Today is my birthday,
and I’m a grandmother. Early this morning I was thinking about my grandmothers—how
long they lived, what they were like. My husband’s maternal grandmother was an
important part of my life for over a decade. I wrote this tribute to her some
time ago and decided to post it today.
The old woman peered over the top of her smudged
glasses to identify the visitor, then quickly dropped her eyes to the calico squares
on the quilting frame. Her bright blue eyes showed no hint of her 91
years, and her voice was strong and animated. Fingers skillfully pulling
the needle down through squares, batting, and lining and then back up through
the crazy-quilt top, she greeted me and spoke happily about a letter from a
California grandson and--hands too busy to point--nodded her head toward a
large cardboard box on the bed. She said a young church friend had
just delivered a collection of fabric remnants.
As always, I looked at her crowded room in
amazement. "Too busy to be tidy," she said apologetically, with
no apology in her eyes. On the brown tile floor, old shopping bags stuffed with
fabric squares of many colors and patterns, double wedding ring curves, and
Texas star points crowded against boxes overfilled with brightly colored
scraps. She wanted me to see the latest finished quilt, so I pulled a
battered brown suitcase from under the bed and examined a carefully folded
Dutch Boy destined for the newest great-grandson in Atlanta. Because
a basket of bananas and apples took up the extra chair, I pushed aside her blue
chenille bathrobe and sat on the bed with the new box of remnants, my feet just
missing an open breadbox and its tangle of colors in loose and balled thread.
The telephone rang. She moved a pile of
pieced squares and talked with a Texas grandson. I picked up the worn black
Bible on the bedside table and read several pages of the copious notes in the
margins, some written in a sure, tight hand, some in a loose scrawl. A
short time later, two middle-aged women from the local homemakers' club stopped
by to deliver a caramel cake and a summary of the latest news.
As they chatted, with one visitor on the bed
next to me, leaning uncomfortably against the wall, and the other perched
gingerly on the window sill, I noticed that the ever-growing stack of sewing
boxes (a sameness of gifts) was now precariously propped against the
bookcase. Letters, snapshots, and greeting cards were jammed between and
into the books. Wandering Jew, trailing philodendron, and airplane plants
overran the top of the bookcase, creating a cool green chaos in contrast with
the color riot everywhere else. Although I could not see it, I knew that
there was a sewing machine underneath the rolls of batting. There was a
tiny black and white TV, I remembered, on the dresser under the mound of pale
yellow lining. The other corner of the outside wall was all quilting
frame, with Grandmama's chair jutting out into the middle of the room, blocking
most of the walking space.
The two ladies said their goodbyes until next
month. Taking with me clippings of philodendron, apples for the boys, the
caramel cake ("Take it home! I don't need the sugar. Besides,
it's Warren's favorite."), and a trash basket made from yellow egg cartons
tied together with green knitting yarn, I stepped into the hall, contemplating
the 104 quilts and 56 baby quilts made since she had decided to move here four
years ago. As I left that busy, happy bustle behind me, I suddenly noticed
the strong acrid smell of the nursing home.
Minnie E. Porter Moore, 1884-1975
Minnie E. Porter Moore, 1884-1975
Written in July, 1984
