May I join?
I just cleaned out our cute little storage shed, and while going through a few college boxes, I found a quilt that my Grandmother made for me when I was 6. It utterly turned my heart over. She was this amazing lady who would knit a pair of mittens while at the theater watching a movie - every Christmas one of the banks in her lifelong small Minnesota town put up "Joyce's Mitten Tree", where every single child in town was remembered. They could go through the season to try to find their pair on the tree, and on Christmas eve, they could go pick their mittens off of it. Knit? Yes, she could knit... but OH the quilts she made! There was something about them that made them instantly security blankets. Opening that box and seeing the familiar corner of my beloved little quilt brought her back for a moment with her wonderful hooting laugh, her deft hands kneading bread dough seemingly on their own, and her careful instructions about how to make a marzipan christmas city without once touching the candy.
I grew up in the Rockies - a long way from her. No little girl loved horses, the mountains or purple more than I did, but as one of many of her Grandchildren, it was an assumption of mine that I was just one of the gang, a funny blonde tomboy who loved to fish with her on our rare visits to her lake house in Northern Minnesota... a description that, with a hair color and gender description edit, would fit each my cousins. Visits to her home, Sugar Hill, was truly a moveable feast defined by perpetual activity and lucky membership in a clan of admirable relatives... with Joyce at the helm, and nobody in my recollection demanding to stand out. We were each an oatmeal bowl, or a part of raspberry picking, or one of a group contributing unmeasured walleye to the basket for dinner. Each given equal appreciation. It was wonderful
As I pulled the warn little quilt out and opened it, a warm realization began to slowly seep in that made me smile.
The little quilt was purple... 6 purple old fashioned bandanas to be exact. Somehow, even while happily lost in that gaggle of cousins, she saw me and was able to tell me that she knew me through her own warm, practical art. Bandanas... she understood the western character that defines me even now - and purple. My name is hand appliqued on the front with the feminine blue that makes up the back of the quilt.
What a language.
Truly, thumbing that quilt would have made me miss her, but for a moment she was right there with me again, hooting about some story about a neighbor or duck feather pillows, or the news at the bait shop where she had just gotten a deal on minnows.
That is the kind of gift I would love to learn how to make for those I love ... those whom I would like to show somehow that I see them, and I get them.
So... do you mind if I join the BYC quilting club and tag along to pick your collective talent?