Thoughts on Quilts

When I was a kid, I enjoyed hearing stories from the old-timey days. As an adult, I also enjoy reading stories from the old-timey days. I enjoy historical fiction and particularly Appalachian literature. And I've always liked quilts. I own several, and I've been sleeping under one quilt or another since I was very young. Here's a quilt that was made by my great-grandmother, Frances Nace of Lithia, well over a hundred years ago:

I recently read Aunt Jane of Kentucky, a Kindle e-book I  got for free from Amazon. It's also available in paperback for $6.99.  Aunt Jane of Kentucky is a series of short stories in which "Aunt Jane," an elderly widow, tells her niece about things that she remembers from a long time ago. I really enjoyed her old-timey stories. 

Eliza Calvert Hall (1856-1935) first published this book in 1907, and the version I read had been digitized from a print version. Oddly, the first letter of the first word in each chapter was missing, so I figured it was in a fancy font that didn't survive the digitizing process. But the book was so interesting, a few typos here and there didn't matter.

One of the chapters I especially liked was Chapter III,  "Aunt Jane's Album," which was mostly about quilts the fictional character had made. Hall skillfully blended stories about the quilts with Aunt Jane's philosophies.

Some excerpts from Chapter III, “Aunt Jane’s Album" 

"But there never was any time wasted on my quilts, child. I can look at every one of 'em with a clear conscience. I did my work faithful; and then, when I might 'a' set and held my hands, I'd make a block or two o' patchwork, and before long I'd have enough to put together in a quilt. I went to piecin' as soon as I was old enough to hold a needle and a piece o' cloth, and one o' the first things I can remember was settin' on the back door-step sewin' my quilt pieces, and mother praisin' my stitches. Nowadays folks don't have to sew unless they want to, but when I was a child there warn't any sewin'-machines, and it was about as needful for folks to know how to sew as it was for 'em to know how to eat; and every child that was well raised could hem and run and backstitch and gether and overhand by the time she was nine years old. Why, I'd pieced four quilts by the time I was nineteen years old, and when me and Abram set up housekeepin' I had bedclothes enough for three beds.
 
"I've had a heap o' comfort all my life makin' quilts, and now in my old age I wouldn't take a fortune for 'em. Set down here, child, where you can see out o' the winder and smell the lilacs, and we'll look at 'em all. You see, some folks has albums to put folks' pictures in to remember 'em by, and some folks has a book and writes down the things that happen every day so they won't forgit 'em; but, honey, these quilts is my albums and my di'ries, and whenever the weather's bad and I can't git out to see folks, I jest spread out my quilts and look at 'em and study over 'em, and it's jest like goin' back fifty or sixty years and livin' my life over agin. 
            "There ain't nothin' like a piece o' caliker for bringin' back old times, child, unless it's a flower or a bunch o' thyme or a piece o' pennyroy'l—anything that smells sweet. Why, I can go out yonder in the yard and gether a bunch o' that purple lilac and jest shut my eyes and see faces I ain't seen for fifty years, and somethin' goes through me like a flash o' lightnin', and it seems like I'm young agin jest for that minute." Aunt Jane's hands were stroking lovingly a "nine-patch" that resembled the coat of many colors. "Now this quilt, honey," she said, "I made out o' the pieces o' my children's clothes, their little dresses and
 waists and aprons. Some of 'em's dead, and some of 'em's grown and married and a long way off from me, further off than the ones that's dead, I sometimes think. But when I set down and look at this quilt and think over the pieces, it seems like they all come back, and I can see 'em playin' around the floors and goin' in and out, and hear 'em cryin' and laughin' and callin' me jest like they used to do before they grew up to men and women, and before there was any little graves o' mine out in the old buryin'-ground over yonder." 
            Wonderful imagination of motherhood that can bring childhood back from the dust of the grave and banish the wrinkles and gray hairs of age with no other talisman than a scrap of faded calico! 
            The old woman's hands were moving tremulously over the surface of the quilt as if they touched the golden curls of the little dream children who had vanished from her hearth so many years ago. But there were no tears either in her eyes or in her voice. I had long noticed that Aunt Jane always smiled when she spoke of the people whom the world calls "dead," or the things it calls "lost" or "past." These words seemed to have for her higher and tenderer meanings than are placed on them by the sorrowful heart of humanity.
            But the moments were passing, and one could not dwell too long on any quilt, however well beloved. Aunt Jane rose briskly, folded up the one that lay across her knees, and whisked out another from the huge pile in an old splint-bottomed chair. 
            "Here's a piece o' one o' Sally Ann's purple caliker dresses. Sally Ann always thought a heap o' purple caliker. Here's one o' Milly Amos' ginghams—that pink-and-white one. And that piece o' white with the rosebuds in it, that's Miss Penelope's. She give it to me the summer before she died. Bless her soul! That dress jest matched her face exactly. Somehow her and her clothes always looked alike, and her voice matched her face, too. One o' the things I'm lookin' forward to, child, is seein' Miss Penelope agin and hearin' her sing. Voices and faces is alike; there's some that you can't remember, and there's some you can't forgit. I've seen a heap o' people and heard a heap o' voices, but Miss Penelope's face was different from all the rest, and so was her voice. Why, if she said 'Good mornin'' to you, you'd hear that 'Good mornin' all day, and her singin'—I know there never was anything like it in this world. My grandchildren all laugh at me for thinkin' so much o' Miss Penelope's singin', but then they never heard her, and I have: that's the difference. My grandchild Henrietta was down here three or four years ago, and says she, 'Grandma, don't you want to go up to Louisville with me and hear Patti sing?' And says I, 'Patty who, child?' Says I, 'If it was to hear Miss Penelope sing, I'd carry these old bones o' mine clear from here to New York. But there ain't anybody else I want to hear sing bad enough to go up to Louisville or anywhere else. And some o' these days,' says I, 'I'm goin' to hear Miss Penelope sing.'" 
            Aunt Jane laughed blithely, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. 
            "Honey," she said, in the next breath, lowering her voice and laying her finger on the rosebud piece, "honey, there's one thing I can't git over. Here's a piece o' Miss Penelope's dress, but where's Miss Penelope? Ain't it strange that a piece o' caliker'll outlast you and me? Don't it look like folks ought 'o hold on to their bodies as long as other folks holds on to a piece o' the dresses they used to wear?" 
            Questions as old as the human heart and its human grief! Here is the glove, but where is the hand it held but yesterday? Here the jewel that she wore, but where is she? "Where is the Pompadour now? This was the Pompadour's fan!"

            Strange that such things as gloves, jewels, fans, and dresses can outlast a woman's form. "Behold! I show you a mystery"—the mystery of mortality. And an eery feeling came over me as I entered into the old woman's mood and thought of the strong, vital bodies that had clothed themselves in those fabrics of purple and pink and white, and that now were dust and ashes lying in sad, neglected graves on farm and lonely roadside. There lay the quilt on our knees, and the gay scraps of calico seemed to mock us with their vivid colors. Aunt Jane's cheerful voice called me back from the tombs. 
            "Here's a piece o' one o' my dresses," she said; "brown ground with a red ring in it. Abram picked it out. And here's another one, that light yeller ground with the vine runnin' through it. I never had so many caliker dresses that I didn't want one more, for in my day folks used to think a caliker dress was good enough to wear anywhere. Abram knew my failin', and two or three times a year he'd bring me a dress when he come from town. And the dresses he'd pick out always suited me better'n the ones I picked." 
            "I ricollect I finished this quilt the summer before Mary Frances was born, and Sally Ann and Milly Amos and Maria Petty come over and give me a lift on the quiltin'. Here's Milly's work, here's Sally Ann's, and here's Maria's." 
            I looked, but my inexperienced eye could see no difference in the handiwork of the three women. Aunt Jane saw my look of incredulity. 
            "Now, child," she said, earnestly, "you think I'm foolin' you, but, la! there's jest as much difference in folks' sewin' as there is in their handwritin'. Milly made a fine stitch, but she couldn't keep on the line to save her life; Maria never could make a reg'lar stitch, some'd be long and some short, and Sally Ann's was reg'lar, but all of 'em coarse. I can see 'em now stoopin' over the quiltin' frames—Milly talkin' as hard as she sewed, Sally Ann throwin' in a word now and then, and Maria never openin' her mouth except to ask for the thread or the chalk. I ricollect they come over after dinner, and we got the quilt out o' the frames long before sundown, and the next day I begun bindin' it, and I got the premium on it that year at the Fair. 
                       
Later in the chapter, she describes each quilt she's made and tells who it is for. And she shares some of her philosophies:
 
"There's one for every child and every grandchild," she said, quietly, as she began wrapping them in the silky paper, and storing them carefully away in the cupboard, there to rest until the day when children and grandchildren would claim their own, and the treasures of the dead would come forth from the darkness to stand as heirlooms on fashionable sideboards and damask-covered tables. 
            "Did you ever think, child," she said, presently, "how much piecin' a quilt's like livin' a life? And as for sermons, why, they ain't no better sermon to me than a patchwork quilt, and the doctrines is right there a heap plainer'n they are in the catechism. Many a time I've set and listened to Parson Page preachin' about predestination and free-will, and I've said to myself, 'Well, I ain't never been through Centre College up at Danville, but if I could jest git up in the pulpit with one of my quilts, I could make it a heap plainer to folks than parson's makin' it with all his big words.' You see, you start out with jest so much caliker; you don't go to the store and pick it out and buy it, but the neighbors will give you a piece here and a piece there, and you'll have a piece left every time you cut out a dress, and you take jest what happens to come. And that's like predestination. But when it comes to the cuttin' out, why, you're free to choose your own pattern. You can give the same kind o' pieces to two persons, and one'll make a 'nine-patch' and one'll make a 'wild-goose chase,' and there'll be two quilts made out o' the same kind o' pieces, and jest as different as they can be. And that is jest the way with livin'. The Lord sends us the pieces, but we can cut 'em out and put 'em together pretty much to suit ourselves, and there's a heap more in the cuttin' out and the sewin' than there is in the caliker.

 . . . .

And when it comes to puttin' the pieces together, there's another time when we're free. You don't trust to luck for the caliker to put your quilt together with; you go to the store and pick it out yourself, any color you like. There's folks that always looks on the bright side and makes the best of everything, and that's like puttin' your quilt together with blue or pink or white or some other pretty color; and there's folks that never see anything but the dark side, and always lookin' for trouble, and treasurin' it up after they git it, and they're puttin' their lives together with black, jest like you would put a quilt together with some dark, ugly color. You can spoil the prettiest quilt pieces that ever was made jest by puttin' 'em together with the wrong color, and the best sort o' life is miserable if you don't look at things right and think about 'em right.
            "Then there's another thing. I've seen folks piece and piece, but when it come to puttin' the blocks together and quiltin' and linin' it, they'd give out; and that's like folks that do a little here and a little there, but their lives ain't of much use after all, any more'n a lot o' loose pieces o' patchwork. And then while you're livin' your life, it looks pretty much like a jumble o' quilt pieces before they're put together; but when you git through with it, or pretty nigh through, as I am now, you'll see the use and the purpose of everything in it. Everything'll be in its right place jest like the squares in this 'four-patch,' and one piece may be pretty and another one ugly, but it all looks right when you see it finished and joined together."

 . . . . 

I'd give away my best dress or my best bonnet or an acre o' ground to anybody that needed 'em more'n I did; but these quilts—Why, it looks like my whole life was sewed up in 'em, and I ain't goin' to part with 'em while life lasts."

One of the lines in the book that especially delighted me was when Aunt Jane said to her niece—"Did you ever think, child, how much piecin' a quilt's like livin' a life?" because I'd used the same idea in chapter 3 of my novel, Patches on the Same Quilt, when the quilt-maker Gillie Ann says:

I wrote Patches in the late 1990s and self-published it in 2001. It's now in its second edition and is available in both Kindle and paperback editions. You can read about Patches on my website.

I enjoyed Aunt Jane of Kentucky so much that I read two of Eliza Calvert Hall's other books: Clover and Bluegrass and The Land of Long Ago.

  

If you like Appalachian literature, you'll probably enjoy these.

~

Under a Blue Bowl

 I got my copy of Under a Blue Bowl from author Scottie Prichard in Wytheville last Saturday afternoon. I started reading it Saturday night and couldn't put it down.

Subtitled "The Life of Olive Scott Benkelman Mostly in Her Own Words," it's a wonderful combination of oral history, Appalachian culture, memoir, and biography (or maybe autobiography).

 Some years back, when Scottie and her husband were living in Germany, she and her mother Olive kept in touch by exchanging cassette tapes. Olive, who led a long and remarkable life, often taped stories about growing up in Grayson County, about her ancestors, and about her life beyond Grayson County and back. After Olive's death, Scottie transcribed the tapes and compiled them into this book, which she self-published in 2007.

Olive had some pretty interesting ancestors, including her father, Dr. William Worley Scott. When I heard Scottie read the section about her grandfather, I had to have the book:

Is that a great story, or what? Under a Blue Bowl is full of great family stories, many of which happened in Olive's childhood home of Elk Creek in Grayson County.

The book's title is from Olive's observation when she was a child: "Elk Creek was the perfect place to live when I was a child. The mountains surround our sweet valley and I thought the sky was a big blue bowl that God had turned upside down and rested securely on the mountain tops." (p. 55)

During her life, Olive goes far beyond Grayson County but eventually returns. Her first foray away from Elk Creek was when she and her friend Edith Hale went 65 miles away to attend Radford State Teachers College: "Our parents took us to catch the train in Crockett in the morning and we got into Radford in the afternoon, after stopping at every little place along the line. We knew we would not be able to come home until Christmas. It was exciting but I was scared sick. . . . My mother's butter-and-egg money sent me to school. She scrimped and saved and cut corners constantly to pay for my education. I just didn't dare spend much money. I was awful tight with my money then, and for most of my life it seems now." (p. 103)

Olive goes on to teach school in Grayson County, work at Radford College, become director of guidance at Mount Vernon High School, and have many interesting experiences in Idaho, Illinois, Florida, and—finally—back in Elk Creek. Scottie Prichard is to be commended for capturing her mother's voice and personality so clearly. The multitude of pictures —such as a photo of Olive and Edith enjoying a childhood tea party—are an added plus.

If you love Appalachian culture and history, recollections of the old-timey days, and true stories about remarkable women, odds are good you'll love this book as much as I did.

Since the book was self-published, bookstores aren't likely to have copies on their shelves. Even amazon.com only has copies for sale from resellers. If you'd like to buy a copy, contact Scottie Prichard directly at hillsofhome@gmail.com.

~

Appalachian Views

I am a lover of things Appalachian. When I was invited to be one of the authors at last October's Appalachian Heritage Day at the Salem Museum, I jumped at the chance. One of my favorite authors, Sharyn McCrumb, was the keynote speaker. (She made it clear during her Friday night speech how to pronounce Appalachian—it's Apple-LATCH-un, not Apple-LAY-shun.)

 I enjoyed chatting with her on Saturday. She showed me the cover for the reissue of her book, The Ballad of Frankie Silver, which I'd read and enjoyed over a decade ago. I think the new cover is much more effective than the old one.

I hadn't been to the museum for many years, so it was interesting to see the old-timey stuff it had. I didn't go to all of the exhibits, but I did visit a few—such as this moonshine still (the sugar looks a bit modern) . .  .

. . . a lady's sidesaddle . . . .

. . . various household furnishings  . . . 

. . . children's games . . .

. . . a spinning wheel . . .  

. . . and the things that go with it.

One of the guests had a display of old guns . . . 

. . . and another had a display of old musical instruments.

He played lovely background music on his harp.

Several members of the Roanoke Valley Pen Women had displays. Ethel Born had copies of her history of the rural Virginia postal service for sale.

Margaret Dubois had some of her art and jewelry.

Peggy Shifflett had her books, including the latest, On the Way to Toe Town.

 

Pen Women president Beth Ann Rossi told some tales about the Appalachian Trail. 

Another tale-teller was Charles Lytton, who obviously isn't a member of Pen Women, but he was guest speaker at the Pen Women's December meeting, where he had copies of his latest book, The View from the White Rock. Lytton is a true Appalachian (which he will tell you is apple-LATCH-un, not Apple-LAY-shun).

I first met Charles Lytton at the Galax Leaf and String Festival a couple of years ago. Our paths have crossed several times since then, and I've been privileged to hear him read from his books or tell his tales in person. I've read—and thoroughly enjoyed—his two previous books about growing up on River Ridge: New River: bonnets, apple butter, and moonshine and  The Cool Side of the Pillow. Both are filled with good stories, some of which are a little far-fetched even though they're true.

This third volume didn't disappoint me. It's a delightful down-home look at Lytton's sometimes rough and rugged boyhood and early manhood along the New River.

One of his chapters is titled "You Can Get Killed About Anywhere," but a lot of the other chapters involve Lytton's taking risks, having hair-raising adventures, and escaping bad situations. In "Diana's First Airplane Ride and maybe My Last," he recounts when an amateur pilot took him and his daughter for a ride in a small plane on a very cold day. The kid loved it; Lytton felt lucky to return alive. In "The Same House, But There was no Ham," he tells of having to heed the call of nature before dawn while squirrel hunting and locating a nearby outhouse (p.132):

Of course Lytton mentions many of his buddies who shared his escapades, moonshine, molasses-making, and trucks. In "Damn, Them Old Trucks Would Run Like a Skeert Hant," he recounts an adventure hauling heifers to the Narrows livestock market, looking for cheap liquor with his buddies, and injuring his arm when the driver swerves a little too close to a tree. "How to Unload a Sow Hog" also involves trucks, livestock, and drinking—all the stuff of good Appalachian yarns. And there are a lot more.

Lytton writes his tales the same way he talks. His voice rings true throughout the book. He may have a college degree or two, but it hasn't hurt his ability to tell a good down-home story. I highly recommend The View from the White Rock for his views on his Appalachian up-bringing.

Remember, that's Apple-LATCH-un, not Apple-LAY-shun.

~

Two Appalachian Poems

I don’t write much poetry anymore. When I do, the poem is generally an Appalachian poem about folks who own land—or who are owned by it.


“The Interview,” a poem I wrote not long ago, won third place in the 2008 Virginia Writers Club contest. The $25 I won covered the cost of my lunch. I've reformatted the poem a bit to fit the blog, but the words are the same.

The Interview
© 2008 by Becky Mushko

Sure, I’ll talk to a fine looking young feller like you.
Don’t get much company nowadays.
Got plenty of time, nothing to do but set here.

Teacher sent you, did she?
“Get out and talk to some old codger,” I reckon she said.
Well, you found one. Pull yourself up a chair.
Little closer—I ain’t gonna bite.
Ain’t got enough teeth left for serious biting nohow.

Now whatcha wanna know?

What did I do? Farmed two hundred acres
like my daddy and his before him.
Tobacco, corn, and wheat—them was the money crops.

How? Me and a mule struggling against a hard ground.
Many a time, I’uz tempted to fling down the reins,
leave the mule standing in the middle of a furrow,
and just up and leave.

Where would I go?
Town, I reckon. Work in a factory or a mill.
Make reg’lar money. Be somebody.

But I never did go.

What stopped me?
That farm held me tighter’n a spider holds a fly.
Sucked the juices right outta me.
Left me the old dry husk you’re looking at,
tangled so tight in its web I’d never get loose.

Then, too, I couldn’t work walled in.
I’d got used to the sky, y’see,
everything growing green around me.
Besides, who’d look after the place?
I can’t stand to see a good farm
overrun with pokeweed and cat-briers.

Folks held me, too. Family ties grip tight, that’s sure.
By the time I buried Mama and Daddy,
I had me a wife and a crop a’ kids.
Time was, I couldn’t go nowhere
without one a’ them chaps hanging
onto my pants’ leg tighter’n a tick on a dog.

Then they growed up,
scattered like seeds in the wind.
Not a one took root.
They come back, visit,
brag how good they got it in town.

Did I ever go modern?
Well, yeah—got a tractor, y’know.
Then more and more machines. Debts piled up high
as Mama’s pancakes on Sunday breakfast.

Did I make a good living?
Heck, no! But I reckon I made me a right good life.

Anythin’ else you wanna know?



One of my favorites is “Aunt Maudie,” which was published in Stitches: The Journal of Appalachian Literature more than a decade ago. It also appeared in Blue Ridge Traditions and was a part of Homespun, a 1999 presentation about Blue Ridge culture.

Aunt Maudie
© 1997 by Becky Mushko

Settling herself in a split-bottom chair
on the remnants of her front porch,
her hands weather-beaten as the porch rail
she grips to steady herself,
she leans forward. With age weighing
heavy on her like a winter shawl,
she says, “When you got land, you got something.
Clothes, fancy things—they don’t last.
Husbands run off; children grow
up and away from you.
Land, it’s always there.”

Her land lies too close to town
To be much account for serious farming;
Not close in enough to fetch top dollar, even
if she’d consider selling.

A run-down trailer park leans so close
against her, she shuts her front door
in summer to keep out
the brassy voices of women
shrilling at drunken husbands
who drink to escape
the brassy voices.

Over the past seventy years,
what was her grandpa’s five hundred acres
was chopped of, whittled down, doled out
to one heir or another: razor thin slices
like her grandma’s smokehouse ham
served to hungry-eyed young’uns
til the plate was only a slice
away from being licked clean.

The one slice left is hers;
Unlike the others, she’d not been tempted
(”Not by love nor money!” she brags)
to sell herself out.

“Well, I don’t need much,” she allows.
“I’ll make do with enough for a garden plot
long as I can find somebody to come plow.”

From under her sun-bonnet, she squints
Past other people’s laundry flapping
On rusty clotheslines, and sees the farm
the way it was when she was a girl:
Traffic noise transforms into lowing cows
or clanking trace chains; her spindly tomato plants
fighting each other for sun
against the fence become a crop
spreading green over too many acres
to look at all at once.

Every so often,
after a rain, she smells
the sweetness of wet earth,
new-plowed and waiting.

“You ain’t got land,”she says,
her voice rich with conviction,
“you ain’t got nothin’.”

~