Last week, when Michael’s grandpa and his wife, Julia, came for a visit, she presented Rhys with a quilt. It was hand-pieced, just for her. Julia makes these for her children, step-children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; no two are alike, and usually she waits until they have graduated high school or are getting married to make them….but she’s not sure for how much longer she’ll be able, and so she decided to make Rhys’ now. It’s big enough for a queen-sized bed; and as quilts go, it’s gorgeous.
Seeing that quilt, and seeing Rhys cuddle up in it (“I seepy!” she says) reminded me of my own quilt, made by my great-grandma when I was a year old. It’s much smaller, but once I got it out of it’s box, it took me back twenty years. I used to keep it on the end of my little twin bed with the wicker headboard, and on cold nights or for a nap, I’d pull it up over me. I’d lay on it, tracing the meandering lines of stitches, memorizing the patterned fabrics. I remember liking best the squares with dogs on it and another with the little flowers on a blue background. Whenever I’d flip over a corner and see “L. 1981” stitched into the back, I’d think of my great-grandma in Louisville, Nebraska, wondering what she was doing right then.