my corner memory

it was sitting all alone, in a warehouse. cold and damp. a place every pianist knows a piano should not be.

however, it was a rescue, so forgiveness is key. a woman had been forced from her home and a good samaritan happened by at the exact moment her possessions were being moved. he thought the old upright intriguing, unique, a piece of history. so, he heaved the monstrous weight onto his truck, brought it to where the elements would not harm it and now it sits, quietly, in a warehouse.

i was there on business, and i didn't notice it as first. then i glanced. immediately, i remembered my first ivories.

my mama and daddy, always lacking money but never ingenuity, purchased an old, reconditioned upright from a man in town. i was around eight and my mama said i was going to learn to play the piano. it was not anything this farm girl had in mind, but when mama instructed, i knew better than to argue.

it was delivered one day while i was at school. mama and daddy had placed it in the living room, a room that was never used and always cold. it was the home to daddy's parents' red velvet settee and chairs. they, like the room, were untouched. up until this point, i used it for day-dreaming. a place where i could go after dinner, close the door behind me, turn on my record player and listen to the old 45's i had borrowed from friends. the easter parade mixed with i'm an american band belted by grand funk railroad.  i'd pretend i was on stage, singing the most beautiful tune, bowing to the incessant applause from the crowd.

lessons came first. i don't remember the teacher's name, but i remember traveling to cornelia, about a 30-minute drive, and walking into this old brick ranch house and being met by 'her'. she was ancient, wore matron-like baggy dresses and smelled of moth balls. so did every inch of her dark-paneled house. the piano room was small, and so was the piano. not an upright like mine, but a small spinet, slammed tightly against a wall. on top was the clicker, the metronome, i hated it. she kept the wrist weights there, too. i hated them even more. she would sit on the stool next to me, shouting out time and notes, her breath as rank as dead meat and her fingers as wrinkled as an un-ironed cotton shirt.

lessons continued and i grumbled every tuesday. for my first recital, i played in my own little corner because i loved cinderalla and that was her song. i think it was my song, too. i continued lessons for about three years until finally my mama couldn't stand my complaints. i persuaded her i could do it on my own and i promised i would never stop playing. i kept that promise, for it is there that my love for music was born.

today, i rarely play, but when i do, i never forget that old upright that was bought with my parents' love. i never forget the moments in that vacant room when i was a star.

i swear the piano i discovered in the warehouse belonged to me once-upon-a-time, for i don't know what ever became of mine. i'm probably wrong, but i like to think my ivories made it through the years still standing tall and making music. it seems a shame that it will spend its final days in a warehouse. i might be able to change that.

a quilt's power

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”   
~ L.M. Montgomery, The Story Girl

                On the back of my desk chair hangs my mama's unfinished quilt. I have always called it Smiley. Each hand sewn stitch, each faded color was touched by her fingers, arranged by her heart. At the end of the day, she traded farm work for therapy time, picking up the patchwork she kept in a basket that sat at her feet. She would stitch until her eyes would tire, and then she would place it lovingly in the basket and return to it the next evening. And when she finished one, she'd begin another with the help of her prayer group who just happened to love quilting as much as she did.

                She worked on it this one right up until the day she died. The squares were arranged and bound, but the bunting assuring bulk and warmth was never attached.

                The kaleidoscope of 2" x 2" squares paints pictures and whispers stories of the dresses she and I wore. I remember this magnificently cool orange white polka-dotted dress, perfect for a shy thirteen-year-old who was dying to be noticed. It wasn't so much the dress but the smiley face  J zipper pull that lay on my chest. It went way past the ordinary and bordered on fashion, quite an achievement for a girl with a closet full of homemade dresses. I rushed mama to finish it for my youth choir concert at church that summer, and in my mind, I was as lovely as I had ever been, me and my long straight hair and my smiley-face pull. And, I was noticed which made mama’s efforts even more grand.

                It’s hard to imagine that quilting today, although still quite primitive in concept, is married to technology just as conversation, canning or bread making. There’s a machine for a particular stitch, one to fashion big quilts, small quilts and all those in-between. And I suspect that the thimble – which mama never quilted without – is not necessary anymore. Now the machine does the tedious work where one’s eyes and fingers once struggled each stitch of the way. And this rotary cutter contraption – taking the place of scissors? This would have saved many fights between mama and me.

                After meeting many twenty-first century quilters, I realized that although the process has evolved, the reasoning behind the craft has not. It’s about memories, of stories, of conservation, of using every scrap, of not throwing anything away, of passing down this tradition to future generations. Quilting becomes a story of ingenuity, creativity and resourcefulness, one that must live on.

                Today, in my very simple country home, I drape quilts of varied designs over my sofa and chairs. I reach for them to chase the chill, but more often, to revisit the past. I can trace the stitches that mama pulled and tugged, wear those dresses again (although I dare question why) or snuggle and get lost in a memory.  I keep Smiley near me not because it keeps me warmer but because it keeps mama closer. Some squares have pulled away from its neighbor and snags have been the result of time. It's never seen the inside of a washing machine or felt cool waters. It smells and feels the same way it did the last time she worked on it. That comforts me.

                I suspect one day I’ll finish Smiley. I’ll take out my needle and thimble and finish what my mama started. I'll give it to my children in hopes that they will realize they hold in their hands the story of two generations.

                As the days get cooler and they require more cover, reach for a memory, snuggle and prepare the soul for a new year, a new beginning. Remember what the past has taught and allow it to light the way.   

The Editor's Pen, Winter 2012. Printed in the winter issue of Georgia Connector Magazine. Read the entire issue at www.georgiaconnector.com.