Tattered & Torn: A Quilting Cozy
Carol Dean Jones
Chapter 1
“Do you know anything about this old quilt?” Sarah asked as she gently ran her fingers over the delicate pattern, hesitant to even pick it up for fear it might crumble. “It looks very old.”
“My guess would be that it’s fifty or sixty years old,” the shopkeeper responded, “but I don’t know anything about it. It just came in a couple of weeks ago, and I haven’t had a chance to examine it closely.”
Sarah didn’t make a habit of trolling thrift shops like her many friends in the retirement community where she lived, but this quilt had caught her eye as she was strolling past the shop on her way to meet her friend Sophie at the nearby café.
The shopkeeper carefully picked the quilt up and spread it out across an equally old upholstered wing chair. “The fabrics appear to be old, but I’m really not very knowledgeable about quilts. If you’re interested in it, you might want to talk to someone in the quilt shop up the street.” She slipped her glasses on and looked at it more closely. “Look at these tiny stitches,” she said. “I haven’t had it appraised,” she added thoughtfully, “but I probably should before selling it.”
Sarah examined the quilt carefully, noting places where the fabrics had partially disintegrated, and other places where patterns were faded beyond recognition. She thought about the woman who had tediously pieced the quilt using scraps from her family’s worn-out clothing. It’s amazing it’s lasted this long, she thought as she carefully lifted an edge to examine the back.
“I’d like to buy it,” she found herself saying. The two women discussed it and ultimately agreed on a price, despite the shopkeeper’s hesitance to sell it. Sarah had already begun wondering whether she could make the necessary repairs.
As she was leaving the shop with her carefully wrapped bundle securely tucked under her arm, Sarah turned to the shopkeeper and asked, “How did you happen to come by this quilt?”
“A woman brought it to me just a few weeks ago. She said her husband found it in the attic of an old building they were demolishing – part of the downtown revitalization program. They’re tearing down public housing and replacing it with high-priced condominiums.”
“I’ve read about that, and I’ve wondered where the people who were living there were going…” Sarah replied thoughtfully.
“To shelters and the streets, would be my guess,” the woman responded.
“The whole thing doesn’t leave me feeling particularly revitalized,” Sarah replied with a sigh as she left the shop and headed for the café.
On the way, she passed the quilt shop and decided to stop in for a minute and show the quilt to her friend Ruth, the owner of Running Stitches.
“I only have a minute,” Sarah began as she opened the bag and laid the quilt on the counter still folded. “I’m meeting Sophie, but I wanted you to see this. The owner of the shop said it was probably fifty or sixty years old.”
“Sarah, you have a real treasure here, and I’m surprised Florence didn’t realize what she had. From these fabrics, I’d say this quilt dates back to the mid-1800s, probably before the Civil War.”
“Really?” Sarah gasped. “She said it’s a hexagon quilt. Did they make them that long ago?”
“Hexagon quilt patterns became popular back in the 1700s, and there are many different layouts and names, the most common being this pattern, the Grandmother’s Flower Garden. And these fabrics were very common during the Civil War period. This is an exciting find, Sarah.”
“Would you help me figure out how to repair it?”
Ruth hesitated. “I’d be happy to talk with you about it, but you might not want to disturb its authenticity…”
Sarah was eager to continue the conversation but at that moment several customers were entering the shop, and Sarah knew Sophie was probably becoming impatient, so she slipped the quilt back into the bag and told Ruth she’d be back.”
“Come by early in the morning,” Ruth said as her friend was leaving, and Sarah nodded her agreement.
* * *
“That thing is in shreds,” her boisterous buddy bellowed when Sarah revealed the contents of her package. “Why would you pay good money for that rag? I could have given you something I use in Emma’s dog bed if I had known you wanted something like this.”
“Sophie, this rag as you call it is a piece of our history. It may well be a priceless antique.”
“Priceless is right. There’s no price a sane person would pay for it.”
Sophie was new to the world of quilting, and Sarah knew to be patient with her, but she was finding it challenging. She repackaged her treasure and over lunch began sharing some of the stories she had heard about quilts created during the Civil War period.
Sarah told her friend about how fancy quilts were made and sold to raise money for the war effort, and simpler quilts were made as cot quilts for sons and husbands to take as they headed out to join the fighting. When she got to the part about how often the bodies of their loved ones were wrapped and buried in these simple quilts, Sophie became quiet. “Sorry,” she muttered contritely. “I didn’t know.”
“Very few quilts made in that period have survived and, if this is truly one of them, it’s a real treasure. I just wish I knew more about its history.”
Sophie was quiet as they drove home and Sarah knew to give her friend the space she needed. As Sophie was getting out of the car, she turned to Sarah and said, “If you want to find out where this quilt came from, I’d like to help you.”
“Great,” Sarah responded enthusiastically. “The Sarah-Sophie investigation team is on the job.”
Sophie threw her head back and cackled, instantly returning to her usual outrageous self. “We’re going to be detecting again. Shall I bring my gun?”
“Sophie, you know you don’t have a gun, and we wouldn’t need it for this job even if you did.”
Chapter 2
The following morning, Sarah pulled up to Running Stitches twenty minutes before Ruth arrived to unlock the door. She tried the knob even though the closed sign was posted, hoping that Ruth might already be inside. It was indeed locked. She was eager to see Ruth and get her professional advice regarding making repairs to her quilt.
Sarah impatiently paced for a few minutes, then decided to cross the street and attempt to relax with a cup of coffee. Sitting at a window booth so she could watch for Ruth, she opened the bag and pulled the tissue aside to look at the quilt again. It was a bright sunny day, and she told herself hopefully, It doesn’t look so bad in this light.
“You’d better get that out of the sunshine,” the voice behind her announced cheerfully. Startled, Sarah turned to see that Ruth was standing by her table.
“I can hardly wait for you to see the entire quilt,” Sarah responded excitedly, tucking the tissue around the quilt.
“Let’s head on over to the shop so we can spread it out before the customers start arriving.”
As they walked across the street, Sarah asked if Ruth knew the owner of the thrift shop well.
“Florence? I’ve known her for years. She opened her shop the same time I opened Running Stitches. We met at the city zoning office when both of us were arguing the same issue. We were able to help each other through the process, and we both got what we wanted. We celebrated with lunch at Cucina’s, and we’ve made it a tradition to celebrate our shops’ anniversaries there every year. So, tell me about the quilt.”
“It has some serious problems, but I’m hoping you can guide me through the repairs. You’ll see when we spread it out. I’m excited about it, but mostly I want to know more about it. I’m hoping you can tell me something about its past.
“What kind of dama
ge does it have?“ Ruth asked.
“Well, there are a few serious holes, some of the fabrics, particularly the reds, have faded, and other fabrics are disintegrating. I can replace those, but I want to find some vintage fabrics for the replacements, and I want to use the right kind of thread. There are also tears, a few that go all the way through to the back. And, of course, there are places where the stitches have dissolved.” Sarah sighed as she began to realize the enormity of the project. “The binding will need to be replaced too, but again I’ll want to find the right vintage fabric.”
“You said you want to repair the quilt, but I’m beginning to wonder if you aren’t, in fact, talking about restoring it.”
“I don’t know the difference, Ruth. That’s what I’m hoping you’ll help me with.”
They had just entered the shop, and Ruth began her opening rituals. “Why don’t you go spread it out in the classroom and we can examine it there without being interrupted. Anna will be in shortly, and she can take over in the shop.” Anna, Ruth’s younger sister, had moved to Middletown hoping to build family connections now that she and her husband had children.
Just as Ruth got the lights on and the cash register set up, a group of women pulled up in a van and burst through the door. “We need backs and battings for our charity quilts,” one of the women announced as they entered. “And I need blades for my rotary cutter,” one of the other women added. Ruth tucked her purse under the counter and began helping the women. She learned the group of friends had gotten together to make quilts for the women’s shelter in town. “We started out just making them for the beds in the shelter, but we discovered that the women loved them. We all three have more fabric than we can ever use, so we started making extras, and now the women are able to take them when they move into their new homes.”
“We can hardly keep up with the demand,” one of the women added.
“Do you need some help?” Ruth asked. “Our Tuesday Night Quilters are always willing to take on charity projects.”
“That’s a very generous offer Ruth,” the older woman and apparent leader responded. “If we get in a bind, we’ll take you up on that.
While they talked, Sarah headed for the classroom where she placed the quilt in the supply cabinet instead of spreading it out until Ruth was available. The sun was streaming in across the work table, and she knew Ruth would tell her not to put it there. She then hurried to the kitchen to make coffee. Ruth had handed her a bag of fresh bakery items which Sarah arranged on a platter once she got the coffee started. The regular customers of Stitches knew to come into the kitchen and help themselves to refreshments.
A few minutes later Sarah heard the jingle of the bell on the front door, and Anna came breezing in carrying her new baby. “She’s asleep,” Anna announced. “I’ll put her in the crib in the back, and she’ll be fine for a couple of hours. Geoff is going to pick her up at noon after his class.” Anna was expert at balancing home, work, and children. Her older girl had already been delivered to daycare where she would stay until her father picked her up.
Ruth and Anna took care of several other customers while Sarah went back into the classroom and began spreading out the quilt.
Finally, Sarah and Ruth were alone in the classroom. The door was closed, the blinds tilted to avoid direct sunshine, and the quilt was spread out on the table. “It measures 44 by 89 inches,” Ruth was saying. “That’s about the size that the Sanitary Commission recommended for cot quilts during the Civil War. That may have been the quilter’s intention.”
Sarah felt a shiver of excitement travel down her spine.
“On the other hand, most of the cot quilts were made in a hurry using blocks that went together quickly, and they were often tied rather than quilted. This flower garden design is very time-consuming to make, and it’s been hand quilted instead of tied. That doesn’t rule it out as a cot quilt, but it makes it seem less likely.”
Ruth continued to examine the quilt closely, and she suddenly exclaimed, “Here’s our answer. Look at the binding on this side.”
“It’s different than on the other three sides,” Sarah responded. “I noticed that earlier, but I figured our quilter ran out of fabric.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Ruth said slowly, beginning to form her idea. “I believe that this quilt was originally a bed quilt that was cut down the middle to make a cot quilt quickly, actually two cot quilts.”
“They did that?” Sarah was appalled.
“They sure did. It was desperate times.”
Sarah imagined gunfire in the background as her mind drifted off to a gray, weathered shack and two women standing on the porch, their arms intertwined, and their cheeks tear-stained, as they watched their boys trudging down the dusty road with their meager possessions strapped to their backs.
“Sarah? Are you with me?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about what you said.”
“You look like there’s something you want to say,” Ruth said with a concerned look. She gently laid her hand on Sarah’s arm and added, “Is something bothering you?”
Sarah took a deep breath and began. “I’m not sure how to explain this, Ruth. I feel,” she hesitated, searching for the right words. “I feel very drawn to this quilt or perhaps to the woman who made it. I feel as if this quilt needs something from me, and I know that makes no sense at all.”
”This quilt has really had an impact on you, hasn’t it?”
“It has, and I don’t understand it.”
“Some people think that an inanimate object can hold energy from its past. I once met a woman who claimed she could sense messages from beyond the grave by simply touching the belonging of loved ones who had passed on, but I figured it was some sort of flimflam.”
“It probably was,” Sarah responded with a smile.
“My advice to you is that you don’t try to dissect your feelings. Just enjoy this very special quilt which has somehow made its way to you.”
It made its way to me? Sarah thought. Interesting way to put it…
“So, back to the quilt,” Ruth said as she carefully lifted a corner and peered at the back. “I assume there’s no label, right?”
“Right, but there are the remnants of some embroidery thread. Let me show you.” They carefully turned the quilt over, and Sarah searched for the wrinkled corner where she had seen the threads. “See? Right here. That looks like an M or maybe an N, and then there’s some space. On a little farther is an O for sure, but I can’t make out these three letters that are together.”
Ruth reached for her magnifying glass and examined the area very carefully. “I can make out an I and an E and possibly an S. Grab that paper and write this down: M or N-space-space-O-space IES. Does that look like anything?” she asked Sarah, who was now studying the area with the magnifying glass.
“Couldn’t this be the beginning of another M right here before the O?” she asked, squinting into the glass. She pulled her glasses off and said, “There. That’s better. That could definitely be another M.”
“Memories,” Ruth cried abruptly, causing Sarah to almost drop the magnifying glass.
“Memories? Are you sure?” Sarah studied the area more closely. “I think you’re right, and even if you aren’t, this will be my Memories quilt from this day on. Let’s look for a date.”
There was no sign of a date and no evidence one had ever been added. “Now this is exactly why I keep telling people that their quilts are not finished until they’ve added the label,” Ruth said frowning. “Just think, if Memories had a label, we’d possibly know when it was made, where, and by whom.” Sarah thought about all the quilts she had made, and only one had a label. She made a personal vow to go back and add labels to all of them.
“Tell me what you have in mind for this quilt,” Ruth asked. “Are you hoping to restore it to as close to authentic condition as you can, or do you simply want to repair the damage? Are you going to use it? Display it? What will you be doing with this
quilt?”
“I’ll certainly display it. It’s too delicate to use. But it doesn’t have to be in original condition. I probably could never find fabrics that old.”
“You could search through antique shops and even on the internet for old fabric, or you might find another old quilt in worse condition that could be cut up. And I’ve seen vintage squares from unfinished quilts that were pinned together and sold in antique shops. You could check with Florence about that. But I agree that you’d have a time finding fabrics that are at least a hundred and fifty years old. You could consider using Civil War reproduction fabrics,” Ruth added, “but you’d be making repairs, not restoring it.”
“I guess I could,” Sarah replied thoughtfully. “It all depends on how authentic I want it to be. This is going to require a great deal of thought.”
The two women spent another hour going over the quilt and talking about how to make the various repairs if that’s what Sarah decided to do. As she was leaving the shop, Sarah purchased a spool of silk thread just in case she decided to make a few small repairs.
* * *
“Did you know that Timothy and Martha are away?”
“What do you mean ‘away?’” Sarah asked her husband Charles, who was standing in the kitchen looking perplexed when Sarah walked in.
“I just called Andy about playing golf tomorrow, and he said he and Caitlyn are taking care of Penny and Blossom for a few days. Do you know where they were going?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to Martha for a week or so, and Sophie hasn’t mentioned anything about her son being away.”
Sarah’s daughter Martha was not always forthcoming about her private life, but Timothy and Sophie had a much different relationship. “I’ll give Sophie a call and ask her. Is Andy having a problem with Penny?”
“No, he wasn’t complaining. He just mentioned it in passing and was surprised that we didn’t know about it.” Timothy, Sophie’s son, and Andy, a friend and fellow resident of the village, had become supportive friends when they both found themselves single parents of teenage girls. Both girls had lost their mothers under very different circumstances and had come to live with their fathers. Not only had the fathers become friends, but their daughters had as well.
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