Holding Onto a Memory

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ....From the television show The Wonder Years

My Grandmother introduced me to quilting. I think she thought it was a way of keeping an inquisitive ten-year old busy. She showed me how to make yo-yos, which were little rosettes made by gathering circles of fabric that were then sewn side by side into rows. The yo-yo quilts (really coverlets) were very popular in the 1930’s and 1940’s when materials were scarce. All you needed was a jelly jar and a pencil to trace circles onto fabric from a scrap basket, and Grandma had a big scrap basket. I spent many a rainy afternoon with her, carefully cutting circles out of printed chicken feed bags, folding over the edges, and sewing an uneven and slightly wobbly running-stitch all the way around. Then I would draw it up; flatten and pull the thread through the center hole and tie it off on the back. I don’t think I ever got my quilt any larger than two-feet square, but with that first yo-yo, my Grandmother had instilled in me a love for stitching, and for fabrics in all their many colors and patterns.

Later I used a treadle sewing machine to sew my own clothes, and shirts and play suits for my two young sons. With the leftover fabric scraps I pieced together simple quilts. I thought of it as a scrapbook… each piece of material held a memory for me. The white satin was from my wedding dress, the teal blue cotton from a maternity smock, the pale yellow seersucker with red rosebuds came from a layette set, and the blue cotton with white polka dots was left over from the Bozo clown suits I made for our family for the Mardi Gras celebration in New Orleans.

My children are grown men now. I don’t know what became of the quilts I pieced together all those years ago; I have sold, given away, and generally unburdened myself of most of the material things I once found indispensable. And in their absence I find that I don’t need the colorful patches of fabric to remind me of weddings, children, and life’s little moments… because my life now is a patchwork quilt of carefully stored memories, all quietly waiting in the scrap bag of my mind. When I write, those bits and pieces find their voice. At first I wrote to be remembered, to tell my story, to leave my sons with some idea of who their mother was. That focus has changed because I can see the world changing in ways that do not bode well for the future; younger generations who are unaware of what they are in danger of losing, and a people disconnected from the natural world.

Now I write as a witness to the changing times. To tell younger generations that there was a time when the worst thing you could do in high school was chew gum, pass notes, or shoot spit wads across the room; and if there was a stranger in the hallway, it drew curious stares not security guards. The logging trucks that rumbled through our small southern Oregon town, taking their load of logs to the sawmill often held only three logs because of their size… sometimes only one. We thought the forests would always be there; the loggers and the sawmill workers would always have jobs.

As children, my sisters and I loved to go to the beach. The family would pile into the old blue Studebaker and drive down the Umpqua Highway from Drain to Reedsport, then to Winchester Bay and the Florence sand dunes. Beach combing along the tide lines was an adventure, daring the ice cold Pacific surf with bare feet while looking for sand dollars, periwinkles, starfish, hermit crabs, mussels, and clams. The Pacific Ocean was full of sea life… although my family ate little of it. My mother still had bad memories of living on the coast during the Great Depression years, when seafood was all they had to eat. But it kept them alive. Now the oceans are dying.

There was a time too when I stood with my hand held over my heart saying the Pledge of Allegiance, and when the stars and stripes passed with a flourish of drums, tears of pride came to my eyes. I was proud to be an American. My country marches to a different drumbeat now, one I no longer recognize. So I write down my memories – they are the legacy I leave for my children and grandchildren. Hold onto them. Know that we are capable of being better people, wanting less and giving more. Any future depends on that.

... P. L. Morningstar