Sarah fascinated me.
She lived next to my aunt and uncle’s house, and only a few blocks from where I lived.
As a young child, my mom would collect fabric squares from women who took time to buy material and cut them. They would bundle them all up and I would carry the bag of squares to her house.
Sarah was quite old by the time I met her. She had a kind face and pure white hair, like snow. She wore dresses made of dark colors that contrasted with the small white, pink or yellow flowers sprinkled upon them. She spoke with a funny accent and she was held to a wheel chair, and although her dresses were long, I could still tell her one leg was fake.
Sarah flowered stories that were dull, with descriptions, much like her clothing. And she was the first person I knew that put honey in her tea.
I loved going to her house, it smelled of a soft perfume and she always greeted me with sweet names, like baby doll and lovey. It made me feel so special.
She had two sewing machines which always had rows of the connected squares dangling from them; they reminded me of parade banners.
She made the toppers, the part of the quilt that held the pattern. I loved the different designs and colors, and I loved picking up the fabric pieces and threads for her. This was my favorite job; I could be with her and yet not have to hold a conversation. There was no pressure in helping Sarah.
When the tops were finished they would be toted to a house where the ‘Sewing Circle’ was being held for that month. Local women brought lunch dishes and the big farm house rooms were set up with one or two racks that stretched the quilt tops with batting and pre-sewn bottoms. The women gathered around them and spent the entire week day hand sewing the quilts while sharing their lives. We kids gathered underneath, like a big circus tent, and played marbles or read.
When they were complete, they would get folded and taken back to Sarah’s for storage. She never used her upstairs and one bedroom was designated for the numerous multicolored coverlets.
These quilts were gifts to area families when they suffered a house fire. Every member of the household would have a beautiful quilt to sleep under. I would page through them and think to myself how wonderful to receive a grand quilt. I was too young to understand the tragedies of a fire.
Sarah was so proud of the work that went into the quilts. She would praise each one and look them over with tears resting in her eyes. It was much like when she would talk of her husband occasionally. I never met him; he had gone off to heaven long before I was born.
Sarah had a picture of him next to her bed. When I was older and she got frailer, I would be asked to come spend the night with her. It was then that I would hear her speaking to her husband as if he was there. I slipped off the high four poster and crept to her door. I saw her running her fingers over the picture and she was telling him how much sewing she had done and how I came to sit with her. I hurried away; I knew this was a private and special moment for Sarah, not me.
Sarah always made me oatmeal and toast in the mornings. She would be dressed in her usual outfit, her hair styled and a soft white shawl over her shoulders.
I would eat, thank her for breakfast and head home.
After I had grown and gone off to raise my children, I had learned that Sarah too had gone to a home for the elderly. I visited her once with mom, she talked of her husband as if he was still alive and she always asked about the quilts. One day mom called, she said Sarah had slipped off in her sleep, it comforted me to know that it happened under one of the quilts she had made.
