The year Mom died I decided to make a quilt, with no earthly idea of how. I had bought some fabric that I thought would look beautiful in a patchwork quilt — they sat on top of my dresser for longer than I’d like to admit. But when Mom died, I don’t know, something clicked.
I went to the only person I could think of who could help, Mams — Mom’s mom. She was 91 at the time and taught me everything I know about sewing, embroidery, and tie blankets. I used to sew pieces of paper together before moving on to handkerchiefs. I could only make eyeglass cases, but hey, I could sew.
Mom used to make blankets. My nephews still have the ones she made them — Whit often still carts his around five years later. Mom was talented like that though. She made blankets, wedding veils, hemmed my prom dresses and my friends’, and made wedding bouquets.
I started my quilt in July and finished in August. When I told Mams I wanted to make a quilt, she laughed at me and told me I was supposed to make them in the winter — that way I could keep myself warm while making it. Instead, I picked one of the hottest months of the year. She went with me to pick out the rest of the fabric: blue, purple, pink, orange, yellow, and green. I asked her every question I could think of. But when it came time to make the first cut, I hesitated. What if I screwed it up? (This is called foreshadowing.) I asked her to do it for me and she laughed and said no. My own Mams telling her last granddaughter (she wouldn’t get another for 15 years when her first great-granddaughter was born), no.
“My own mother wouldn’t even make my first cut for me. The first cut is always the hardest, but you have to make it.” It was wisdom.
Wisdom I didn’t want to hear, but wisdom.
So, I made the first cut with shaky hands. The hardest part of making a quilt? The cutting. I can sew a quilt together in a day, but the cutting? That part took me the better part of two weeks and the squares still came out crooked. Much like my dazzling personality and charm.
Mams, my younger cousin Bailey, and a friend of 21 years helped me arrange the triangle pieces to make squares. All four of us sat crowded around Mams’ chair and pinned until our fingers hurt.
After I got them all sewn together, the backing put on and the corners sewed (the second hardest part, which Mams did for me), I had her embroider “May the circle be unbroken” at the bottom. I wouldn’t call myself religious, — spiritual sure, but that phrase means a lot to our family. It comes from a song the Carter Family wrote: “Will the circle be unbroken.” The song, which never fails to make Mams and me cry, is about the death of a mother, hope, and persevering through grief. It seemed fitting.
Two weeks ago I made a baby blanket for a friend. Mams watched me and my oldest nephew, George, sit on the floor and pin the edges together. I was explaining to him why we pin the two sides facing each other, instead of back to back. I couldn’t help but think of Mams telling me the same thing when I was around his age. I know one day I will likely have to tell George, or his brother Whit, or my niece Rozlynn — or the dozen other kids that are my surrogate nieces and nephews — the same wisdom Mams has imparted on me.
The first cut is always the hardest, but you have to make it.
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