| Sunny Side Up August 27, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Stitching on someone else's quilt Who hasn't admired a quilt and compared it to life? The events that shape us combine to make a work of art that others either admire, use, or ignore. One of my 'patches' was stitched decades ago by Bernice, a widowed friend of my mother's. She had no idea she was stitching on my frame. She asked if I'd like to accompany her home from church. We'd have lunch, she said, then spend the afternoon in the attic. There were things up there I might enjoy. It was the stuff of a girl's dreams, and though I didn't know her well, no invitation could have enticed me more. My imagination leapt to images of antique rocking horses, Victorian dresses and chests full of treasure. I went willingly, gulped down a bowl of soup and crackers at her kitchen table. I can still see her dark-stockinged legs climbing the steep attic stairs just ahead of me. It was furry with dust up there, and dim. No rocking horses lingered idle in the corner. No treasure chests awaited opening. There wasn't much in that attic worth remembering at all. Except the books-piles of them. Bernice picked one up, blew off the dust, opened it, and began to read. It was a volume of poetry-old sappy stuff, rife with loves lost and found, dying gasps and pleas for patriotism. Full of character, high morals, and sentimental slop. I sat down with my back to one of the low shadowed eves and listened. Her voice, clear and robust at first, slowly softened around the edges into something frayed and gentle. A voice I could see through. Before I knew it I was crying. Then she was too, so I dried my tears, picked up another volume and began to read to her. I managed one or two poems, till the lump in my throat stopped me. She read again then, and so we carried on. All afternoon. Just taking turns reading and crying, crying and reading. It was really bad poetry, that stuff in Bernice's attic. Not Keats or Wadsworth, or Dickinson. I can't recall a single poem or name even one author-perhaps for the best! Nevertheless, in that dusty attic I caught a glimpse of the power of the written word to touch emotions. Bernice died recently. I couldn't attend her funeral, though I would have liked to. I would have told her sons what their mother did for me in that strange afternoon. Unknown to me then, God was lining up the people who would influence me to become what I am today. People who took time to show me beauty, a beauty as much of soul as of substance. One by one they brought their patches and God used them to piece together the quilt of my life. Some, like Bernice, offered both love and words, and I am what I am only with their help. On whose quilt are you stitching? You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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