The Women Behind the Wish Quilt

My two grandmothers, Mattie and Kitty. So similar, yet so different. One shy, gentle, and meek. The other stubborn as a mule and open to some frivolity, if only on occasion. But both, strong, loving, and family-centered.

My Grandmama (Mattie), as I called her, passed away when I was 9. I was old enough to remember her, but young enough not to remember much outside of her being ill with cancer. I have brief memories of her hard-as-brick, but everybody loved them, biscuits. And her sweet corn, fried on the stove. I guess between losing her so soon and being preoccupied with my own education and career for a good portion of my life, I always felt quite distant from her. My Daddy would always talk about the quilts that she made for each of us. To be honest, as a spoiled teenager, I wasn’t quite fond of the quilt pattern that she used for mine. Even though (I would have realized this if I had opened my eyes at the time) she chose one of my favorite childhood characters–Holly Hobby. I never quite understand why my parents protected those quilts so. But as I got older, I understood a little more. Move after move for school, and more school, and residency, and fellowship, I found myself opening boxes of memories and wishing I knew more. When my first daughter was born, my Aunt Faye, who has taken on the tradition of family quilt making, quilted a beautiful piece for her. I loved it, and yet, I still didn’t quite get it. When my second daughter was born, we kept our plan to name her after my Grandmama Mattie. I must say she does not have her calm demeanor, but her light, soft locks do remind me of my Grandmother’s soft, white hair that turned so early. But, I still didn’t quite get it.

And then, in 2013, life changed just a little. I had a cardiac arrest. It’s an understatement when people tell you that a near-death, or in my case a sudden cardiac real death experience, will change you. It’s brought highs and lows and questions about the world and its meaning that I can’t begin to describe. But, that’s not what this post is about. It’s about Mattie and Kitty, Grandmama and Memama. In the months and especially years following my cardiac arrest, I started to long for my family. I started to long to understand why the traditions, like the quilts, were there. Some of the traditions I took hold to quite quickly, like baking pecan pie–a favorite of my Memama (Kitty). Some of the traditions I wasn’t very interested in. But something kept coming back to my heart about those quilts. And then, in the fall of 2018, my oldest daughter sealed the deal. She wanted to learn to sew. She asked Santa for a sewing kit, but we knew the things she wanted to sew would be more complicated than that. So Santa brought her a sewing machine. Having only sewn people in my life–I’m a former obstetrician-gynecologist, I had NO IDEA of where to start. So, we bought a beginner’s guide to sewing for kids. We took in as much advice from friends and family as we could. And we started small. For a day. Then, my impatient daughter (I have no idea where she gets it from) decided on about day 3 that she would like to make a quilt. A close friend had suggested a rag quilt to start, and a few Pinterest finds and YouTube videos later, we were off to the races. Of course, the quilt turned out to be much more than we thought. But, we kept going. My husband was cutting squares. She was sewing squares. I was pinning squares. And somehow, in the chaos of creating that quilt and in the joy that I saw when she finished it (although she’s taken a break from quilts since then), I got it. Maybe not completely. But I got it. I understood the tradition. I understood the love that could be poured into something as simple as fabric and thread. I could appreciate the craftsmanship that Mattie took in her carefully thought out quilts. How she must have gathered scraps together slowly over time. How she must have loved each square. How those quilts now have meaning to me that I never understood before. I love that Holly Hobby quilt now. I can almost envision it spread over my future granddaughter’s bed. Or laid over the end of mine. I can feel Mattie in it. And I’m yanking it from my Daddy’s house as soon as he’ll let me!

Kitty, or Memama as we call her, is my maternal grandmother. I have been so fortunate to have her close by throughout my life. She is still kicking around in her late 80’s….running her neighborhood….making sure her house is always clean and that all of her children have checked in with her for the night, especially if they’ve been on the road. Memama is a machine in many ways. She grew up working hard, and she has never stopped. She’s always been more of the utilitarian crafter. I have so many throws and afghans that she’s made over the years. I love them, and I can tell you exactly when she gave them to me. My favorite is this beautiful soft yellow afghan. She made it to match one of my bedrooms when I was younger. I guess Memama crocheted so much as I grew up, that I took it for granted. When I lived in Michigan during my fellowship, and seeing as I am a South Carolinian, she made sure to crochet me no less than a dozen scarves. They were my lifesavers! Different colors; different styles. I had so many I could coordinate with my outfits, if my geeky self would take the time to plan my wardrobe as much. My daughters share them with me now. Of course, not much in SC, but when we travel up to the Midwest or Western New York, my husband’s birthplace, we know just what to use.

Now, after the quilting excitement I mentioned earlier, I decided that I’d like to take up a craft of my own. Since I always loved working with my hands during surgery, and I don’t do that anymore, I thought I’d take a stab at crochet. And I knew just who to ask. I bombarded my Memama at Christmas. Everybody sits around for a long time anyway. Yarn and hook pre-bought and in hand, I said, “Teach me, Memama.” Ahh, the look on her face. I know that look so well. The, “Child, just slow down a minute,” look. And she started showing me a simple chain stitch. Being the overly anxious, perfectionist, former surgeon that I am, I of course pulled on everything too tightly, as if I was tying surgical knots on a hysterectomy. I was flustered. Beaded forehead and all. But not her. She knows she’s more stubborn anyway and that her persistence and patience would eventually win. And she was right. “Just keep practicing, Tee,” she said. “It’s just gonna take some practice. You’ll get it.” I wanted so hard to look and her and say, “No. Can’t you see? I’m not getting it.” But, I knew she was right. And she was. And now here I am two years later, still a novice, but trying new stitches I never thought I would. Building a full quilt of crocheted squares. Taking the intention of Mattie, the tenacity of Kitty, and the love of both, and turning it into a project of love. I can’t get enough of it. Very few things in my life have made me as happy as this tradition, as roundabout of a way I came to it, and especially as happy as using this tradition for this project.