The day that David put up his mother’s quilt frame in our home I was delighted. He had had large sections of plexiglass cut to fit for a tabletop across the quilt on top and a shelf along the beam below. Both fit beautifully together under the windows that have crystals and stained glass hanging in them and overlook the side yard where flowers and a St. Francis statue continually remind me of humility and blessings.
David and I had been living together only about a week when he assembled the quilt frame. We were celebrating each addition to our new life as we put it together gradually: his couch and arm chair with my armoire and tables; our pictures and mirrors commingled; his mother’s dining room chairs with the table that I had kept from my children’s early years. We figured it out together, listening to each other, redoing, trying another place or way, getting tired, going until we were both satisfied.
The quilt frame was a simpler matter. It fit perfectly in the space, providing a place for our computer and my word processor, a favorite picture of us glowing in early love, my father’s watch, a bright flowering plant, some baskets to hold our household bills and joint banking information, and a small art replica of an old auto repair shop, a symbolic gift from a friend to both of us. We both liked the combination of old and new, a meaningful as well as functional setting.
I knew that David was pleased that I wanted the quilt frame in our home. It is not a fine antique, but rather simply old and rough, constructed by hand for its usefulness. Of course, David’s pleasure at having it here held importance enough for me, but I could not have expected what happened when I first sat to write at this new location. Sitting at my word processor, I looked out of the window at the flowers, St. Francis, the brilliant early sun. I always begin to write that way, not consciously deciding to look, but automatically seeking and finding that connection with whatever is greater than me. On the particular day, the first day of the quilt frame, when I looked back to my writing, my work of the morning, I saw the shadowy picture of Lucy beginning her work in the same place more than a generation before.
I had felt Lucy earlier through David’s love, but this time she was with me differently, as a woman who had gone before. I know that Lucy’s hands must have always been busy as she did the daily chores of raising thirteen children in the farming country of Ohio. Her first child was born in 1922, her last in 1947. She did not have indoor plumbing or central heat or any money for extras. Her eleventh child, David, now my husband, was the first one to be born in a hospital. I imagine that the work never ended with cooking and laundry and tending for so many for forty years. She believed in cleanliness which she and her four daughters maintained in their home while her nine sons did the outside chores and worked with their father. She made the family bread and David remembers pies, too. The second oldest son tells of his mother instructing him how to make the bread when he was about ten years old and another brother was a newborn. And Lucy also did the quiet, patient work of quilting right here at this quilt frame, sometimes having one of the children pass the thread through underneath to tie the knots, to finish a quilt that a family member used on his or her bed.
In pictures that I have seen of Lucy her hands are always folded. I can imagine that those were the only times that they were not busy at some task. I do know that her life was not easy in any way, and David remembers that she prayed regularly to be more humble. My life does not resemble Lucy’s at all, and yet, this woman is with me as I write at her quilt frame. Her work to my work across time, she tells me many things. She smiles with satisfaction at the deep love and peace she knows is here, through her son to me and back around from me to him. She nods approvingly when that love stretches, reaches further, touching other lives as it can do.
And from Lucy to me is another message, a lesson that she and I both know I must master to truly sigh into the peace that I want to trust. Lucy reminds me of seeking a sense of grace and humility in my day. Grace and humility, touchstones of serenity. Giving peaceful notice to bless the bread we buy at the store, the breakfast dishes we clear from the kitchen counter, the white wicker rocking chairs where my husband and I read the morning paper. Remembering to bless whatever the work is that I do and the ticking of the clock and the end of the day that will bring us back home together again. All of these reminders are right here from her to me through Lucy’s quilt frame.
Karen Turner
Ooooooh, I love it!!!!
Kris Icard
Oh Dale, I just got on here today and read EVERY post (in reverse order – what a rebel!) I only knew Grandma Lucy from yearly visits which were slightly overshadowed (lol) by aunts, uncles and cousins galore. I do remember her being gentle and loving, and realize every day that she lives on in my father. To know him is, no doubt, to know her, and I loved reading about the quilt frame and all this piece has meant to you. Beautiful musings!
Dale
Thank you so much, Kris. Yes, the stories of your grandmother have always touched me, and I have imagined also that to know your father is to know her. I am glad this piece had meaning for you, too, and I appreciate you telling me.