I pull the quilt out of the storage bag. Aged and tattered the fabric still remains soft from years of use. From years of giving warmth.
Mismatched fabrics. Some solid while others patterned cut into diamond shapes. Pieced together to form stars or whatever shapes your mind can imagine. Mismatched yet cohesive.
I wonder about the fabrics. Did my great grandmother save scraps from handmade clothes? Or were they passed along from friends? Did her children, one of whom was my grandfather, wear clothes made with these fabrics? Perhaps not him, but his sisters? Or her own.
The family having little could not have afforded much. In a time when women made their own clothes out of necessity not because it was a hobby or the latest thing to do.
The hand stitching worn in one place. Batting peeking out from under the top layer. Looking over the surface another worn place appears. Not as damaged as the first.
How many years did she collect scraps of fabric to make the quilt? How many hours did her hands stitch each piece together to make this quilt that was used and loved? My dad and his siblings warmed by it during cold winters. Fetched from the closet to keep myself or my sister warm during childhood and teen years.
How many nights did the love poured into each stitch bring warmth to those she loved and those she loved but never knew? Through a quilt passed down to four generations so far.
A quilt from one side of my dad’s family. A rocking chair from his other side. Both heirlooms well loved.
Do you have heirlooms handed down through generations?
Linking up with Peter Pollock for the One Word at a Time: Quilts blog carnival.
