How do you say goodbye to a piece of your heart? If you're a
quilter, you have a time-honored way to express yourself.
A quilt is an object of peculiar intimacy. By virtue of the
way it is created, every inch of the fabric is touched. Each
scrap absorbs the quilter's scent and the invisible oils of
her skin, the smell of her household and, thanks to the
constant pinning and stitching, her blood in the tiniest of
quantities. And tears, though she might be loath to admit it.
My adult life has been a patchwork of projects, most of
which were fleeting fancies of overreaching vision. I tend
to seize on things, only to abandon them due to a lack of
time, talent or inclination.
There are a few things I'm truly good
at—
-Jeopardy!, riding a bike, balancing a
checkbook, orienteering, making balloon animals…and
quilting.
I'm good at pulling together little bits and pieces of
disparate objects. The process suits me. Each square
captures my attention like a new landscape. Everything about
quilting suits me, an occupation for hands and heart and
imagination.
Other things didn't work out so well—Szechuan cooking,
topiary gardening, video games and philately come to mind.
My main project, my ultimate work-in-progress, is Molly, of
course. And today she's going away to college, clear across
the country. Correction—I'm taking her away, delivering
her like an insured parcel to a new life.
Hence the quilt. What better memento to give my daughter
than a handmade quilt to keep in her dorm room, a comforter
stitched with all the memories of her childhood? It'll be a
tangible reminder of who she is, where she comes
from…and maybe, if I'm lucky, it will offer a glimpse
of her dreams.
All my quilting supplies come from a shop in town called
Pins & Needles. The place occupies a vintage building on
the main street. It's been in continuous operation for more
than five decades. As a child, I passed its redbrick and
figured concrete storefront on my way to school each day,
and I still remember the kaleidoscope of fabrics in the
window, flyers announcing classes and raffles, the rainbow
array of rich-colored thread, the treasure trove of
glittering notions. My first job as a teenager was at the
shop, cutting fabric and ringing up purchases.
When Molly started school, I worked there part time, as much
for the extra money as for the company of women who
frequented Pins & Needles. Fall is wonderful at the
fabric shop, a nesting time, when people are making
Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving centerpieces and Christmas
decorations. People are never in a hurry in a fabric shop.
They browse. They talk about their projects, giving you a
glimpse of their lives.
The shop is a natural gathering place for women. The people
I've met there through the years have become my friends.
Customers and staff members stand around the cutting tables
to discuss projects, give demonstrations and workshops,
offer advice on everything from quilting techniques to child
rearing to marriage. The ladies there all know about my idea
to make a quilt as a going-away gift for Molly. Some of them
even created pieces for me to add, embroidered with messages
of "Good Luck" and "Congratulations."
You can always tell what's going on in a woman's life based
on the quilt she's working on. The new-baby quilts are
always light and soft, the wedding quilts pure and clean,
filled with tradition, as though a beautiful design might be
an inoculation against future strife. Housewarming quilts
tend to be artistic, suitable for hanging on an undecorated
wall. The most lovingly created quilts of all are the memory
quilts, often created as a group project to commemorate a
significant event, help with healing or to celebrate a life.
I've always thought a quilt held together with a woman's
tears to be the strongest of all.
Nonquilters have a hard time getting their heads around the
time and trouble of a project like this. My friend Cherisse,
who has three kids, said, "Linda, honey, I'm just glad
to get them out of the house—up and running, with no
criminal record." Another friend confessed, "My
daughter would only ruin it. She's so careless with her
things." My neighbor Erin, who started law school when
her son entered first grade, now works long hours and makes
a ton of money. "I wish I had the time," she said
wistfully when I showed her my project.
What I've found is that you make time for the things that
matter to you. Everyone
has the time. It's just a
question of deciding what to do with that time. For some
people, it's providing for their family. For others, it's
finding that precarious balance between taking care of
business and the soul-work of being there for husband,
children, friends and neighbors.
I'm supposed to be making the last-minute preparations
before our departure on the epic road trip, but instead I
find myself dithering over the quilt, cont emplating sashing
and borders and whether my color palette is strong and
balanced. Although the top is pieced, the backing and
batting in place, there is still much work to be done.
Embellishments to add. It might not be proper quilting
technique, but quilting is an art, not a science. My
crafter's bag is filled with snippets of fabric culled from
old, familiar clothes, fabric toys and textiles that have
been outgrown, but were too dear or too damaged to take to
the Goodwill bin. I'm a big believer in charity bins. Just
because a garment is no longer suitable doesn't mean it
couldn't be right for someone else. On the other hand, some
things are not meant to be parted with.
I sift through the myriad moments of Molly's childhood,
which I keep close to my heart, like flowers from a prized
bouquet, carefully pressed between sheets of blotter paper.
I fold the quilt and put it in the bag with all the bright
bits and mementos—a tiny swatch of a babydoll's
nightie, an official-looking Girl Scout badge, a precious
button that is the only survivor of her first Christmas
dress…. So many memories lie mute within this
long-handled bag, waiting for me to use them as the final
embellishments on this work of art.
I'll never finish in time.
You can do this. I try to give myself a pep talk, but the
words fall through my mind and trickle away. This is
unexpected, this inability to focus. A panic I haven't been
expecting rises up in me, grabbing invisibly at my chest.
Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.
The house already feels different; a heaviness hangs in the
drapes over the old chintz sofa. Sounds echo on the wooden
floors—a suitcase being rolled to the front porch, a
set of keys dropped on the hall table. An air of change
hovers over everything.
Dan has driven to the Chevron station to fill the Suburban's
tank. He's not coming; this long drive without him will be a
first for our family. Until now, every road trip has
involved all three of us—Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon, Big
Sur, speeding along endless highways with the music turned
up loud. We did everything as a family. I can't even
remember what Dan and I used to do before Molly. Those days
seem like a life that happened to someone else. We were a
couple, but Molly made us a family.
This time, Dan will stay home with Hoover, who is getting on
in years and doesn't do well at the kennel anymore.
It's better this way. Dan was never fond of saying goodbye.
Not that anybody enjoys it, but in our family, I'm always
the stoic, the one who makes the emotional work look
easy—on the outside, anyway. My solo drive back home
will be another first for me. I hope I'll use the time well,
getting to know myself again, maybe. Scary thought—what
if I get to know myself and I'm someone I don't want to be?
Now, as the heaviness of the impending departure presses
down on me, I wonder if we should have planned things
differently. Perhaps the three of us should have made this
journey together, treating it as a family vacation, like a
trip to Disney World or the Grand Canyon.
On the other hand, that's a bad idea. There can be no
fooling ourselves into thinking this is something other than
what it is—the willful ejection of Molly from our nest.
It's too late for second thoughts, anyway. She has to be
moved into her dorm in time for freshman orientation. It's
been marked on the kitchen calendar for weeks—the
expiration date on her childhood.
At the other end of the downstairs, a chord sounds on the
piano. Molly tends to sit down and play when she has a lot
on her mind. Maybe it's her way of sorting things out.
I'm grateful for the years of lessons she took, even when we
could barely afford them. I wanted my daughter to have
things I never had, and music lessons are one of them. She's
turned into an expressive musician, transforming standard
pieces into something heartfelt and mystical. Showy trills
and glissandos sluice through the air, filling every empty
space in the house. The piano will sit fallow and silent
when she's away; neither Dan nor I play. He never had the
time to learn; I never had the wherewithal or—I admit
it—the patience. Ah, but Molly. She was fascinated with
the instrument from the time she stretched up on toddler
legs to reach the keys of the secondhand piano we bought at
auction. She started lessons when she was only six.
All the hours of practice made up the sound track of her
growing years. "Bill Grogan's Goat" was an early
favorite, leading to more challenging works, from "The
Rainbow Connection" to "Fur Elise," Bartok and
beyond. Almost every evening for the past twelve years,
Molly practiced while Dan and I cleaned up after dinner.
This was her way of avoiding dishwashing duty, and we
considered it a fair division of labor—I rinse, he
loads, she serenades. She managed to make it to age eighteen
without learning to properly load a dishwasher, yet she can
play Rachmaninoff.
In the middle of a dramatic pause between chords, a car horn
sounds.
The bag with the quilt falls, momentarily forgotten, to the
floor. That innocent
yip of the horn signals that
summer has ended.
Molly stops playing, leaving a profound hollow of silence in
the house. Seconds later, I can still feel the throb of the
notes in the stillness. I go to the landing at the turn of
the stairs in time to see her jump up, leaving the piano
bench askew.
She runs outside, the screen door snapping shut behind her
like a mousetrap. Watching through the window on the
landing, I brace myself for another storm of emotion. She
has been saying goodbye to Travis all summer long. Today,
the farewell will be final.
Here is a picture of Molly: Curly hair wadded into a messy
ponytail. Athletic shorts balanced on her hip bones, a
T-shirt with a dead rock star on it. A body toned by youth,
volleyball and weekend swims at the lake. A face that shows
every emotion, even when she doesn't want it to.
Now she flings herself into her boyfriend's arms as a sob
breaks from her, mingling with the sound of morning
birdsong. Oh, that yearning, the piercing kind only
love-dazed teenagers can feel. Hands holding for the last
time. Grief written in their posture as their bodies melt
together. Travis's arms encircle her with their ropy
strength, and his long form bows protectively, walling her
off from me.
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