Memory Quilt

When I was 10 years old, I learned how to embroider outlines that were ironed on to plain white fabric. I had a real fascination with some little Dutch figures that my mother found and transferred onto the cloth for me. I stayed busy working on these squares for hours. We seldom watched television and in fact, for many years we didn't own a television. Therefore, we occupied ourselves with handiwork, talking to one another, or in the games and mischief we could manufacture. After I finished quite a number of embroidered squares, I put them aside and forgot about them.

It was after I moved out to California that Mother surprised me by sending me a completed baby quilt that she put together with this bright pink patterned flannel. It is very soft and bright and is pouffy from the polyfil that she sewed into it. Any small child would like it because it's so cheerful and cuddly. I think that Mother despaired that I would ever have children. After all, I was at the ripe age of 24 and was barely dating anyone. Maybe this baby quilt would make me think about motherhood.

In fact, I thought about it all the time. A brood of sons would have suited me quite well, since I didn't think my sensibilities were delicate enough to raise daughters. But a broken engagement and the family response to my near marriage deterred me from moving toward any kind of permanent relationship for many years. Even though I longed for a family of my own, it was just not to be.

So my quilt stayed rolled up and carefully wrapped, stored in the antique travel trunk of my great grandfather Bettinger. I also had a little yellow dress with smocking and flowers embroidered across the top that Mother made after I challenged her attitude about my prospects. If your comments about wanting me to marry and have children are substantial it seems that you will make something--anything at all--to go in my hope chest. So she made me a darling little yellow and white dress for a tiny little girl.

When Sam and I were packing to move to our new home this summer, I opened up Grampa Bettinger's trunk and pulled out the baby quilt. One side of it had my embroidered squares. The other was a butterfly pattern superimposed on squares of material that Mother had saved from all the clothing she sewed for us. There's a leftover piece of material from my 8th grade graduation dress; something from the (hideous) bridesmaid dress I wore for my sister's wedding; a couple blouses I had made for myself; and a shirt of Mother's. The black and white gingham was the little scrap left over from the matching dresses Mother had made for herself, my sister and I. As if we didn't stand out enough in matching dresses, she then made my father and two brothers shirts out of it. We all laughed at how we looked: "It looks like we got a run on a bolt!" (of cloth). We made it a point not to wear them all at the same time after that first time because we all looked and felt ridiculous. The quilt was fun to look at because my mind went back to the sewing room at the back of our country house, and I remembered sewing back there for hours, looking out across corn fields, past the freshly laundered clothes hanging outside to dry.

I looked at this quilt for a long time, feeling very sad that it had never been used. Given that I have no children to pass it along to, and my neice and nephew would not appreciate it, I didn't know what to do with it. It is such a sweet quilt that it seemed a waste to merely keep it hidden away in a dusty old trunk.

Then I thought of Nancy. She and I grew up together--the rotten egg thrower, the girl who taught me about country life, and with whom I played for hours as a child. She also married late. She and her husband have adopted three children from Kazakhstan, the youngest one within the last year. I still had not sent her a baby gift.

Nancy sews, crochets, and does a lot of things I grew up doing, so she would appreciate the work that went into this. And no one I know would be a better recipient of this quilt than she because she shared so much of my young life with me. So it was a bittersweet experience to say goodbye to my dreams of motherhood and send it off to her. I cried for a long time, looking at it, turning it over in my hands, and remembering--remembering years of disappointed hope and so many dreams. As it went out in the mail, a chapter of my life ended and another began.

Nancy was moved and delighted to receive my package. I have not missed it and her little girl is delighted with it. Nancy wraps up her children in it and tells them stories from our young lives--all the things we did together, and many little vignettes about my family. It fills me with joy to know that this quilt is giving these beautiful children a sense of belonging and warmth.

The Sacred Harp

Shape note singing has been around in this country since its colonization. It was a way of teaching young children how to read music and to sing. Each note corresponded with a note on the sol-fegge scale (fa-so-la, etc.) and had a different shape: rectangular, triangular, circular, square. So any child, if she could see the shape, could sing the corresponding tone. It is a very clever method of singing. It was particularly suited to congregational or group singing. Everyone is invited to sing in these groups, not just those with voices that are considered particularly worth listening to. Shape note singing groups usually have bases that bellow and altos whose voices are so strident that they can strip wallpaper. People wail away at a great volume, tremendous enthusiasm, and sing with their whole souls. In another post I said that there needs to be more singing by people in this country--not the polished, perfect music, but the singing that arises from a soul on fire. Shape note singing is such a practice. Old and young sing side by side without distinction. (go here and here to see an example).


Typically, the seats are arranged in a square and the leader--who can be anyone: man, woman, or child, with or without any kind of singing voice--stands in the center. They make an up and down motion with their hand to keep time. The tenor gives the starting note and off they go. The first time, the song is sung through on the fa-so-la syllables. Then the fun begins with the words. Some of the songs are dirge-like and others sound surprisingly similar to Scottish bagpipe tunes. The level of community engagement is unlike almost anything else I've ever seen.


Singings, as they are called, are usually an all day event, with dinner on the ground (a potluck lunch) in the middle of the day. The best singing occurs right before and right after lunch. The singing begins with a heartfelt prayer for God to be present, and ends with an equally fervent prayer of thanks at the end. It is a time of fellowship and anyone of any age, faith, or ability is welcome.

There are a few hymnals that are written in shape note, but the most famous by far is called "The Sacred Harp," the harp being the human voice. Most of the songs were composed around the time of the Civil War and the Great Awakening period in U.S. History. Thus, many songs are about Christ's return, the Christian life, and an earnest desire to live apart from a sinful world. Songs in this book are indexed by their tune name, not the first line of the song: Warrenton, Hyferdol, Alabama, etc. Here are the lyrics of one of my favorite hymns in the book:

When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

And wipe my weeping eyes,

And wipe my weeping eyes

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

Should earth against my soul engage,

And hellish darts be hurled,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

And face a frowning world,

And face a frowning world,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

Let cares, like a wild deluge come,

And storms of sorrow fall!

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

My God, my heav’n, my All,

My God, my heav’n, my All,

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

There shall I bathe my weary soul

In seas of heav’nly rest,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

Across my peaceful breast,

Across my peaceful breast,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

The trailer for a very interesting movie documentary on shape note singing is found here. You will hear very strident, open chords, wierd harmonies. But for some of us, it is a tie back to the early days of this country, and an opportunity to keep this form of community music alive. I think that if more communities came together and sang like this, the country would be very different and so would the health of people and society in general.