My friend’s mother had passed away and my friend had the unenviable task of sorting through her mom’s things. She had decided what she was going to keep, but now she had to price the remaining items, advertise the sale, and then watch as strangers came through her mom’s home and took them away.

I’ve gone to estate sales, yard sales, and garage sales (there are many names for them) all of my life. Some of the best things I’ve come across and either found a good home for or kept and used, came from sales such as these.

But this particular sale was different. It was going to change people’s lives.

My friend’s mom was a quilter. She lived a modest life from what I could tell from her home. I was invited to come ahead of the sale, so I was able to roam freely, my friend by my side, and not have to dodge dozens of other people trying to find a deal for themselves.

The tour of the house was guided. My friend explained what we were seeing. This item her mom had acquired when she was a young woman. That item was bought when my friend and her brother were little. Each thing had a memory attached to it, no matter how common or unique each were.

I bought a hand-crank coffee grinder and one or two other things, but the area I kept coming back to was the room filled with all of the quilting items.

Everything was compartmentalized. The needles and thread had their place, as did the measuring tapes and strips, and the cutters that were used to precisely make quilt squares.

But what I was amazed by was the sheer volume of fabric. There were baskets full of fabric everywhere I looked. Some of it had already been cut and sewn into partial quilt tops, while others were in squares, while others were still large bolts of fabric that had been neatly folded and left for the day that she intended to come back to it for a specific project.

There was a lot of Christmas fabric. A whole lot.

I asked my friend what her mom did with all of her quilts. She said that she gave them away.

She talked about how her mother had made quilts for those in hospice, others who were in need, those she just liked and wanted them to have a quilt, and the many that she made for Veterans and children.

If you or anyone close to you has ever quilted, you know how many hours, weeks, and sometimes months it can take to complete a project, based on its complexity.

Quilting used to be part of what most women in a Southern family learned. It was out of necessity. I can remember going to visit my father’s parents, and almost always, my dad’s mom had a quilt frame set up in the living room and was working on a quilt for someone.

I never paid too much attention to it then, but now I wish that I had. I’d give anything to go back in time and ask my grandmother how she learned to sew and quilt, who the quilts were for, and why she liked making them.

Since my wife quilts, I looked around the room of my friend’s mom’s home that was filled with all of the quilting materials and had a thought.

“How much for all of the fabric?” I asked. “All?” she replied. “Yes, everything,” I said.

She asked me if I was sure that I wanted to take all of it. After all, I hadn’t looked through it with any deep digging, and I’m sure that she knew that me being a guy, I knew virtually less than nothing about what I was asking to purchase.

She was correct, but I had a feeling that I should buy it all.

We made a deal. I loaded it all up in my car and brought it home.

My wife was both stunned and intrigued. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether I was going to get a kiss or a tongue lashing. After she got over the basket after basket that I had brought in from the car and stacked in her sewing room, I sensed that I probably wasn’t going to get a kiss or a tongue lashing. I’d have to let some time go by to find out whether I’d made the right decision.

It took a long time for her to wash and press all of the different pieces of fabric, sort through the Christmas pieces, both blocks and partially-finished sections, and arrange all of it in a way that it seemed organized to her.

The local Methodist Church had a quilting group. My wife heard about it. She attended a couple of their meetings to see if she liked it.

She did. She loved it.

She would come home from the gatherings and talk about a quilt that one of the members had made for hospice, or another who was making one for someone they knew. My wife went into detail about someone that a member of the group knew who everyone felt could use a quilt. And she talked about the quilts they made for the children.

Slowly, many of the baskets I brought home from my friend’s mom’s estate now contain less and less fabric.

And lots of deserving people continue to receive a quilt of their own, thanks to two ladies who never met, but shared two things: a selfless love for others, and a God-given talent for making quilts.

©2017 John Moore
Email John at john@johnmoore.net