Social Events: THE QUILTING BEE

 Social Events

THE QUILTING BEE

Dottie and I entered a low-ceilinged shop in the basement of a farmhouse in Pennsylvania Dutch country. A young lady in a floor length dress and a white dust bonnet was displaying homemade quilts for potential customers, which were plentiful, as this was the height of the tourist season. There appeared to be nearly an infinite variety of designs that could be fashioned from the basic geometric shapes - triangles, rectangles, and pie-shaped circular sections - each one with colors and calico patterns carefully coordinated. We were not really in the market for a quilt, because Dottie makes her own, but she gets inspiration from inspecting and admiring the works of the professionals. We managed to visit at least half a dozen quilt shops before the day was over, and saw every conceivable geometric and color motif, and variations on the motif.

That night when I sank down into the motel bed with a kind of tourist weariness, I closed my eyes and watched quilt patterns on my eyelids - forming, shifting, and rearranging - a kaleidoscope in calico. My mind drifted, and my thoughts went back decades to a day when I first saw a quilt actually being made. At the time I was about four or five years old, and we were still living in my grandmother's boarding house. It was a cool Fall morning when I came in from hours of playing tag, "crack-the-whip", Simon-says, and other games whose names I have forgotten; for there was never a lack of playmates in our neighborhood. I was hoping for a peanut butter sandwich to tide me over until mealtime, but as soon as I entered the house I knew something was awry, because voices that I did not recognize emanated from the dining room, and I could hardly get through the kitchen, because somehow the huge dining room table had been dismantled and moved into the kitchen. The table had been replaced by a frame, over which quilting materials had been stretched. As I remember, eight women, including my mother and grandmother, were seated at the frame - two on each side. I recognized some of them as members of the church that we attended, but there were also a couple of strangers.

My mother motioned for me to come to her; then, laying down her needle and removing her thimble, she pulled me onto her lap so that I could get a better look at their handiwork. I didn't say anything because I was embarrassed with all those faces staring at me; but what I was thinking - and I am just a little reluctant to admit it - was that it was one of the most wonderful things that I had seen. Let me hasten to explain, however, that this admiration was due entirely to my love of colors and anything that had a variety of colors. That is not so hard to understand when you realize that, at that time, the technology that has now made color a ubiquitous element of everyday life did not yet exist. There was no television, movies were black and white, textbooks did not contain colored illustrations, automobiles were nearly all black. I don't recall even having a box of crayons in those pre-school years; probably because my mother didn't trust me with them (and rightly so).

Sometimes in the evenings, after the supper dishes had been done, my father would read the newspaper while my mother would work on her embroidery (pillowcases, as I remember), and I would often interrupt my playing to come and watch the colorful pictures of leaves and blossoms gradually taking shape on the fabric. Whenever she was ready to start on a new skein of embroidery thread, she would have me spread the skein over my index fingers so that it would uncoil from the skein without tangling as she wound it into a ball. My arms would ache from holding them outstretched so long, but I did like to watch the pink, blue, green or yellow thread spinning off my fingers and into the ball. Then, one evening she pulled from her shopping bag a marvelous skein of thread that was different from any that I had ever seen. It was not a single color, but a sequence of colors, each shade gradually blending into the next, with the sequence repeated over and over. This coloring she referred to as "variegated". After that, whenever she would call me to hold a skein of thread for her, I would ask hopefully, "Is it 'vary-gated'?"

It was because of this fascination with colors that I sat there on my mother's lap and just stared at the quilt, while the quilters stared at me. It did not have an elaborate geometric design, but was simply a "granny square" arrangement of scraps of material contributed by the ladies of the church. During those depression years it would have been too much of a luxury to purchase special fabrics for a quilt. The colors had not been coordinated, but the inclusion of a wide variety of colors and cloth patterns made it, at least in that respect, even more attractive.

I would have liked to study it longer, but the doting expressions and the "cute little boy" remarks were more than I could stand, so I slid off my mother's lap and started to pull away; but she held me close by her side while she explained, " We're making this quilt for the Andersons. They are poor and can't afford extra blankets for the Winter."

"Poor". I knew what that meant, or at least I thought I did. Years later I found that, as a child, I had understood poverty only in a relative way. Our family was poor, as were those of each of the women at the quilting bee; but I had no realization of that fact, because our neighbors and our relatives were similarly poor, and I had never observed actual wealth. It was more than a decade later, when I visited in the middle- and upper- class homes of my high school classmates that I found out that our neighborhood was considered one of the poorer sections of the city.

Finally I managed to pull away and ran into the living room to find a picture book to "read". Sitting there on the floor with my book, I could observe the quilting activity without being noticed. And I could eavesdrop on the chatter, except at those times when some information would be transmitted sotto voce in whispers, followed by some exclamation like: "Well, I never!", or, "You don't mean to say!", or, "She really said that?". Most of the talk was terribly boring to me, because it dealt with the private lives, not only of the members of the church and of the neighbors, but also of the fictional characters that peopled the radio soap operas. It was boring to me, but obviously exciting to them, because all of this lore was exchanged with the utmost enthusiasm. Occasionally a remark on the progress of the task would find its way into the conversation, usually followed by a prediction concerning the outcome: "Mrs. Anderson is going to be so happy to get this", or, "They'll really appreciate this".

Apparently one of the younger ladies was something of a novice, because now and then one of the more experienced quilters would come around and lean over her to demonstrate some particular technique. I had not seen the young lady before, and I wondered who she was, but I never found out, because the other women always called her "Honey".

My grandmother was keeping a pot of coffee simmering on the stove, and there was a moist homemade cake on the kitchen table, along with some fruit and other snacks. They did not stop for a meal, but they did take frequent breaks, one or two of them at a time, and always with some kind of apologetic explanation. "I'm gonna have t’ give my eyes a rest before they give out on me." "My back is achin' somethin' fierce. I just gotta stand up for a minute." "If I don't get some coffee, I'm gonna go to sleep settin' right here." But regardless of the excuse, the break always involved a snack, often followed by a complaint about needing to go on a diet.

All in all, I don't recall ever having seen a happier, more contented group. This cheerful mood was due mostly to the good-natured socializing, but I think it was also in part due to the sense of purpose and fulfillment - the satisfaction of knowing that the fruit of their work would fill a real need in providing warmth where it would otherwise be lacking.

Finally, the time came to remove the quilt and dismantle the frame. The group disbanded, each one returning home to prepare an evening meal for the family. But they would return the following week to complete the quilt; and later there would be days when I was left in the care of "Nandy" (my grandfather), while my mother and grandmother went to a quilting bee at some other home. I don't know how many quilts the Women's Auxiliary produced that Fall, but I do know that in the homes of poor families that cold depression-era Winter, there were many beds that were warm, cozy, bright, and colorful because of that happy work.

Return to table of contents for this label:

Table of Contents for Memories Label (augustmarsblog.blogspot.com)