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Although I grew up in a small city outside of Los Angeles, my entire childhood was filled with everything country and mostly Southern in nature. You see, both of my parents were born in the Ozarks and raised during the Great Depression. They, like so many other young couples of that era, came to California looking for the gold at the end of the rainbow, or at least, a fair paying job. They settled in a post war cookie cutter neighborhood and lived a simple life.

All throughout my young years, I loathed everything about their simpleness. I despised that I had accidentally "inherited" their southern accents and slang words. I was ridiculed relentlessly for the twang in my spoken words. I tried with all my might to dis-own my heritage.

Of course, as time passed and I became an adult with children of my own, I began to see their simpleness as a blessing that was graciously passed on to me. A simple blessing that I am, hopefully, passing on to my own children.

Because of my mom's basic upbringing, she was taught to keep herself busy. Along with her daily doings she made time to can homemade jams and jellies, tend a lovely garden, sew many of my clothes (and my Barbie's clothes) and quilt.

Quilting, I suppose, was her way of relaxing. But...at the same time, she was creating something with a practical use. Of course, when she was a girl, quilting was necessary, as there was no extra money to purchase store bought bedding. By the time I was born, my mom could easily have gone to the local J.C. Penney's and purchased bedding, but she chose instead to invest her time and heart and talent into her craft.

My mom hand-quilted using her mom's old wooden hoops. They looked very much like gigantic embroidery hoops. I remember so clearly the sound of the stitches, and the click of the needle on her metal thimble. Ohhh...and every once in a while, she would let out a quiet naughty word. We all knew what that meant...it meant that mom pricked herself with the needle! I loved seeing the little blood stains on a freshly made quilt. It somehow stood for the heart that she put into it.

I have most of the quilts here in my home. Some are so very tattered that I keep them stored away and some are still in use. These fabrics that are sewn together make a beautiful yet practical hodge podge of memories. I can still pick out blocks of fabric that came from my "Holly Hobbie" short outfit that I wore in first grade, a floral print from one of my mom's dresses and the plaid fabric my mom used to make my Barbie's coat.

My mom is 81 now. She lived with my family and me up until last October. As she is declining with an end stage disease, I was forced to arrange for her to stay at a Board and Care. She is weak and ever so trembly now. Truth be said, she'll never quilt again. She started one several years ago, but was not able to finish it.

Her stitches were not the perfectly timed rows that they were in her younger days, but the heart behind the stitches remained...



I have that unfinished quilt now. It is exactly as she left it the last time she put it down...



The needle is in the same position...



It is still in Grandma's hoops...



I am committed to finishing this quilt. I don't know when, but someday...

Until Next Time:
Kim
Garden Painter Art