How to Make an American Quilt (38 page)

Anna said, “Constance, my girl is about your age, give or take a year.” Which made Constance realize that the photograph of the girl in the grass was rather dated.

And Marianna recalled her mother writing about some woman who had “fine roses you should see.”

Still, the two women did not converse freely when Marianna happened by.

C
ONSTANCE HAD TO TRAVEL
back east to see her family. She was not sure how long she would be gone, so she asked Glady Joe to look after her roses. The first day Glady Joe went to Constance’s, she stopped by Anna’s to ask Marianna to join her (Marianna, who had been tending Glady Joe’s garden since her return). When Constance arrived home it was Marianna she had to thank for the healthy state of her roses. After that, when Marianna had time, she would visit Constance, working the flowers by her side, usually in comfortable silence.

Marianna was sometimes asked—Marianna, who is now on the late edge of middle age—“How can you, an educated woman, work for a white lady, caring for her garden?” Often, it was a white person who posed this question.

Marianna knew that pride and self-worth were everything and that there was not a farmer in Kern County that she would consider working for today, in 1988, and that maybe her life had been stacked against her, but Glady Joe’s garden was the most beautiful sight for miles around.

No one ever said to her, “Marianna, Grasse is an ugly, dusty
place—how is it you can perform such miracles in Glady Joe’s garden?” For this bit of land was Marianna’s small miracle, her contribution to beauty in this hot, colorless place.

A
NNA RESOLVED HER LIFE
(as much as a life can be resolved, which is not saying much at times) and became more content, a little calmer and accepting. She was well aware of what her life was not, would never be, and she was angry over Marianna’s life, but she could not bear the weight of that feeling anymore. Though her quilting business allowed her artistic expression, a living, and respect, she still could not forget her early love of the heavens, and cursed and blessed her youth. What could have been. Still.

In turn, Marianna took on the tolerance of her mother. She joined the quilting circle at Constance’s insistence (“Because you are my friend,” said Constance, knowing that Marianna could not possibly know how unusual that was for Constance to have a woman friend). Marianna liked Constance’s unruffled independence, so unlike the other women in the circle. She had a hard time imagining Constance as a married woman—it did not seem possible—even though she had slightly known Howell Saunders. Of course, she and Constance were the same age. About Dean, Marianna laughs to herself; no, she would not pass judgment on Constance and Dean—not with what she knows of love.

Marianna is drawn to abstract quilts—seemingly random splashes of color and texture, with strange, unlikely composition. They express what she has to say.

A
NNA AND MARIANNA ARE STUCK
, being both black and white; being neither black nor white; and while they do not particularly like white people, they eventually grow to accept Glady Joe, Constance,
and the memory of the boy from Chicago. One could say they appear more comfortable with their difficult beauty.

The quilters accepted Anna and Marianna, and no one ever made the mistake of saying, “We don’t even notice color; they are just like us.” It was this recognition of their differences that allowed the group to survive, not pretending to transcend them. The impulse to unify and separate, rend and join, is powerful and constant.

T
his quilt is often thought to be the easiest to make. It is certainly the most common. The
Crazy Quilt
’s roots are in the nineteenth century, and it is not considered, by its detractors, the most skillful or beautiful of quilts. Some call it faddish. It was quite popular during the Great Depression (with nothing, no tiny scrap, wasted) and still has its admirers in the Midwest and the American South.

The women in your circle must contribute odds and ends to the project. They must sit in their places around the large wooden frame, piecing their fabric to the base cloth and cotton batting. As I mentioned earlier, some women enjoy the freedom of form afforded by the
Crazy Quilt
, while others prefer the discipline and predictability of an established pattern.

And you can come to understand other things about the quilters simply by paying attention. Sometimes you can tell what is on their minds from what they avoid saying or the way in which they say it. Or their seating arrangement for the evening. You would think that it would always be the same, unchanged, but it is not. I am reminded of some sort of complicated, intricate dance of many partners, facing many different directions.

The only constant I could discern was the way in which the other quilters hesitated briefly until Anna had chosen her chair.

It is wise to bear in mind that these are polite women in the best sense of the word and that Anna is older than my aunt Glady
Joe by eight months, making her the eldest of the group. That fact commands respect even if her role as their leader did not. I know these things from my own observations. If I learned nothing else in grad school, I learned to be a fairly careful witness. (Or maybe I was drawn to grad school because I have always liked to watch.)

For example, Marianna Neale loves the lush wildness of an English garden, but she seldom sews garden quilts, preferring instead more abstract, brilliantly colored quilts. Some of these are almost cubist in design, yet with a subtle, discernible pattern that is almost
sensed
by the viewer rather than
seen
.

(What happens to quilts that are not handed down or acquired by museums or thrown across beds? I read somewhere that they are purchased by a well-known fashion designer and worn by women in New York City or Los Angeles or Chicago—probably seen hailing a cab or dining with friends—skirts with bright patches that swing on the hips.)

Some suggested contributions for the
Crazy Quilt
are: Sophia Richards’s child’s design in lambs or bunnies; Em Reed’s
Double-Wedding Ring
in miniature; Constance Saunders’s modified design that is
Chickie’s Garden
in colors of yellow, peach, salmon, and pale orange; perhaps a location like Glady Joe Cleary’s Shenandoah Valley or a famous person or a mythical creature like a mermaid, which interests Hy Dodd; and Anna’s fine eye and considerable skill holding it all together.

I’ll tell you what makes me happy about marrying Sam, that is, about marrying in general: I know our marriage has just as good a chance of being wonderful as it does of missing the mark. There is a strong possibility that it will be both. And, contrary to what current belief is, it has always been so. This is a tremendous relief. I came to understand this from talking with Anna about the various quilters. However, I am banking on our love for each other to weigh a bit
heavier on the “wonderful” side. I do not expect to be wrong about this. It is a matter of faith.

Anna finally made good on her promise to have a long talk with me, quite by accident, I think. She needed to go to San Francisco, and since Sam is living there, I thought we might go together. As I do not have a car, my grandmother and Aunt Glady Joe offered the Chevy wagon, which is heavy and built like a boat, though (I have to admit) quite comfortable inside. It’s a good traveling car, they said, and something else about “feeling safe.”

So, maybe it was the duration of the trip or my blood relation to Glady Joe and Hy or the nostalgia of the car (I could not help but notice the way in which Anna gently ran her hand over the upholstery, as if the contact between seat and fingertips could unlock some almost forgotten memory); or maybe she had grown accustomed to my presence this summer.

We began by talking about quilting. I learned quite a bit.

Then suddenly she turned to me, the windows rolled down and the wind rushing about the interior of the car, and asked, “What is it you want to know?”

And, to a question like that, what other answer is there besides, “Everything”?

But to return to the
Crazy Quilt
, which has so divided the women.

Which has so joined the women.

As for material, any old, worn, or used clothing would be fine. Corrina Amurri contributes olive drab, over and over, like a problem she is trying to solve. A husband’s old shirt is good, or possibly a line of dress buttons, affixed to a patch to look like a string of pearls. Maybe the pearls were given to you as a St. Valentine’s Day gift when you were estranged from your man or maybe it is the song that stays with you. Or perhaps you are the gardener of the most elegant garden
in all the surrounding counties or you like Kandinsky or Bach or Mondrian or maybe a boy from Chicago fell in love with you on a cattle ranch one summer so many years ago that it all seems like a dream to you now.

Remember, you do not need to tell anyone what your contributions mean and it is more than likely they will hold meaning for you alone anyway. Do not explain. This is your right.