This photo of Mola cheater cloth was taken by Linda Lane Thornton in Colon (with an accent on the second “o”), Panama. She reports having enjoyed my article in The Quilter, about the topic of cheater cloth, in the March edition. We always love to receive updates from readers, and thought this one to be particularly interesting. As Linda says … this kind of cloth could save time!
Patricia L. Cummings
Time gets away from me, and I had not even realized that Memorial Day was upon us again. We always plant flowers at the graves of my parents and my brother. The first nursery we visited had attractive plants but none of sturdy, traditional ones that could withstand the heat, planted in broad sunlight, with no trees nearby. We journeyed to another nursery and bought a beautiful miniature rosebush, a geranium, and other plants that would fit nicely within the small space in front of each of the gravestones.
Luckily, the little black flies, for which New England is notorious, were blown away by the wind today. Jim had toted along his garden tools, some compost, some bark mulch, and a heavy jug of water, and he swiftly went about the task of planting. Suddenly, a passing cloud helped to water the plants. The sprinkles were as if heaven itself were lending a few tears to the occasion.
When the task was done, we were pleased that it was fairly effortless to get such a nice result. Jim decided to drive to South Deerfield, past “the farm.” One can scarcely call it that now, without a fruit tree, a chicken, or any other animal in sight. From one end of the town to the other, we saw few animals, just some heifers, and what is now a horse farm with quite a few horses.
As we rode past the houses, I recalled stories about the former residents, or their children, whom I knew in school, 4-H, or Grange. All the buildings brought back names and distinct memories of people from the past.
It seems like a surreal, Rip Van Winkle experience, to visit the town where I grew up. Nothing is the same. There are so many new homes and businesses. The cemetery contains the souls of many “older” people who were neighbors or friends. It is heartening that the stone, right next to that of my parents, is a monument to their good friends, and has a Fireman’s Flag flying over the grave.
Another monument belongs to our former neighbor, on the hill, a “Harvard man” who found my father fascinating enough to visit him repeatedly when he was dying of cancer, and who was surprised that my Dad had not graduated from college, due to his intelligence and conversational skills. Neighbors, all. Friends, all. Now, resting together in this small town that engendered a spirit of cooperative existence for them, in life.
Yes, it is a bittersweet experience each year, as I ponder my father and my brother “taken” so early, and my mother, who was quite a character, and lived to be 92. We never know what the future holds for us personally, but on Memorial Day, we stop our normal activities as we recall the people we loved in life, and still love, in death. In honoring them, we make peace with the inevitability of our own fate, and are comforted by knowing that they have already transcended this earthly existence and are “safe in the harbor,” their faith, an anchor.
Patricia Cummings
As a quilter, what do you think of most often when you hear the color name, “red?” I think of red berries, red tulips, red roses, and most especially, red and green quilts, my favorite. The colors red, green, and white are most appealing! Since the early nineteenth century, quilters have agreed with that idea, and have put together the most intricate, flower laden quilts imaginable. Some of the designs have been rather abstract; others, more straightforward.
Red is a color used to symbolize danger. Stop lights are red. Fines are levied for “running a stop light,” and with good reason. Someone could be injured.
Red is the color of the cloth that is waved in front of a bull during a bull fight. Supposedly, it infuriates the bull to see red. For all we know, bulls may be color blind! I wonder if anyone has tested that idea yet? Maybe the bull is angry that the matador would wave any cloth in front of him. Red symbolizes the inevitable loss of blood and loss of life for the powerful animal.
Red is the color of blood and therefore, symbolizes sacrifice. In so saying, the troops of the battlefield are remembered. On a smaller scale, a little kid may fall down, and upon seeing “red,” Mother places a small bandage, perhaps on a wounded knee, and adds “a kiss to make it all better.” In more serious situations, “red” (blood) can mean the difference between life and death, and transfusions are necessary to the continuance of life.
Red sometimes indicates anger as demonstrated by what I call the “suicide quilt.” A woman threatened that when her all-red quilt was completed, she would kill herself, and she did! Viewing so many pieces of red cloth together was a rather startling experience.
On the other hand, red, green, and white quilts represent a leap of joy, a representation of abundance, and a celebration of LIFE, most fitting and heartily apropos to the Christmas season. However, life has two sides, the other side of joy being anger and violence.
The color red does not care how it is used. He’s a versatile guy. You’re apt to find red anywhere, and in the least expected places. My favorite place to see red and green quilts is in books. One booklet in my collection is called “Quilts in RED and GREEN: The Flowering of Folk Design in 19th Century America.” The out of print, museum publication features interior pages that are printed in black and white, probably due to high costs for color printing. Nonetheless, design elements of those extraordinary quilts of the past can be seen and enjoyed. We just have to use our imaginations a little more!
Enjoy the day!
Patricia Cummings
When I was a teenager and would go camping with my parents, one day a couple of young men, looking a little rough around the edges, pulled into the camp site on their motorcycles. To my very conservative parents, motorcycles equaled trouble. We soon found out that these guys had brought a guitar and liked to sing and play, so, for me, it was instant rapport.
The one song they liked to sing most often had to do with traveling (the long and the rocky road). The road, of course, seemed to be a metaphor for the path of life itself. With young voices they sang … “and the folks you meet, there are all kinds. Some are bad and some are good, some are doing the best they could, and some have tried to ease my troubled mind.”
Those few lines pretty much sum up humanity. One does meet “all kinds.” I’ve found, over more than a half century, that people are all pretty much involved with their own “agendas,” the word I use to denote actions taken to promote oneself. I suppose agendas are not necessarily bad, but it sure is refreshing when a body takes it upon himself or herself to help ease the burden of an associate.
One thing I’ve learned is that the people you count on the most, will inevitably let you down. They are too tired, too indifferent, or too preoccupied to care much about anyone other than themselves. However, to make up for the slack, there is always some unexpected gesture of love and kindness that will be bestowed upon one, sometimes from a total stranger. Life does seem to be a balancing act of scales.
Of course, we can’t sit back and wait for life to come to us. I throw back my head and laugh when people ask me how it is that I “got to do” this or that. I’ve worked like heck, all of my life, studying, learning, and doing all that has made me who I am today, and provided me with what I know. A day is not a “good day,” if I have not learned something new. That’s what makes life fun … for me.
The recurrent theme, repeated in the chorus of the song I’d started to mention is “can’t help but wonder where I’m bound.” I suppose young people would think about that sentence in a much different way than a woman my age. I do consider, from time to time, when to invest in my final piece of “real estate.”
It seems a long time since I was a teenager. That’s mainly because it WAS a long time. Time will fly and soon my grandson will be a teenager, and then a young man, and the cycle of life will continue, as well it should. I’m happy to have reached my destination of where I was bound. I’ve arrived at a place of safe haven and to a relationship that refreshes and nourishes my soul.
I am ever thankful for the journey, and for ALL the folks I’ve met, “good or bad.” They have all shaped and molded my character, made me more resilient, and less timid. One by one, the “bad” ones have done me the courtesy of taking “exit stage left,” for a final time.
Patricia Cummings
Cowslips
Charlotte Croft has sent us this photo of a flowering plant that has two different names in Vermont: Cowslips or Marsh Marigolds. At the risk of being trite, we would have to say that a rose by any other name smells just as sweet. These flowers are a bright burst of Spring sunshine. Thanks for sending the photo, Charlotte!
Pat and Jim
