I wonder later if my speech has done this quilt justice. If the people who listen to me talk realize that this young woman who married in 1881- those scraps from the 1860's were likely her mother, or grandmother's dress. The 1870's pieces might have come from her own school dresses, or the apron's she wore while learning to cook at her mother's side, or even old friends who grew up with her. That piece of man's shirting with the hole scorched in it- was it from the blacksmith who repaired their wagon? Was it from the meal cooked on the prairie after the landrun of 1889?
Can you see the prints used in her son's shirts, the scraps from his friends clothing. Can you see a small boy at Momma's side in the evening cutting out hexagons and threading needles. Can you see the family left behind and the new friends made in a newly opened territory? Can you see the book of memories this quilt is?
I can't be sure that people will understand the simple beauty of this unfinished work. I can't be sure that this quilt top will have touched the core of their being, as it has mine. I can only hope that other's can see what I see- That I can see their hearts in their stitches.