The Quilting Frames

They stand. At barely two-and-a-half feet tall, they stand. Not on ceremony, but on the firm ground of history.

Hand-hewn by my great-grandfather were the quilting frames. They are of simple, but sturdy, construction. They were made out of necessity, used by my great -grandmother to make hand-made quilts to keep her family warm on a cold winter's night.

There is no way to know just how many quilts have been sewn stretched across the two by four frames. My paternal great-grandmother passed these frames down to my grandmother. She, in turn, passed them down to my mother. Now, they rest with me.

As a child on many an autumn day, I found myself lying on the floor looking at a multitude of colors stretched taut above me. I watched as the sinewy fingers of my mother and my grandmother danced their needles and thread in rhythmic motion across the quilt, connecting fabric and cotton, transforming those humble materials into a treasured practical heirloom of beauty.

The voices of the seamstresses swirled in rhythm with their sewing as they talked about ancestors I would never meet, discussed how my brother and I were doing in school, told stories of my father's childhood. Their words whirled around the quilt and fell as softly and lightly onto my ears as the quilt beneath which I lay.

Many was the time my brother and I conducted adventures beneath those quilts on those quilting frames. We huddled beneath it as in a cave from a storm. It was our hiding place from masked marauders, our transport to the wildest jungles of Africa, the exotic cities of Europe, a tee-pee or a bark hut to celebrate our Native American heritage.

Those times when our play became too boisterous and we shook the quilting frames or bumped our heads on th quilt above us causing the seamstresses to prick their fingers with their needles - those times were met with a sneaky little prick to the gluteus maximus of the guilty party. My grandmother's cackle at getting the better of us still echoes in my ears like the well-worn lyrics of a familiar song.

And the dreams I dreamed beneath that quilting frame, safely snug with my mother on one side of the frame and my paternal grandmother on the other side - oh, those were the dreams of all good children, woven securely into the tapestry: a blanketed protection from the most cruel subjections that life had to offer.

And when the tapestry was done and graced the bed for the one it was intended, each carefully stitched piece of cloth whispered its individual memories - part of a baby's gown here, a dress worn in first grade there, an old hand-me-down apron too ragged for further usefulness except for a patch in a quilt over there. Those memories intermingled with dreams to form their own unique, wondrous and beautiful concerto to lull a wistful little girl to sleep.

Because beneath those quilts made upon those quilting frames is where my dreams formed and where all my dreams could be realized. Those quilts were tangible proof that nothing truly loses its usefulness; that all things are interwoven into this singular and extraordinary tapestry of life.

It is this creation of beauty which lent me the inspiration to follow my own desire to create beauty in my own way. Each word is akin to a piece of cloth which, when sewn together, forms a creation to touch, inspire, motivate or simply to cause others to think.

They stand. A little used. A little weatherbeaten. But they stand proudly. They are still capable of weaving dreams.

Just like the dreams I dreamed as I lay beneath a quilt made upon the quilting frames.