My grandmother, Minnie Bell, used to make lovely quilts for the family out of scraps of cloth. She did not own a sewing machine but instead made all of her stitches by hand. She worked on her projects when she was not working in her gardens or cooking meals and canning the fruit and vegetables that she had grown. Her quilts were lovely pieces that kept us warm in the wintertime and washed quite well in our machine. We used them until the fabric became frayed and holes began to appear leaving batting material to peak out. Eventually we traded them for manufactured blankets that were never the same as the colorful creations that our grandmother had made with love. 

Of course I wish that we had taken more care is using the old quilts from Grandma Minnie. It never occurred to us that her fingers would become so afflicted with arthritis that she would not longer be able to work with a needle for long periods of time. We never predicted that cataracts would cover her pupils making it almost impossible to see well enough to create designs. Somehow we imagined that both she and her quilts would be an eternal part of our lives, not understanding that the gift of having her was only temporary and not for all of our lives.

I now only have a very small block that my grandmother pieced together in the final years before her body failed her. It shows the downturn in her health with the imperfections that were never present in her best work. My mother lovingly did her best to create a tiny quilt for my dolls as a remembrance of Grandma’s handiwork. I was old enough and wise enough by then to handle it with care and keep it stored in a tiny trunk that I have carried from one place to another with some of my other treasures. 

I didn’t think much about quilting and the artistry that it requires until my friend, Pat Weimer, suggested that the two of attend the annual the Houston International Quilt Show a couple of decades ago. We joined thousands of quilting enthusiasts at the George Brown Convention Center on a November day to view the creative artwork of quilters from nations around the world. We walked through the aisles gazing in awe at quilts that looked more like paintings than bits of cloth cut and sewn together in ways that made them seem vibrant and alive. 

Pat and I went many times to the annual event but once she became sick and died I never again returned until this year. I had told my husband, Mike, several times that I wanted to go to the annual event, but did not want to go alone. While he showed an interest in accompanying me, something always seemed to collide with our plans and so the years and then the decades passed without a visit to that glorious celebration of artistry. Nonetheless, I put a notation on our calendar each year in the hopes that one day we might find the time to go. 

On November 2, of this year Mike saw my reminder and suggested that we go. It was a blustery rainy day spo a part of me wanted to just stay warm and cozy in the house. Still, I knew that if I turned him down such an opportunity might never again happen. I applied a bit of makeup to my face, fluffed my hair, put on my shoes and we drove through a downpour. We found covered parking in a garage with a direct route to the convention center without braving the wrath of the storm. It felt wonderful to be back once again and I immediately smiled as I thought of how Pat would have approved of the serendipity of the moment that had brought us there. She was always ready for a spontaneous adventure and surely this was one.

We took or time viewing the hundreds of quilts that were awesome in their complexity. We learned from one of the exhibitors just how exacting it is to create a pattern using pieces cut precisely at angles measured in a mathematical rendering that make seams disappear. She spoke of the art of determining the colors and the skills of keeping the projects from puckering so that they will lie flat while giving a three dimensional appearance. The messages of each piece told stories of both the creators and their ideas. 

I was gazing at one of the winning quilts when a woman came up behind me and admitted that she had kept coming back to it over and over again.. “It tears me apart,” she confessed and I understood what she meant. It was a quilt done in black white and gray. It showed the changing face of Volodymyr Zelenskyy from the time that he was a smiling comedian starring in a Ukrainian in television series through his transition from the early times of his Presidency to the present times of war. It was a study in contrasts that represented the man in the most moving ways. I too found myself shedding tears as I studied it. 

Mike boasted that the people watching was almost as fun as viewing the exquisite quilts. There were women wearing beautiful hats and long flowing dresses. There were ladies boldly sporting Kamala Harris for President shirts. There were older ladies getting around on rented scooters or limping with walkers and canes. Everyone was happy and friendly and I thought of my Grandmother Minnie and my dear friend Pat. Then a stranger looked at me and said, “Isn’t it nice to be here with our sisters?” I nodded. Yes, it was! We were all part of the artistry of life. Even Mike saw it and understood. I knew that Grandma Minnie and Pat would have agreed as well.