstitching the blocks together at night. I even found a circle of quilters who applauded me on. Quilting and handstitching are meditations; the insights and mystery of life unfurl. I came to know those blocks somehow bound me to an unknown quilter, 100 years before. While she did not know me, she had purposefully created these blocks for me. She had presented some gift for me, 100 years later. By this time, I was quilting the blocks. I reached a point where I stopped. I could not go any further. It occurred to me that I was preparing this quilt for another quilter to finish some 100 years later. The epiphany was clear:
My work is to prepare for some unknown quilter who will follow.
She will finish this quilt.
I carefully stored the quilt. The years passed. The boys' Mom passed after declining health and 4 years in the nursing home. In 1995, I began a career shift toward teaching Environmental Studies. Again, the teachings of the quilt were clear and this time, they expanded.
My work is Earth work.
My life is intended to prepare for those who follow.
In some ways, I wonder if this is not a message for all of us. It just took me a while to get it.
And so, Dear Friend, should you come to our house, you may see this quilt. For the moment, it is hanging just behind my computer screen as I type this. Sometimes I tuck it away for safe keeping, out of the air and light which would deteriorate it more quickly. Would you believe 18 years have passed since this original insight? That means that of the initial 100 years, only 82 remain. That's kind of exciting!
And as I close this entry, I would ask of you: What were those moments in life when you also knew the work that you were intended to do? Have you too had a deep sense that your life is to prepare for those who follow?
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