A grandmother's love lives on – through a quilt

A hand-stitched heirloom made the perfect spread for her daughter's new bed.

By Stefanie Wass

from the August 13, 2007 edition

Page 1 of 2

My baby is now a big girl. This is hard for me to actually say out loud. Hard to admit that she is 3 years old, flying solo. She puts on her own clothes, brushes her teeth, and (finally) is potty trained. Her cozy nest, the wooden crib passed down from her older sister, has become too cramped, too babyish. It is time for a "big girl" bed.

With great fanfare, we shop for the requisite bedding – a frilly pink dust ruffle and sheets covered in princesses. ("I like Hello Kitty, but princesses are the best!")

A twin bed, the one my husband slept in as a child, is hauled up from our basement storage closet. We assemble the worn maple frame and cover the mattress with fairy tale princesses. Finally, we are all set. My big girl jumps on the bed, testing the stability of the box springs.

"Looks sturdy to me," my husband says with a laugh. "Our work here is done."

I look at my daughter, sitting like royalty on her new sheets, happily flipping through the pages of a Care Bears book. Tonight, my princess will sleep soundly.

So why is it that something seems to be missing? All that shopping for sheets and ruffles, yet her bed seems incomplete.

Opening the linen closet, I search through piles of blankets and mismatched pillowcases until I find it. A quilt made by my grandmother some 30 years ago sits on a shelf, patiently waiting to be used by the next generation.

Carefully, I unfold the soft pink fabric, worn by time and plenty of use. Twenty hand-stitched dolls, their expressionless faces shaded by oversized sunbonnets, dance along the fabric. They wear dresses of every hue – bright red prints, green paisley, and cheery yellow sunflowers. Eyelet edging, frayed now in places, frames every dress.

Touching the face of each doll, I wonder about the absence of eyes, nose, and smile. Could this be the influence of the Amish, the ladies who taught my grandmother the art of quilting? I think about these women, their true selves covered from the world.

I think of my own daughter and am thankful that her world is so different, so free. Like the rainbow-colored dresses, her future is vibrant, with limitless possibilities.

It is important, I think, for her to know the women in her family who came before her.

Page 1 | 2 | Next Page