Grandma's Quilt . . . Sort of

There is an old quilt that I keep folded up on the end of my couch. Tori's grandmother (Ella) actually gave it to her when she lived with us. It's not a "nice" old quilt, nor is it one that Ella made. Ella use to own a craft and antiques store and when she closed down she ended up with a ton of inventory, most of it not worth selling. Like this quilt.

It's coming apart at the seams. The fabric used doesn't match and is of poor quality; the majority of it looks like an old sheet. There is some design to the quilt, it's not just blocks of fabric. It looks like something I might have made, had I been making quilts 40 or 50 years ago.

To the best of my knowledge, Ella gave Tori two quilts. One of them Tori has with her in San Marcos. This one, I don't tell her about. She probably doesn't even remember it, it's not remarkable to her in anyway. But it is to me.

I don't know if it was growing up poor, or growing up in a family with no creative ability, but there was nothing passed down in my family. Being illegitimate, there was only one family side to pass things down if they'd been so inclined, and they weren't.

Over my life I've gone through different stages of collecting 'fake' family heirlooms. In my twenties, I purchased old aprons at thrift stores and antique malls - the kind Mrs. Clever wore in Leave it to Beaver. In my early thirties I collected old needlework and doilies that had been hand made. Pillowcases someone had embroidered flowers around the edge of.

I didn't lie to myself about where they came from, or attempt to pass them off to others as anything other than what they were. Yet they still made me feel connected to the past, to time gone by. Still made me feel loved.

I quit wearing aprons long ago and ended up getting rid of my collection. I eventually quit hording old needlework.

But this one old quilt feels like home made love to me. Cheaply made, not much experience in quilting, and falling apart at the seams. But when I cuddle down under it, I feel wrapped in the loving arms of the past. Of some one's grandmother . . . just not my own.