Month: February 2020

I crawled under the quilt that was stretched tight across the frame. Chair legs scraped across the floor as ladies scooted up close to the edges of the quilt. From my view, I saw the quilt backing and I saw lots of legs – quilting frame legs, chair legs, and legs of lots of ladies. It didn’t take long to discover why this event was called a Quilting Bee. The ladies sounded like a hive of bees as they buzzed about people in the community and their families. 

Looking up at the underside of the quilt, I saw needles from all directions poking through the sandwich of layers. The threaded needles left trails of stitches. I imagined roads running across the countryside intersecting one another until they all met at the same destination.

The ladies in the Ola community gathered from time to time at the church annex to quilt. They all worked together to complete the quilt, talk with one another, and of course, to eat. These ladies shared their food, fellowship, talents, and their spirit of community.

Though I only went on one or two occasions with my grandmother, it is something I have remembered and pondered through the years. From the bottom of the quilt, it looked quite different from the top. The bottom was plain fabric. The top created designs and often had lots of bright colors mixed in with faded patches of discarded clothing, flour sacks or feed sacks. It wasn’t until every stitch was in place that the finished work was held up for all to see. Then it all made sense. The top of the quilt was a beautiful work of art but the underside, with every indentation of the stitches, created its own beauty by revealing the detail of the quilted design.

I’ve come to learn that our lives are like quilts and God is the Master Designer of this masterpiece.  There is more to us that what is seen on the outside. People come along in our lives and help us add a few stitches.  Sometimes those stitches have to be ripped and done again.  Some stitches are a little crooked, some longer than others. All of those pieces, new and worn, add character to our lives just as every stitch. God has a plan for each circumstance in our lives.  It isn’t until God is finished with us that we see the completed work.  But we have to remember to turn the quilt over.  The visible part may be colorful and pretty, but the back side, or the inside, truly reveals all the work and character that has gone into God’s masterpiece.

My mother could walk into a fabric store and gather material for her quilts. She looked at the various colors, textures and designs and somehow pictured the finished quilt in her mind. She had a gift for seeing how colors worked together. My mother was also a perfectionist, making sure each seam was flawless and pressed flat. When she was done, it was a work of art!

I do not have the perfection that my mother had in designing patterns, colors and having every minute detail in order. A good friend of mine says those flaws “add character” and make each quilt unique. 

So, don’t be discouraged if you have a few dropped stitches in your life or if every “seam” and corner don’t match up perfectly. Those flaws add character and make you into a unique masterpiece created by the Master Designer.

Daddy and I stopped to have lunch while on one of our adventures. We chatted as we sat and shared a relaxing lunch. As usual, he told stories. That particular day, he talked about his mother and commented that I reminded him of her. I guess that’s why he sometimes said, “Yes, Mama,” when I gave him instructions. In fact, his last Mother’s Day with me, he gave me a Mother’s Day card and thanked me for being his “mama.”

As we visited, he paused and said thoughtfully, “You know, we are both orphans. Neither of us has our Mama anymore.” I had not thought of it that way before but it was true.  

Even though many years had passed since our moms had gone, a wave of loneliness washed over us and took our breath away for a moment. There is a void that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else. It’s as if there is an empty chair at the table. I don’t imagine there will ever be a time when I don’t have the fleeting thought, “I’ll go ask Mama.” Now there are days when the thought comes or a question is posed and I say to myself, “I have to remember to go tell Daddy,” or “I’ll go ask Daddy. He’ll know the answer.”

There is no certain age of orphans. They may be small children or even grown adults who find themselves without parents. We may find ourselves wishing for one more chance to talk with them over a cup of hot tea. We may like to take one more hike into the mountains. If we had the opportunity would we listen to their stories more intently, hanging on every word? Would we let them know we appreciated the sacrifices they made for us? Would we give another hug? We cannot bring back time, but we can make the most of the time we have.

Hug an orphan! They might just be missing someone today.

The metal monster on my grandmother’s back porch moaned and groaned as it agitated and spit soapy water from its gaping mouth. Its twisted tongue sloshed back and forth squeaking with every turn, splattering soapy saliva down the sides of the machine and onto the floor. Swish, swish, spit, sputter, squeak. An attached appendage was ready to grab anything that got in its way and run it through the wringers – literally.

It was wash day! That was an all-day event. The old wringer washer was ready for the day’s job. A wash tub full of fresh rinse water was bumped up next to the washer. Baskets of laundry were appropriately separated – whites, darks and linens. Washing powder was fed into the round belly of the beast already partially filled with water. Once it started twisting it didn’t take long for it to be a tub of bubbles. A load of laundry was added and soon the water was dingy looking.

The hungry rollers started turning, looking for something to devour. They grabbed a garment, squeezed it, and wrung out the soapy water. It didn’t take long to become experienced at flipping the sides of a shirt over the buttons as it went through the rollers. It didn’t take long to remember to zip pants before sending it through the machine either. When the clothing came out the other side of the wringers, it dropped in the washtub of clean water. The clean clothes were sloshed around by hand in the rinse water and soon the clothing was sent through the wringers again, flattened and dropped into a clothes basket.

With a basket of clean laundry and a bag of clothes pins, it was time to head to the drier. Yep – the clothesline. Some days, the clothes hung on the line blowing in the breeze. On hot humid days, the clothes hung lifeless. On cold wintery icy days, clothes hung frozen, as stiff as Frankenstein’s legs.

(If you have trouble getting your whites whiter, just hang them on the clothesline on one of those icy days!  Such a day acts as a natural bleach. The best night’s sleep comes on a breezy wash day. Have you ever slept on freshly air-dried sheets?)

Warning: DO NOT try to wash your arm! One day my sister tried out the wringer washer. She reached up to the rollers and the monster grabbed her arm and sucked it between the rollers. Her skin on that arm still sags a bit even today.

The school bus my dad rode to school had four legs, a saddle and a big sister holding the reins. When I started to school, I rode a bus with my brothers and sisters with Mr. Brown at the wheel. That was an adventure in itself. When we got on the bus, we increased the student population considerably. Mr. Brown soon learned that the drop off point at the end of our road was his best stop of the day. He was glad to get rid of the preacher’s kids.

My oldest brother and his pals were notorious for practical jokes, many on the verge of meanness. Mr. Brown didn’t much care for those boys who were always stirring up trouble. For some reason Mr. Brown didn’t like kids shooting spit wads at him or throwing things. He would holler and call out threats to “whoever” was causing trouble. 

There was one occasion (probably the only one) when the boys were actually innocent. On that particular day, the whole bus load of kids was in an uproar. I think all of them were laughing and pointing. There was an inch worm right on the brim of Mr. Brown’s hat. That little worm worked its way round and round the hat. Mr. Brown stopped the bus, turned around and yelled. His face turned blood red. He was so mad I knew he would keel over with a heart attack at any moment. He demanded to know why everyone was laughing. No one dared tell him it was only just an inch worm.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Brown was glad when the preacher moved.