I have shed sweat, tears and blood over the making of this, my first ever quilt, for my little boy (due any day now). The project began as a part of the creative/nesting instinct I have come to associate with the latter stages of my pregnancy. I often have urgent, albeit short-lived drives to create, to bring something into existence that is wholly mine and wholly unique; this usually takes the form of writing eg stories and poems as I have scant abilities in the use of visual art. Watching my mother-in-law or my aunt at work is both an inspiring and frustratingly humbling experience, as they possess the natural artists’ uncanny ability to translate the colours, shapes and patterns of the physical, mundane world into something extraordinary and beautiful.
But something compelled me to give quilting a go, an urge that was greatly assisted by the members of Sew Make Believe who offered tips and encouragement. I ordered squares of Beatrix Potter fabric from ebay, chosen because Potter’s characters featured strongly in the childhoods of both my husband and myself; my mother-in-law found the length of soft blue fleece for variety of texture; the blue backing and aqua binding came from a market stall in Leicester (discounted when the vendor realised what I was making with it); and the yellow fabric and wadding was purchased during the SMB outing to the Birmingham Rag Market. My initial enthusiasm for the project aside, I almost immediately began to regret not paying more attention when my grandmother tried to teach me how to quilt all those years ago.
Due to the increasing chill in the night air, my great-grandmother Myrtle’s quilt is currently spread out over our king size bed, and I was able to use it as a template, particularly when it came to the actual quilting of the three layers into the finished product. Her quilt is special for a number of reasons. It is evidence of a technical skill that is in danger of vanishing in this modern world of mass-produced, identical products. Myrtle never owned a sewing machine, manual or electric, and her trademark shell pattern was stitched entirely by hand; the neat, tiny rows are a testament to a lifetime of quilting, begun when she was eight years old and which continued till her death. While my stitches are nowhere near as even, there is something deeply satisfying in knowing that there is not and never will be another quilt like my baby boy’s, that it is truly one of a kind.
Myrtle’s quilt is also unique in that it provides an irreplaceable link to the women of my past – my mother and aunt completed the front panels as a practical exercise in learning sewing technique, my grandmother supervised their efforts, and Myrtle eventually pieced the layers together. This quilt is thus a living story, infused with memories and associations for its creators, particularly now that Myrtle is no longer with us….. Hence, my mother’s threat of grievous bodily harm should I allow anything untoward to happen to it! Even I have become a part of the quilt’s history as a transmitter of the story of its creation. My son’s quilt will likewise have a story, which I will be able to tell him someday and which I can only hope he will appreciate.
I have no way of knowing how many quilts Myrtle made in her lifetime; however given the time in which she lived, it is likely to be a fair few. For her generation as well as her daughter’s, quilting was not simply an enjoyable past-time or an interesting hobby. Quilting was first and foremost a necessary skill in order to cope with the cold Arkansas winters in a time when central heating simply wasn’t an option. Myrtle’s journal records that she gave her very first quilt away to a passing stranger who spent what would have been an otherwise freezing night in her father’s barn. To this day, my grandmother prefers to wrap up in multiple layers, including her stockpile of quilts, rather than waste money by turning on the heating.
Before my grandfather passed away, he rigged a pulley system over the dining room table, so that my grandmother could have permanent easy access to her quilting frame; as far as I am aware, it is still there although given her age, it does not get quite as much use now. When I found out I was pregnant, I asked her to make a quilt for her great-grandchild; it turns out she has used the same pattern that she used to make MY baby quilt. Knowing it is a toss-up as to whether she will see her great-grandson before she too moves on, it is a comfort for me to know that there will at least be this tangible link between them, another piece to the story that will be my son’s American heritage.
The finished product aside, the experience constructing a quilt for my baby has been rich with meaning and reflection, especially at a time when my body is itself immersed in the creation and nurturing of a wholly new spirit; like his quilt, my child will be uniquely wonderful in all his imperfections and will someday have his own story to add to the world.
Is it any wonder then that I can hardly wait to get started on my next quilt?
