. . . this quilt. Grandma tied it with two colors of embroidery floss--white and pink. White here, pink there. I can see no pattern and can only guess why she did that. Perhaps she did have a pattern, but in the wear and repair, the pattern is lost. Perhaps she simply used what she had.
Embroidery was something she did well. And piecing, as in this quilt.
. . . my grandma. Work was part of her vocabulary, in capital letters. I'm not sure if play was. I never saw her at play. I take that back. On one of our visits to Salt Lake to see Grandpa and Grandma, I saw them playing cards with Mama and Daddy. I don't remember her playing with us kids. Or, I mean, with me.
I knew she could work. She's the one who made a livable home out of a chicken coop. She is the one who did that. Imagine what she had to do to accomplish such a thing.
And I have mentioned her baking powder biscuits elsewhere, in other writings about her. Those biscuits. Any of my siblings might become rhapsodic remembering them. They were the best.
I've been tying. So she is on my mind.
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