Quilt binding and mitered corners

Threadbare
We all have different reasons. Some of us quilt because we enjoy making things for others. Some of us simply enjoy the process. And some of us quilt because it is our therapy. We also have different reasons for starting to quilt. My son was in Washington DC a couple of years ago and while we were visiting him, my husband and I had the most amazing tour of the Pentagon. In one section there is a designated area that holds the quilts that came from all over the United States and were given in memory of those who lost their lives in the terrorist attack of 9/11. Quilting groups and others who wanted to do something, made the most heartfelt, beautiful quilts, and sent them to the capital in Washington. Some extravagant, some simple. Some from accomplished quilters, and some from elementary school children. ALL because they wanted to comfort those who were hurting, while remembering those whose lives were taken from us.
Isn't that what women have always done? We see a need and we fill it. A mourning family gets a meal chain started, an elderly neighbors trash cans get taken out, the sick are cared for, the hungry fed, the lonely are welcomed.
It isn't something we have to think about. Not something we pencil in on our busy calendars. Not something that we teach in school. No, this is taught by doing. We take our children with us when we deliver the meals. They are next to us when we pay for the groceries. They see us as we talk to the lonely widow, and we pray together for those less fortunate than us.
It was very much this instinctive, nurturing, quality, that led my own grandmother to make me a quilt and send it to me in Germany, where my family was stationed at the time. Our family was shattered. My older sister had tragically died at a church picnic where we were enjoying a summer afternoon in the State of South Carolina where I was born.
We moved to Germany shortly after. A change of scenery will do the family good it was said. And so, we did the best we could. The best anyone in mourning can. Back then, 47 years ago, you didn't really talk about such tragedies. You just moved on. So we did. Or so we tried. Mama deep in grief, with an elementary school child, a junior higher, and me, just a toddler at the time, did her best. She kept us in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and clean clothes. And held us as close as we would let her. And daddy lost himself in work. Volunteering for any extra  hours kept him safely away from the fog of grief that surrounded our green house.
I am convinced that prayers were what held us together. Prayers from the church, from our family, and from strangers. Petitions to God on our behalf. He heard them. He always does. We survived. Or maybe, endured. But with the constant knowledge of the absence of Sherrie. A part of us was gone. My sister, innocent and dark haired with bright blue eyes. She would have turned 5 if she had lived a month longer.
We hadn't been in Germany for very long when a package came from The States. It was from Grandma Connie, mamas mother. Grandma Connie wasn't known for kindness, but for practicality. She did not waste words, instead she told you what she was thinking. EXACTLY what she was thinking. She extraordinarily handsome, but just as direct. Some would even call her rude. Unkind. Emotionally distant. So what we found in the package was shocking.
A hand sewn dolly with a perfect wardrobe. From a hand embroidered dress, right down to tiny shoes and socks, and a pair of bloomers. This was for my mama. The most impractical of gifts imaginable. But I noticed a similarity between the dolly, and my sister Sherrie. Both had those striking blue eyes and dark hair, and both had freckles. And there was something for me too. A quilt. The back was a silky table cloth, the front was a background of the softest fabric with light brown birds. And on the background was sewn shapes from the scraps of clothes that were made for my mama and her sisters when they were children. There was a red guitar, a heart, and the silhouette of a girl wearing a dress.
I loved that quilt. As a matter of fact, I loved it until it was threadbare.  And I saved those threadbare pieces, unable to throw them away, in a plastic bag until about a decade ago. I was going through my linens and giving or throwing away what was not being used. I came across that bag of scraps and pulled it from the bag. It smelled, as linens do, slightly of cedarwood, and heavy of dust. Of comfort, and memories, of dreams, and salty tears long ago dried, of laundry soap and body oils, all mingled together into one.
I was instantly taken back to that package. Its contents so mysterious to me at the time. But as an adult, I understood. Grandma Connie was loving us. In a time when there was nothing that could be said that could possibly bring us comfort, she gave us something tangible. Something we would touch and hold on to. Something soft and real. Extravagant and practical.
This is why I was always drawn to quilts. It started when I was that 3 year old girl, living in a grieving house, not understanding the enormous, torturous loss we had endured and lived to tell about, when the practical gift of a quilt was given to me. I will forever be trying to comfort others in the profound way that quilt comforted me.
Grandma has been gone many years now. My own mama getting older. Myself, passing middle age so quickly that I can hardly believe it. But mama still has that Doll. She sits on her dresser, gathering dust. I was able to salvage three pieces of the quilt. I put them into small frames. The heart, the girl, and the guitar, And I still remember what comfort it brought me.
I hope that the quilts I have made for friends and family bring them comfort as that one did for me. And I hope that they too become threadbare from use. I can think of no greater compliment, than a threadbare quilt.
I would love to hear why you quilt. Feel free to send me a message.
The Quilting Gangsta