Stars and flowers

As the daughter of the family historian, one of the hardest things to contend with is the physical and emotional weight of the records and artifacts passed down through the generations. My family was blessed by having prolific writers: we count easily a half-dozen journals, from the sweet recounting of a teenage girl's wardrobe and school crushes to the hefty and pensive journal of a Civil War chaplain (and that of his wife and son). These all have a physical presence as well as capturing not only our family's history, but the history of our country at a key moment.

After my mother died of Alzheimer's, I had the arduous task of combing through disorganized piles of family and historical research (she was a published historian), interspersed with decades-old bank statements and direct mailers for things she would never buy. Deciding what to keep and what to discard, what to take to my home and what to let go, was a difficult decision, complicated by my difficult relationship with my mother. As I can now take time to comb through her work and read her journals (yes, she kept journals as well), I have come to better understand and admire her accomplishments. 

But by far and away, the most difficult piece has been what to do with her unfinished projects. I admit to the same overachieving tendency that she had: to start projects. It's a little like knitting a sock, and wondering if you will have enough yarn to complete it; will I have enough days to complete them? Adding my mother's projects to the pile adds a new level of stress--I have my own projects! Is my time to be used finishing hers? 

As I dig through the piles of family artifacts, I find a box  labeled "Civil War blanket" which I always assumed was the blanket that my GGG Grandfather had used many a night on the cold, hard ground. Instead, I find what looks to be odd scraps, but turns out to be a partially pieced Ohio Star quilt top with a label pinned to it. It was begun by a great aunt in 1867, the year she turned 19, the year she graduated from Hamline, and the year she was married. In less than two years, she died of consumption, leaving behind a bereaved husband and an unfinished quilt. 

Underneath that box is another dress box with stacks of hexagonal "flowers" destined for a grandmother's garden quilt. Some of the fabrics I can identify from my mother's scrap pile as being from garments she sewed for us; others appear to be of her mother's and grandmother's vintage. 

Turning the work to the wrong side, I can see that all the stars and flowers are hand-stitched. These two incomplete quilts are a physical reminder of how our time is borrowed. Stiches in time.

I keep chipping away at my own projects, but I have also found a local quilter who is enthusiastic about helping finish both quilts. Hers will add a third generation of hands and stiches to the mix. I find comfort in being able to honor these women, and to wrap myself in their handwork, and I hope they will share that same sense of accomplishment when you can fold up a beautiful thing, and say to yourself, "done." 

Ella's quilt: begun in 1867, finished in 2023