MY FIRST QUILT

I made my first quilt when I was 7 years old. The pattern was a traditional Log

Cabin pattern with red center ‘hearths’ surrounded by ‘logs,’ rectangles of men’s

dress shirt prints. I don’t have the quilt anymore. I don’t have a photo of it, just a

memory picture and a story.

example of log cabin quilt

Similar style to my first quilt I made at 7 years-old.

SOURCE: https://americanart.si.edu/artwork/log-cabin-sunshine-and-shadow-86625

This is an example of a log cabin pattern similar to the quilt in my story.

My quilt story begins with a family friend (we’ll call him “E,”) changing a flat tire in

our driveway. I was 7 or 8 years old, and '“into everything, as my grandmother would say.

“Barbara and me”

A photo of my pirate girl partner Barbara and I playing in the park. I was 7 years-old here.Hoodies are the classic pirate girl outfit. Syracuse, NY (1966)

I was interested in how a tire was changed. E’s spare tire came out of the trunk wrapped in a multicolored rag that caught

my eye as soon as he pulled it out. I had experienced quilts through my mother’s Tuesday evening sewing group. On closer

look I recognized the log cabin pattern. I saw the rag as an old quilt, dirty, greasy but also a potential treasure.

I asked E if I could have the quilt. I remember him saying, “This ol’ rag? Well, what

will I wrap my tire in if I give it to you?” I immediately ran to my room and pulled a

blanket (pink, from Kmart I think) from my bed and gave it to him. We made the

trade. I remember feeling like I was now on a mission.

Always on a mission

My mother took this transaction as a teaching/learning opportunity rather than as the

loss of a perfectly good blanket. This was Mom’s method with every situation in

the lives of her children, all the children in her extended family, and all the children she taught throughout her life. “There is always a book at the library to help you figure out

what you need to know,” she would say.

Photo of my mother, Beth.

Scrabble was her game!

My mother’s people were all teachers and scholars. My maternal grandmother,

Alice Rhea Turner had been one of the first black librarians in Chicago.

Alice Rae Turner, my maternal grandmother

Libraries were sacred spaces and books were sacred objects. I remember having to wash my hands

before entering the library yet being able to take home any book I wanted.

We went to the library to learn how to clean the quilt properly, as it was old, fragile and full of dirt, grease, and motor oil. We read Watkins book on Household Hints, technical books, and histories of dry-cleaning books. We asked people for advice. We talked about what we read, and I made lists of questions. I used the questions to ask people for advice. I made notes. I washed the quilt many times.

Once the quilt was clean, we could see what parts needed repair. More study. More

advice. There were trips to thrift stores and garage sales for old shirts. Hand

sewing front and back to get it right.

Dyeing fabric

More dyeing Fabric

I imagine the quilt restoration took several months to finish. I don’t really remember how long it took, just

that I enjoyed watching the quilt grow and change under my hands. When it

was finished my mother proudly showed it to everyone who visited, “look what my

daughter did,” and her retelling the story of all the effort and attention I put in the piece.

Sewing

Sometime later, E returned for a visit. I ran to show him the quilt and tell him everything I had

done to bring it back to life. I was so proud!

If you have been wondering why I don’t show a picture of this work that obviously started me on my quilt art journey, it’s because because E took it back from me. He said his grandmother made it. He folded it, put it under his arm and took it back. I believe he left without saying anything to my mother. I remember being puzzled that he used a memory of his grandmother to wrap around his spare tire. It made no sense to me.

When my mother realized what had happened, she was flame throwing mad,

breaking up furniture mad. I don’t remember much what after the quilt was gone. I don’t

know what conversations were held out of my hearing. I do remember Mom saying she

wasn’t mad at me. I know she told me adults do mean things sometimes.

I remember saying, “Its okay, mommy, I can make more.” I did make more. I

kept making more. I like to think my mantra about art making came from the thrill of learning to do something new, mixed with a moment of sadness and betrayal, and trying to help my mother not be angry anymore.

I can make more. I will always, as long as I possibly can, I will make more.

Art is life.