REMNANTS OF MEMORIES

What’s that in the corner? Dusty and scarred, the chest fit right in with the rest of this horrible, messy, and disgusting job. As I looked around the dingy basement and still saw piles and piles of yellowed papers, rusted tools, plastic bins, never opened bargain store knickknacks, broken pottery, and rodent droppings, this was a welcome distraction. My sister Connie and I had moved my Mom out of this old house as it was a physical challenge for her to remain. Hoarding tendencies and years of dog hair buildup were now causing her respiratory health issues, and the recent fall down the back steps had sealed the deal. Anger at the disgusting mess and a healthy dose of concern that Mom didn’t see the problem now forced me to confront the project’s finale, the basement. Stacked to the rafters with worthless items that would never sell, I was slowly making a dent in the space.

A resentful Mom that continually reminded Connie and me that we had “made her move” was wearing my usual good humor, quite frankly, thin. Mom believed we were forcing her to make unnecessary decisions, no matter how much Connie and I tried to help her understand that it was for the best. In her mind, we were trying to get rid of her. Isn’t that what you did with people who had outlived their usefulness? It was absurd. She knew us better than that.

Relishing the break from the back-breaking work, I opened the lid on the small trunk to find a neatly folded quilt. The quilt appeared out of place in this room. It looked fragile. While faded, you could still see the square and triangle once-popular design. Pale greens, mild mustard, greyed pinks, soft reds, and muted blues barely held together. Some of the material was threadbare, and batting poked through in those places. When I turned it over to look at the backside, I saw pale solid grey material pulling away from the binding in some areas while some places were still holding fast. Parts of it had yellowed over time.

I carefully studied the old coverlet and remembered where I had seen it. It was always at the end of Grandma’s bed. Based on the chest I found it in, Mom must have put it away when Grandma passed away 15 years ago, and as I scanned the rest of the filthy, cluttered basement, that said “she treasured this” to me. Looking closely, I could see this was hand quilted. Since Grandma had told me this quilt came from Great-Grandma, it made sense. A woman from my Great Grandma’s generation would generally construct a quilt this way because only middle or upper-class families could afford such a luxury as a sewing machine. Going back several generations, my family was relatively poor and had little in the way of extras. This quilt was sewn together carefully with needle and thread; the stitches were tiny and precise. She had a steady hand.

           As I looked at this old quilt, I wondered if I could do something to repair it. Wouldn’t it be nice for Mom to have this to comfort her as she went through the drastic transition from living independently and making her own decisions to living in a home where strangers would make decisions for her? If I couldn’t repair it, maybe I could do something with it that she could still recognize as the same quilt. I gently folded the quilt, put it back in the chest, carefully picked my way through the mess, and moved it to my car. As I drove home that day, my creative juices flowed as I contemplated what I could create with this old quilt.

           As a small girl, I loved taking a thread and needle, a couple of pieces of material, and a doll as my model to make something new. Seeing that I enjoyed this, Mom sent me up the street to a neighbor’s house to learn how to sew. Her name was Mrs. Mac. We shortened her last name, and she didn’t seem to mind. I couldn’t recall her full last name, but I remember how I enjoyed my sewing lessons on those afternoons. I learned a lot. That was the beginning of a passion for me. Since then, I have made quilts, clothing for my children and the girl’s dolls, and placemats. It turned out to be a relaxing hobby for me.

           The following morning I got the kids off to school and cleaned up the breakfast mess. I poured myself a steamy cup of coffee, opened the dusty chest, and pulled the quilt out. It smelled musty, but washing it, at this point, was out of the question. It would fall apart. I began assessing how much usable material was left. With all the threadbare squares and triangles, and the batting coming out all over the place, I realized I could never put this back together—time to consider an alternative. With scissors, I cut around those squares and triangles that still had some lifespan left to see how large the remaining piece was. It broke my heart to cut into this quilt, but I had no choice. I would create something new from this antique—a unique treasure.

           The next day I went to see Mom in her new place. I needed to understand better what I could do with the quilt to work it into her new home.

           “Hey, Mom, how is it going? How are you enjoying your new digs?” I said in a cheery voice

           “Since you and Connie have abandoned me here, not great. It’s not my house!” Mom’s voice was unhappy, bordering on belligerent, and I could see she was still struggling to adjust to her new circumstances. I pushed forward.

           “Mom, have you met any new friends here? Handsome men?” I opted to see if I could tease her out of the mood. Her face told me she wasn’t up for it.

           Mom didn’t bother looking at me and made no reply. So, pouting was going to be her answer. I did most of the talking on that visit. I told Mom about the kids’ school functions and my husband’s job issues and finally asked her if she needed anything. I purposely avoided what I had been doing in the basement. It wouldn’t help her to know I was tossing out most of what she had stored there.

           Suddenly, she said, “Having some things moved in with me would be nice.” I looked around and realized we could move a few things in to make it more like home. I decided to talk to Connie and see what would be some good choices to comply with the request while still avoiding her hoarding tendencies.

           “Sure, Mom, Connie, and I will see what we can bring over.”

           I left that day more determined than ever to do something with that quilt. I realized Mom needed some continuity from her old life to this strange new one.

           Over the next few days, I came up with several ideas and dismissed them for one reason or another. Not enough material, not the right size; who needs another pillow? Finally, I settled on something I thought would be perfect and began plans for the project.

           Back in the basement, I continued the clean-up project and came across an old window frame leaning against the wall on one side of the room. After I cleaned the dust off of it, I closely studied it. It was white and had some nicks but was in good overall condition. I was sure it was leftover from the upstairs bathroom renovation, but it had some pretty good wood on it, and I liked the shape of it. It was square, with two crossbeams holding four panes of glass still intact. I carefully removed the panes, tossing them into the garbage bin. Keeping it at arm’s length, I decided it had character, and using this in the project would give it some charm.

           Once home, I placed the frame over the salvageable quilt in several ways, finally finding a design that I liked and would fit in the frame. Laying the wooden square on the back of the quilt, I traced around the outside, set it aside, and cut out the required quilt part. I sewed around the outside of the quilt piece to keep it from fraying, and then carefully, with the daintiest nails I could find, tacked it to the back of the frame with the beautiful quilt piece facing out. I added a picture hanger to the back and knew it was perfect when I saw the way it looked finished. With cross beams of the window frame creating four squares, it looked just like a quilt panel. I was in love with it!

           That weekend, I called Connie, met her at the house, and together we picked a few things out of the old house and the basement that would help Mom feel more at home. We made a plan and decided to meet together the next afternoon to fix up Mom’s place.

           Mom watched as we placed a few tables and hung pictures we knew she liked on the walls; a favorite rocking chair sat in the corner. Connie set some of her favorite knickknacks on empty shelves, it started looking like a home, and Mom showed some interest in her new home for the first time. It was nice to see her participating, but I still had one more thing to add.

           “Mom, I think I have something perfect for this wall.”

           I handed her a large wrapped package, and she looked excited as she opened it. I did not expect her response when she saw what was inside. She ripped the plain brown wrapping paper away and saw the well-worn window frame around the old quilt piece. I saw recognition in her eyes. Overcome with emotion, tears spilled from her eyes, and she told us the quilt’s story. As I had suspected, she had put it in that chest to protect it from any more wear. Her grandmother made the quilt and gave it to my Grandma as a wedding gift. It was a real treasure and comfort for her to have it again, reminding her of her Mom.

           “You want me to hang it on this wall, Mom?”

           Still overcome with emotion, Mom smiled and just nodded her head. I hung the framed quilt on the wall, and then the stories about Grandma started pouring out of Mom. Connie and I spent the rest of the afternoon listening to stories we had never heard before. To this day, that afternoon is a fond memory.

           When I arrived the next day and let myself into her room, I heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice swapping stories about the old days with Mom. As I peeked around the corner from the hall, they sat under the picture quilt, drinking coffee and talking about their lives when they were little. Unseen, I quietly backed out of the room, smiling as I returned to my car. Mom was going to be okay.

 I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, feeling misty and thinking that one day when I died, I hoped my children would still treasure the quilt. Maybe one of them will hang it in their home, and together sit near it and share childhood memories. I hoped they would be mostly good ones. With that thought, I started my car and drove home.