The Old, Worn Quilt

     It was chilly the other afternoon when I took a break to read so I pulled the old quilt off the back of the futon for a bit of warmth. It's very old, thin, and worn, hardly thicker than a flannel sheet, but doubled over it works fine to take the chill off inactivity in a cool room. For an instant, I envied those ubiquitous thick, fluffy throws available everywhere – often large boxes of them on sale for a ridiculously low price. Like so many things that were once hand-made and special, they've been replaced by mass-produced yet, I must confess, often pretty, practical and machine-washable items. They're also disposable with little regret when they wear out.

   
    That brief mental detour reminded me of how much family history and how many stories lie

From storage to comfort

behind this well-worn quilt. I was momentarily flooded with regret that I know so few of its details. Though some might have tossed it years ago, our family knew there was something special about it beyond its frayed-in-spots and a stain-here-and-there appearance. Something that made us keep it. Every family has things like that. Items of sentimental value that keep you from getting rid of them when they're no longer used or useful. Is it out of guilt? Or do we think someone, somehow will come up with all the details we wish we had? That's not going to happen. Everyone who could tell us the quilt's story is gone now. We have only vague memories of brief conversations about it – mere snippets of detail to piece together the history stitched into it.

     For years, I'd kept it tucked it away, in part because of its somewhat ratty condition. I was also conflicted about what I “should” do with it. It deserved respect, but wasn't of a quality to hang to display so into the closet it went until I figured out what to do. When I came across it recently I decided it would be useful for reading breaks or a lap-warmer while working at the computer. Time to use it. What good is it forgotten in storage?

                                                                What I Believe I Remember

My father (standing), his mother and brother

      That my father helped make this quilt when he was a boy. Was it made with some of his baby or childhood clothes? Or those of his mother? His brother's too? Was it his mother he helped – or his grandmother? His mother died when he was just five, so it may have been his grandmother who made it, maybe with some of his mother's clothes.

      I remember his grandparents as rather stern, not cuddly (but not unkind), people of Scandinavian descent. We would travel the hour to their small town on the High Plains to visit them every once in a while. It was boring for kids. They didn't have toys or fun things for kids to do while the adults talked. I don't remember anything about the inside of the house, just wandering about outside. It was the edge of town, rocky terrain. I don't remember a lawn to play on. We have photos of my Dad and his older brother on a pony there, but don't remember seeing a barn or fences when we visited.

     Maybe his Aunt Alice worked on the quilt too. She was a memorable character and would have been around in his youth, someone a kid would have enjoyed. She remained a part of his life until she died and left us with many Aunt Alice stories that still bring smiles and laughter today.

     Maybe this isn't an actual quilt, though it has traditional quilt designs and was hand-stitched. Maybe it was intended as a light bedspread. It would have easily covered a double bed (now called a “full”), the largest anyone would have had back then. It doesn't look like it ever had a layer of batting. In fact, if you look closely, it appears some of the red basket parts are larger than others, so were covered along the edges with white to make them look more uniform. It's intriguing to think about what might have happened, or if more than one person worked on it over time. Did someone forget to tuck the applique edges, or was  there was a mix-up in instructions? Had Dad's mother started it, then he and his grandmother finished it? We'll never know.

     How would it have been laundered? Likely by hand. Perhaps they had a wringer washer to squeeze water out. Or, maybe two people twisted it. It would surely have hung on a clothesline outdoors, since there wouldn't have been a clothes dryer. Given the terrain and climate, dust would likely have blown on it. How discouraging that must have been after working so hard.

     All of this would have happened in the late 1920s or early '30s. The quilt would eventually move

Frayed evidence of a long, useful li

with family to four other states and four other countries. All four of us kids used it, paying scant attention to its history. When the quilt was about 40 years old, a family cat found it in a box with no lid and decided it was the perfect place to give birth to her kittens. There's an ink stain that suggests someone used it while doing homework.

     What memories did the quilt bring for our father? How I wished I'd listened the few times he mentioned helping to make it. His grandmother and aunt meant a lot to him. He made sure they were cared for in their final years. I remember his brother sobbing uncontrollably when their grandmother died. Many stories lay behind those tears, ones we'll never hear.

     All these thoughts give more heft and warmth to the very lived-in quilt and I find myself reaching for it frequently. Some would say such an heirloom should be carefully cleaned and stored. I've also read that you could cut out pieces of such heirlooms and frame them. For now, I'll continue to use it and appreciate its worn softness and the people and times behind it.

    

Phones as Sheilds

    

Early winter morning at the train station in a seedy part of a city is depressing and lonely. A handful of people occupy a fraction of the plastic seats when I arrive. Fluorescent lights buzz, bouncing light off the worn linoleum floor. No one makes eye contact though everyone who enters is furtively sized up in quick glances. Then, eyes avert; heads bend to phones, thumbs swiping them rhythmically.

A weatherman on the t.v. in the corner looks slightly harried as he reports closed schools and roads, or accidents slowing traffic because of last night's snowfall. Scenes sent from viewers' phones of freshly-formed snowmen waving stick arms, or foot-deep snow mounding patio railings as the sun rises, are interspersed with commercials. The yay-no-school-today scenes are mute contrasts to those of downed trees, flashing patrol lights and reports of power outages.

One guy a few seats over looks like he must have spent the night here, maybe does so frequently. A waft of sour odor confirms the hunch as he hitches up his dirty backpack and moves outside for a smoke, then disappears.

This is going to be a long trip, I thought as I sought my own solitude to write or read without the distraction of the t.v., or conversations between new arrivals and the ticket agent. Since I don't have a smart phone, iridescent green earplugs signal my desire to be left alone. Would earbuds have been a more courteous gesture?

Earlier reports by the harried reporter prompted my host and me to head out early, fearing bad roads and traffic delays. We encountered neither, in fact much less traffic than usual, so had made it to the station in record time – a full hour before scheduled departure.

But the train arrived almost two hours later than scheduled. By then, the almost-full station waiting room was noisy with conversations among people dropping family or friends off, giving awkward last-minute instructions to have a safe trip, call when you get there. Most of those not in conversation were still staring at their phones or pacing outside, impatient for the train's arrival. The t.v. host with lists of closures had been replaced by cooking shows.

It was, as anticipated, a long trip with frequent delays to let other trains pass. Once we rolled out of the station and the conductors had everyone accounted for, I left the gloomy passenger car for the brightness of the observation car – always my favorite perch to watch the countryside glide by. If you pay attention, you'll likely see bald eagles, deer, even otters along the many riverways woven through Amtrak's Cascade route. Conversations seem more friendly in the observation car, the mood more lively. Is it because of the brighter, natural light?

I sat near a young man whose dress and demeanor suggested he could have flown, if he'd wanted to. Soon, we were in conversation and my suspicion was confirmed. He was headed all the way to southern California, over 24 hours of travel (if the train is on time – very unlikely). He'd been visiting a friend in Seattle. When planning the trip, he realized he'd always flown and had never seen the country in between, so booked the train instead. So far, he was glad he'd chosen the slower option. I would wonder about it early the next morning, when his train should be arriving at his home station.

Our conversation wandered through backgrounds, trips, professions. I learned about his favorite aunt who had purchased a house in Haight-Ashbury in the '60's. When she sold it (surely at a tidy profit in this historic district), she bought a triplex in downtown San Francisco, then rented that out and moved to a nice cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains - her ideal combination of solitude and paradise. Such an interesting life. Wise and timely investments by this school teacher insured an enjoyable retirement. The young man had traveled quite a bit – still single and flexible, with friends in various parts of the world to visit. He'd recently been to the wedding of a British friend in Poland. Turned out we'd probably been in the same town in Nicaragua at the same time a decade ago. Our conversation moved on to South America and he wondered aloud about the cost of living in Ecuador. Well, it happened that a woman across the aisle had lived there, working as a teacher just a few years ago, so she joined the conversation. The father of a young family next to us was reading to his daughter in Spanish – more people to draw into the conversation. The teacher who'd lived in Ecuador noticed the book I was reading, Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance, and said her book club had just finished it, so we compared our impressions. When I mentioned “Pawpaw,” Vance's grandfather, it drew the woman next to her into the conversation since she was from Louisiana and said that's what grandfathers are called there too. She and the teacher had been stranded at the Seattle airport by the snow storm and had finally decided the train was their best bet to get home: one to Portland, the other to Vancouver, Washington. Strangers less than 24 hours ago, flying in from different parts of the country and otherwise unlikely friends, they helped each other through a long, frustrating night and found moments of humor in it.

Phones appeared occasionally, but only to check a route, look up an author, or confirm a piece of information, never as a signal to say, “leave me be.” It was refreshing and heart-warming to realize all these strangers had quite a lot in common, something we'd never have discovered had we used phones, books or earplugs to discourage conversation.

Yes, it was a long trip. But a surprisingly enjoyable one that will overcome the initial dread of phone-obsessed strangers the next time I'm in a train station early of a dark, cold winter morning.

Winter Reading and Art

     I have admired 1859 magazine and the amazing people found within its pages since it first hit the newsstands. One year ago, I vowed I would add to their pages some of the interesting people and happenings in our community. It was a tumultuous year that took me away from writing much more than I'd have liked, but I do finally have an article in the January issue - exactly one year later. You can find it at the library or local newsstands, or read it on their website.

Photo by Joan Martelli

     My piece in this issue is on Bud Thomas, local horseshoe sculptor whom I wrote about in this blog in early 2016.  The magazine hired local professional photographer  Karl Maasdam to shoot photos to accompany the piece.
     My friend, neighbor and amateur photographer, Joan Martelli also took some cool shots of Bud's work on a perfect fall Saturday in a private yard that I really like. She is more into landscape photography and has a fetching display of some of her work at The Beanery by Market of Choice in Corvallis at the moment. She'll have more exhibits elsewhere later in the spring.

Photo by Joan Martelli

I also have two articles in the winter issue of Take Root Magazine. One is on Thompson's Mill Heritage Park, which I wrote a bit about here in the fall. The Take Root piece is called Of Grit and Grist. It's an amazing place that I highly recommend you  visit. The other article is on what farmers do in winter. Much more than you might think!  Look for copies of this magazine on newsstands and libraries throughout Oregon and Washington, just like 1859 magazine. Or, find pieces on the website. If you like the magazine, please consider subscribing or purchasing copies (four published per year - one each season). That's how writers and publishers survive! There are more articles in the works on other subjects and for other publications, so stay tuned...