I am giving each of my three daughters a quilt as a keepsake. These are not quilts made by me with fabric from their Easter dresses or from their first days of school. How I wish I had been so forward thinking that I had saved those favorite dresses and tops for that purpose! No, instead, these are homemade quilts that I have bought specifically to give to the girls as a special gift from me.
When I was sixteen, my Grandmother Waugh gave me a pink and brown flowered quilt. She had not made it – she wasn’t handy like that – but she had specifically chosen it for me. It wasn’t a Texas Star or a Wedding Ring pattern or one of those lovely Amish designs that I have seen since. It was a simple hand-sewn pattern, thick and very soft. I loved it.
My grandmother, Mary Winifred Blackmon Waugh, was a fine woman: devoted to her family and active in her community. My mother described her as being the social service agency in Bastrop, Texas long before there was an official agency of that name. She fed the hungry, clothed the poor, helped women in need, even traveled with women prisoners on the train to Huntsville so they would stay safe. She addressed the Texas legislature as the president of the statewide Daughters of the American Revolution and was the PTA president at my mother’s school from the time mother was in kindergarten until she graduated from high school. Winnie Waugh was a force – strong, opinionated and saucy. She could milk a cow and host a luncheon on the same day, though she would not want her cronies to know she had been out in the barn. She advised my mother after she was married, “If the maid quits, go straight to bed!” and she waved at her husband from the back of a train car after he had commanded her to not travel again anytime soon. In short, Winnie Waugh was a pistol.
It’s sad that by the time I came along – the fifth out of sixth children – my Grandmother was far past her prime. I didn’t get to see the woman who shouted orders and expected everyone to do her bidding, or the civil servant who aided the poor. I saw a woman with a faulty memory, who wielded her cane like a weapon, and delighted in threatening me with a beating. And yet, even then, I knew that my Grandmother had been quite a woman when she was younger. After all, she was quite a woman even in her dotage.
I cherished that quilt Grandmother Waugh gave me and took it to college with me for my bed. Somehow, the fact that she had picked it out brought me comfort. There was a connection there between the two of us and it was warm and soft, just as our relationship should have been. I was heart-sick – still am – when I discovered that my quilt was somehow lost when I was moving from one college to another. I suspect someone fancied its softness and took it home with them.
Today, I presented my youngest daughter with her quilt: a green and white star pattern that is simple, but lovely. I had washed and dried it and when she arrived, I spread it out so she could see how pretty the pattern was. She smiled and thanked me, but I wondered deep down how could this quilt mean much to this child of the modern age. Wouldn’t she have preferred a new I-phone or perhaps a Mac Notebook? Still, this was the gift I had picked out for her months ago, waiting for the right time to give to her.
Just as she was leaving, she said, “I am so happy about my quilt!”
“Will you put it on your bed?” I asked.
“This very afternoon.”
To this day, I long for my Grandmother’s quilt. It was symbolic: of her love for me, of her legacy as a strong woman in our family, and of her memory.
I won’t ever have that quilt back, but I am passing on the tradition. And one of these days, I hope my daughters will say, “Mama gave this quilt to me as a gift when I was in my twenties. Every time I wrap myself in its softness, I think of her.”
And every time I wrap my memories around me, soft and tight, I think of my cantankerous, but beloved Winnie Waugh.
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