Wilma Kindling stabbed at the new
quilt she was making for her grand-niece Jessica. Wilma was steaming as muttered with each
stitch.
“This is her eighth
child in nine years! What does that jerk Jimmy think…” she grew silent
as she quilted. Jessica was having
babies at a frenetic pace and
Wilma simply had put an end to this.
Wilma was momentarily
stunned as a cunning plot
came to her. The solution was clearly visible. “Jimmy needs to have a vasectomy!” It would not be
difficult to arrange. Not difficult at
all.
Wilma and her
friendly veterinarian Dr. Fred met every Thursday night for some wine,
cheese, and wild sex. He hated Jimmy
as much as she did, as Jimmy always showed up every Thursday night just as the
wine was being polished off.
Dr. Fred could bring
some anesthesia and supplies he uses to neuter pets, only they would give Jimmy the “Ol’ Snip
Snip”* instead.
Wilma would help with
the stitching (she was good at that) and be clapping after the
surgery was complete. She and Dr. Fred
would then drive the drugged Jimmy home and drop him off at his doorstep.
Such a simple plan!
Wilma was eager for Thursday. She
picked up the phone to call Dr. Fred.
*My
farmer father called the human sterilization process "the ol'
snip-snip". Removing animal testicles was simply called castration.
Just so you know. Many thanks to Delores who created the Wednesday Words back in 2010? I don't know if I posted this back in 2015....
Mary is my only sister, with three brothers who made our lives a living hell at times. While I was vulnerable in many ways, Mary gave them a smug smile and blasted them out of their turbulent waters with acerbic honest words. I do not have enough words to relate who she is, how she blesses my life and my admiration for her.
Mary and Bill, running away from home (I love this photo.)
Mary is holding her horsey, I am holding my new bride doll (Christmas 1958).
Mary is stubborn, especially when it comes to her children. Maybe it should be said a "Stubborn and Fierce Tiger". Mary was always devoted to excellent teaching and education, and did not accept anything less. In fact, I always said that when Mary stepped on elementary school grounds, the earth shook. Teachers shivered in fear, stood up straight and tall, and resolved to be better teachers from there on. Mary is a fighter. She is generous, in time and giving. Many of her friends have had surgeries and illnesses, some very serious. Mary is always there, giving food for the family and assistance in any way needed. Driving to a doctor's appointments? Helping around the house? Anything else? Mary gives of herself unfailingly. Mary has a black belt in Taekwondo, along with a red strip to advance her to higher levels. Don't mess with her. She completes projects she starts. This cannot be said of many people, if not most people. I won't volunteer her for a gold medal or sainthood, because I have known her for the better part sixty years. This gives me info and insights that all families share about each other. Recently, my quilting skills plummeted drastically. Migraines, concussion, Bell's Palsy, and other issues have taken away aspects of quilting, including joy. This is incredibly saddening.
So many unfulfilled plans
This fabric was for a project that I had never begun. Mary has an enormous stash (that means, shelves and boxes of fabric), yet was willing to add more to it. God bless her. These beautiful fabrics and plans had hung over my head, piling on guilt upon guilt. Mary is a superb quilter AND I mean superb. Her eye for colors and design is amazing. And she loves patterns that involve sharp points and precision, as well as applique. Any quilter understands what a pain those can be. Mary created a magnificent quilt for me using fabric from her stash and the above fabric, excluding the solid teal. She told me that a box was on its way to me and to call her when it arrived. When the box arrived and I lifted the quilt from it, I cried. Hugging it to my chest, I went from our room to the guest room, laying this incredible quilt over each.
This quilt will be displayed on my "art wall". It was a family photos wall, but they can always go somewhere else. This absolutely has to be seen by more than just my eyes. This gift has me opening up my own stash and perusing what can be made from all that fabric. Already have a baby quilt in the works and I will finish a project started pre-concussion. Sisters are different from each other for sure. What stands true is that we share our lives past and present, and that we love each other as only sisters can. I am blessed to be a part of Mary's life.*
Minerva, Rosemary, Grandma Marie Cardiff, Mom, and Vada
August 1970 at a cousin's wedding
As in every family, each was radically different from their siblings in every way possible. Despite their many differences, each loved the other passionately. All have passed except for Aunt Vada, who recently suffered a stroke.
*I named our youngest daughter after my sister. Like Aunt Mary, my daughter Mary is a tiger. One cowers when she aims a withering look. Don't mess with her either.
I do not
think I can hit #18, but will at least write a few.
#1 and most
important is my relationship with God.
Even when my beliefs were wobbling, God kept His hand over me,
protecting me. Through Jesus Christ, my sins
are forgiven.
#2 is the love
my husband and I share.
#3 …my
children who are now mature adults. John
and I were young parents, in our 20s, and did not know what we were doing. Somehow, these wonderful people did not know
that at the time.
#4 …writing,
which began when I was barely able to read. Pencil on school lined paper or pen on
better paper, writing is more than just tossing some words. Writing is a constant growing experience which
expands the brain and makes me smile.
#5 …art. My aspiration at one time was to be an
artist. Have a minor in art. I watched my gr-daughters quite a bit when
they were young; we did art together, with me teaching. (I had a “Grandma Bag”
which carried a variety of art supplies.)
Maybe I will be more active now that my gr-daughters are pursuing other
arts.
#6 …quilting…which
is also art. Colors make my heart sing.
#7 …reading
and journaling. Books of all types and
genre. My husband loves astronomy and so
do I.
#8 …my
siblings are precious to me. There were
once five of us, three brothers and my sister.
Two brothers died while in their 40s.
#9 …memories
of my parents and long-past relatives.
#10 …the
stories from my family that I recall and write down, now with the speed a
computer provides.
#11 ...seeing a baby...holding a baby...watching parents holding babies....a baby's smile...
Well, now
you have it! There are more but they
would probably seem unimportant when I re-read this.
Susan slowly unfolded
the unfinished quilt in Grandpa’s Antique Store and then gasped. An experienced quilter would have to gasp at
this rare find; no other response would have done it justice.
Fabrics from seven
decades flowed along carefully stitched seams.
Curved elegantly and precisely pointed, this simple quilt top spoke of
its creator.
Tiny even stitches...
Who was she?
Flipping the pieced
fabric revealed tiny even hand-stitches, done patiently and without hesitation. The knots were tight, almost invisible.
“Look!” Susan called
to her husband, who was handling rusted knives and axes. “See this!”
She ran her fingers long the flowing ‘Apple Core’ design.
“Uh, huh…” John
answered, glancing briefly at the cascading fabric.
Carefully planned color flow...See how the points meet and the line travels ...
“See how she considered the colors and the
designs! Pink moves to pink and gray
floral, moves to gray and blue, then to blue and yellow! It is…”
But John had moved on
to bronze casted statues.
Who was she?
How could she ever let this go?
Who would dare to give it away to be sold?
Pink floral, to pink, to black to blue...So much thought was given to this...
‘Forty-dollars! Only forty dollars?’ Susan gathered and
reverently folded the quilt.
Forty-dollars for a
masterpiece.
The masterpiece is being quilted by more capable hands than mine. In a few weeks, I will bring it to my home.
Georgia ran her hand along the quilt, feeling the seams and the stitches. 'Such tiny stitches! How did she do this?' she wondered, amazed at what she felt.
Was it a river? A wave? Flowing clouds? "This is so incredible, Elena!" Georgia exclaimed. "How did you manage such wonderful piecing?"
"The same way you do, the same way," Elena told her blind sister. "The fabric folded in my hands, and I stitched. Blindness is not a hindrance for us. We can hear the fabric speak, and feel the pattern move. Color to color, curve to curve."
Note: This has been edited to include the video below, AND to make sure that Elephant's Child is credited for this PhotoPrompt. This is her quilt, and it is amazing. It makes my hands hurt just to think about the work that she put into this creation! Wed., 5-16-12
See this YouTube site:
Garage sales are like candy stores for a lot of people like me. We ourselves have a garage full of multiple collections of the stages of our life, our grown kids' lives, crushed soda cans, Christmas stuff, and camping gear. I could go on, but that would be just plain embarrassing. Even so, my car has a garage sale GPS, and it downshifts gears, and brakes when passing someone's driveway spread with all the stuff that their own garage has regurgitated.
Bright shiny Saturdays are great days for cruising the streets with swivel heads. Yesterday was a day of discovery, on many levels. My husband John and I pulled up along the curb, and ambled casually toward the day's sale items. I had spotted two quilts hanging on a chair, and that was the bait for me. I greeted the couple hosting the garage sale. They were about my oldest daughter's age. Their garage was clean, and this stuff wasn't typical for their age. None of the things that clutter my daughter's garage were there. No baby stuff. No old blankets or linens. No college bookshelves. No, this stuff wasn't theirs.
I picked up the quilts, and they were old. I mean old. The quilt tops had been hand pieced, by someone with an eye for color, and who had a basket of left-over fabrics from other sewing projects. There were patient appliques and hand embroidery. The quilt stitches were even and firm, as if done by someone who took her time and was thinking about the importance of making something that would last through many many launderings.
"How much?" I asked the ridiculously young man who owned the house.
"How about a dollar each? That okay?"
A dollar each? Seriously? The work in these two quilts, the age they both held--shouldn't they be almost priceless. "Really...why so cheap?"
"Well, it's either a dollar, or let the dog sleep on them."
I choked back a reply, and indicated that I would take them. And then I wanted to know about the quilter, and I guess that is the real story here, not the garage sale itself.
His grandmother died a few years ago, and left a houseful of quilts, plates, glassware, doilies and tablecloths--all the things that a woman of her generation might have accumulated over a lifetime. He said that the best memories he had of her were when she would sit and make something, telling him stories of her life. "She always had something she was working on..." he said, trailing off to answer someone else's question about a Trivia Pursuit game.
People think of quilts and immediately the word "pioneers" come to mind, as if somehow the two are inextricably united, and have sole domain. His grandmother was probably a young woman during WWII, and knew how to dance up a storm with the men in uniform. She probably worn nylon stockings with a seam up the back of the leg. She probably loved the young Frank Sinatra, and wanted to skate like Sonia Henning. Then his grandmother married one of those men in uniform, had babies, and became a part of "The Greatest Generation" without ever even thinking about it. And, at night, once the kids were in bed, she listened to the radio or watched a very small black and white television, while she quilted.
I brought the quilts home, spread them out on my quilted bedspread and looked at them. 'This is quilting from the heart,' I thought. No co-ordinated batik prints, no die-cut pieces, no color wheel adherence. No, just a woman sitting at night by the radio, talking and laughing with her husband and kids, while she patiently and firmly put one piece to another. I like to picture in my mind how she held the pieces at arms' length, the way I do why I put pieces together, and think about how they will look in the scheme of the quilt.
So the quilts are in my house now, joining other quilts I own, made, or have rescued from being in a dog's bed. There is no great single uniting thought here, no deep summarizing 'a-ha' moment, just a bunch of images stitched together like a movie of someone's life.
