Reap What You Sew

In 1986, Allen and I wandered one night through the Salt Palace exhibition hall. The only sound was that of a person reading names—names of people we didn’t know.

We walked through a mosaic of three-by-five fabric panels, each bearing the name of someone who had died from AIDS. The names read from the podium seemed to keep time with the shuffle of feet as we shifted along. Hundreds of names, hundreds of lives. The panels told—as best as they could—the stories and personalities of those they depicted. Photos, flowers, teddy bears, musical notes and lots of rainbows were sewn and sequined to show the love, sorrow and respect of friends and family. Post mortem. The floor was covered from wall to wall. More panels were hung along the walls and stretched even further down the hall.

Allen and I wondered to each other if anyone would sew quilts for us when we died—and if so—what images they would contain. 

•••

Mom used to sit in her recliner in front of the television and sew for hours on end. With soap operas droning and Cokes being consumed by the 8-pack, she created piles of dish towels, pot holders—and quilts. They usually portrayed silly images like smiling carrots, frogs dressed as humans, or muddy pigs saying “Wednesday is Wash Day.”

Her curtains adorned the windows of our home and Winnebago. Her quilts were given to friends and relatives who had gotten married or given birth. 

One night, as she stitched a quilt for the friend of a neighbor of a cousin of a co-worker, I finally spoke up.

“You’re giving all these quilts away as wedding gifts, and I want one more than anybody. I’m never getting married. What do I have to do?”

Mom put down her embroidery hoop and looked at me from over the top of her glasses—a look I have since inherited. She gives me that look a lot. I was (and am) her high-maintenance child.

That Christmas, I went home to the house on Pueblo Street. I had spent most of my Christmases there. Mark and Loree had already come and gone. Dave was still in bed. Mom and Frank were holding court in their respective recliners. I sat on the floor by the tree and tried not to act excited. My thrill of Christmas still hadn’t worn off even though I awakened that year in an empty apartment with a spindly four-foot artificial tree (Note: Never spray aerosol snow on an already-decorated tree. It just looks dusty). 

I asked the folks if Santa had been good to them and reminded them about the time our dog, Yogi, puked up all the Christmas candy. As I fiddled with the wrapper of a chocolate gold coin I pretended not to notice a huge present with my name on the tag. Instead, I nonchalantly opened the smaller packages of crew socks given by my aunts.

“That big one’s yours.” Mom said, pointing at the package as massive as our orange vinyl ottoman.

I ripped the wrapping to shreds in the wink of an eye.

There it was. It was a patchwork quilt of stripes and plaids more colors than you could ever name and not a scheme to any of it. It was a huge quilt—maybe twice the size of those I remember others receiving. Every other square was stitched with a Scottie Dog or a little house with a shining sun and was backed with a cozy field of blue plaid flannel.

I was speechless—a rare occasion. Mom smiled and told me she had worked on it as she and Dad drove to and from St. George. The place they would soon call home. 

“Such a lot of fabric to be stuffed into the cab of a pickup with two grownups and two shedding dogs,” I thought, and imagined myself taking the road trip with them. I began to miss them already.

Later, as I drove home with my quilt on the seat next to me I thought back to the question Allen and I had posed to each other earlier that month: Who would make our quilts and what would they be?

No question that our mothers would do the stitching—that was a given. 

“Scottie Dog” is Mom’s nickname for me. The blue plaid, intended or not, looks strikingly similar to the tartan of our Garrick clan. But the sun shining over the house was a bit more symbolic, something I really didn’t get until I started telling you this. She sensed my desire for a happy home. Then and Now. She wished that happiness for me more than anything—and still does.

That night, I wafted it onto my bed. I crawled under it and looked out my window at the fresh blanket of snow. I felt the queen-sized hugs of Mom.

•••

The first time I washed the Quilt, I was a wreck. I never trusted the quality of homemade goods versus store bought and winced at the thought of it coming out of the washer in shreds or worse, ending up a plaid wad of dust in the lint trap. 

I placed it into the giant laundromat washing machine with a loving pat and said a silent prayer—perhaps like Mom had done with me on my first day of school. To my joy (and a smidge of amazement), the quilt survived the ordeal. It was new again and warm.

The Quilt is with me several years and many washings later. It has stood up to my cat’s projectiles, Ben and Jerry drippings, great lovers, bad flings, cold nights in the Uintas, and hot afternoons at Red Butte Gardens. It has been with me at every outdoor concert I have attended—Norah Jones, Joan Baez, kd lang, Ralph Stanley to name a few—where we’d sit for hours before the shows nibbling cheese, prosciutto, and cookies. And the wine! The Quilt has consumed nearly as much of it as my friends and I have. I was mortified after the first spill of merlot, but came to realize that Mom would love nothing more than to see me having so much fun, in that perfect setting, with such dear friends. Lots of wine has been spilled since then. It’s almost a ritual.

•••

So who would make my quilt and what would it say? My Mom did and it says more than this pinot-induced story could ever tell. But I can tell you this: Every thread that was stitched to pull two pieces of the whole together—did just that.