About a year ago I took up quilting. I had made a few with my mother for my older daughters but never really took to it. Until now. In the past year I have made 17 quilts and I find myself often thinking of my mother while doing so.
While I was growing up she tended to do crafts, even before they were cool. Frona would crochet, sew clothes, crosstitch, woodwork, and from my very young days at home Artex paints. She was creative, even drawing and painting at times. Our dining room table normally had stuff all over it.
I have done various crafts in my adult life as well. Jumping from one to another periodically. Crosstitching to scrapbooks to chalky paint to embroidery and now quilting. I guess I did take after my Mom some. 🙂
I inherited tubs full of my mother’s fabric scraps, quilt blocks she started, even crochet thread and a partial tablecloth she was making. The thought that her hands touched this fabric to make quilt blocks makes it very meaningful when I made my two sisters their quilts recently.
My brothers quilt was one that she had use fabric paint on and was an eagle.
There are still blocks left to make more quilts. I will eventually get back to my mother’s blocks but I was not only thinking of her but my grandmothers too.
The woman my father considered his mother and us kids our grandmother made me a quilt when I was an older child. I recall her asking what color I wanted it to be. Yellow. Still my favorite color. I love that quilt. I can still see it on my twin size bed and I’d sleep under it every night. It was like a piece of sunshine during some dark times.
Eventually it made it’s way packed away in the attic but I decided it was time to pull it out for this post. Although coming apart in places it still gives me the feeling that I always had. The feeling that someone loved me enough to make me something homemade. (and love me as if I were their flesh and blood.) I have the quilt she made for my parents as well.
Then there is the very worn and tattered quilt that my mother’s mother made. The blocks have embroidered birds for each state on it. The white and blue quilt I recall seeing in our home over the years of growing up. The soft material was so nice to touch, still is. My mother gave me this quilt long before passed, it too has been packed away.
Writing this post has taken me down memory lane. It has re-connected me with feelings that re-kindles an appreciation for the homemade things in life. While perhaps not physically daunting while creating but still a hard work to create. From the finger pricks, to the seams to rip out, to the love that was poured into each stitch, and excitement to watch the person open the gift that came straight from the heart and hands.
I can only hope that my creations are at least half as good as the ones the women I’ve mentioned were. Every crooked stitch, every binding uneven, every quilt block not square, just know that I made it with lots of love, just for you.
And when years have passed and the seams are coming undone and it’s time to pack it away, think back to the feeling you had when you first opened it or used it. I promise it will probably fill your chest with warmness and a smile across your face.