The Secret Lives of Old Quilt Tops: Everyday Magic, Day 927

I find them irresistible: hand-sewn old quilt tops dreaming of a real  life, a little like the Velveteen Rabbit before someone loved him to death (and rebirth as a real rabbit). Although I don’t possess the super power of finding a parking spot on Massachusetts Street at lunch time, I do have a knack for glimpsing incomplete quilts hanging on the back of a folding chair in a thrift store, or slung over a clothes line at a yard sale. If they’re not moth-tattered to shreds (have plenty of those quilts already at home), the colors please me, and the price is right, I tell them, “you’re coming home with me.”

Years ago, I fell in love with a massive quilt of stars hand-sewn by an old woman at her garage sale. “It’s made from those cloth sacks flour and sugar came in,” she told me, teaching me how many staples used to come in very useful packages. She said she had made it one winter in the 1930s

when she was very depressed, and she didn’t want it around anymore. I happily paid her for it, and since then, it’s filled a wall in our home, reminding me how we’re always recycling one another’s stories and efforts. Also,  her dozens of six-pointed stars are, even if made in a time of doubt and despair, are to my eyes and faith, Jewish stars that remind me of community and spirit.

Six months ago, I found my latest adoptee in a massive thrift store — which recently absorbed an old Duckwalls (kind of like a Woolworths store but with more snow shovels for sale) — in downtown Council Grove, a thriving central Kansas town with a population of about 2,000. Council Grove is known for the Hays House, the oldest restaurant west of the Mississippi, purveyor of fine fried chicken, and the spot where Ken and I got engaged in three sentences: “You want to get married?” “Do you?” “Let’s order dessert.” We were back in Council Grove last summer on our way elsewhere because, fried chicken. After we rolled out of the restaurant, we wandered through the thrift store, and then I fell a little in love.

I tend to pick up quilts, look them over well, tell myself I have too many projects and put them back down, wander for 10 minutes, return and repeat the process a few more times, and if I’m smart enough at the moment, take the quilt to the register. Luckily, I was smart enough, and after some months of the quilt top sitting in a pile of other projects not getting anywhere fast, I made it to the fabric store for some backing, then set it all up for another season.

On Saturday, feeling just better enough from a virus to want to do something with fabric sporting the color pink, I sewed on the backing after a frustrating time of laying all the materials on the floor to line everything up before a cat or dog would pounce on it all. Sunday, after opting for the cheapest and easiest way to bind a quilt — with ties instead of quilting — I bought some matching embroidery thread. That night, between checking the Superbowl scores because I wanted my beloved stepdad’s team, Philadelphia, to win, and watching a quirky Australian film about a giant satellite dish and the first moon landing, I finished up the quilt.

Now this cheery quilt is lounging on our bed dreaming of something I can’t fathom. All I know is that someone cut out hundreds of yellow, green, and pink diamonds, then painstakingly sewed them together to make this star within a star, which is also her story within my story. I’m sleeping under the layers of someone else’s toil, troubles, hopes, and harvests. I can only wish that all who sewed these forgotten quilts are resting in peace, and that the  quilts they left behind know they’re found, loved, and giving people like me warmth, delight, and cover.