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Illustration by Alex Siklos
I’m not a fan of quilts. I appreciate that quilting can be as much about camaraderie and the reasons for making a particular quilt as the product itself, but I’m often indifferent to the end result. Every once in a while, an artistic quilt will appeal to me but it’s typically astronomically expensive – which I take as proof of my good taste.
That said, it might be surprising that I have not one but two quilts in my home. Not full-size, puffy quilts, mind you. Little guys. Lap blankets, I believe they’re called.
One came from my mother’s house. In her later years as a widow, she met weekly with some neighbourhood women in something that resembled a book club. Really, it was an excuse to get together and drink coffee. One of the ladies, Emily, was a handcrafter and she made my mother a small quilt. Muted strips of green and mauve, a few tiny floral patterns on a dark background, a stylized star in the centre – a contemporary take on a traditional pattern, to my eye.
This quilt sat folded on a stool in Mom’s living room for years. It went with her when she relocated to a one-bedroom suite at an assisted living facility, and then in another downsizing a few years later, to a single bedroom. The room only had two dressers, a chair, some photos, and this quilt made the cut. I’d come for visits, but I never saw my mother use it in all those years.
“Mom,” I teased during a visit. “This quilt. Have you ever used it?”
She thought for a while. “No, probably not. I don’t like how it looks.”
“Then why do you keep it?”
“Because Emily gave it to me.”
“Oh, I hadn’t realized you were that close to Emily. I thought she was more of an acquaintance.”
“She was. We didn’t have much in common.”
I pondered this for a moment. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying you don’t care for either the quilt or its maker?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s not that I dislike them, though.”
“Then why have you kept the quilt this long rather than giving it to somebody who would take pleasure in it?”
“Because it’s from Emily.”
I puzzled for several days before I realized that the quilt’s importance lay not in its appearance, nor in its maker, but in what it symbolized to my mother about neighbourliness, community and caring for one another.
I inherited that quilt more than a decade ago. It has remained folded on a shelf ever since. My plan is to wait until one of my daughters is sufficiently settled with enough space that I can unload it on her. I’ll tell her this story and end by saying, “But you can do whatever you want with it. Don’t feel obligated to keep it. I’m fine if you give it away. It’s just fabric, after all.”
At least, that’s what I try to convince myself. The fact that I want my sentimental daughter to have the right of first refusal suggests I’m more invested than I care to admit.
The other quilt came from my mother’s neighbour in the nursing home, a centenarian. Her hearing was shot, but otherwise, she got along quite well. She and her daughter jointly made a lap blanket and donated it to the facility’s Christmas bazaar.
While visiting Mom, my sister bought a $2 raffle ticket and won the quilt. She was thrilled. “I never win anything,” she gloated to Mom. “Plus, it’s gorgeous and beautifully crafted.”
On her way home, my sister stopped in to tell me about the visit and showed me what she won at the bazaar. She unfolded the quilt on my couch. “The only thing is that I don’t know where I’m going to put it. There’s all these lovely tans and burgundies, but everything I own is green and blue. Clash will be an understatement.”
Our eyes met. My couch was tan, solid with no pattern. I relied on throw cushions to liven up the monotone fabric – burgundy cushions, that is. If I were to commission some fabric art to match my furniture, it couldn’t possibly be any more appropriate than this quilt.
“No way,” my sister roared. I, after all, am a mere sibling, and an older sibling at that. Some childhood rivalries never resolve. “You’re – not – having it.”
We both, however, could hear the quilt declaring that my living room was to be its new home. It had made up its mind.
“Okay,” my sister relented. “I’ll lend it to you.” She folded it so that the prettiest edges were visible and draped it over the back of the couch. “But I get it back any time I ask for it.”
“Deal,” I said and shook her hand.
The years have passed and still the quilt rests there. I’m reasonably fond of it and have even used it on a few occasions.
Quilts are superb repositories for stories. So often it is the narratives associated with what we see and do that most bless our lives and transform the ordinary into something magical.
Bob Cowin lives in Port Moody, B.C.