THE QUILT CONNECTION

Long gone is the little pink and white calico Scottie-dog quilt mentioned a couple of days ago. Childhood days turned to those of maturity. God’s paintbrush has frosted those coppery-colored curls with touches of silver, though the eyes still softly glow with the well-worn copper of youth. No longer either a mother or stairs is present when naptime arrives.
Toys that once would have covered the childhood bed now line a closet shelf and have been replaced by two real, live Yorkshire Terriers.

Instead of climbing the stairs to the bedroom, naptime
is frequently found in a favorite recliner that sits either in the great room or the office of a one-story patio home. There’s not a lot of room in that recliner, but if either of those two little dogs sees me picking up a lap covering, they know I plan to relax for a while. I start to sit down and before I can make a lap, a bundle of busyness starts its leap-and-land process, leaving little room for me, book, laptop computer, and/or most important, the second doggie.
With my thoughts on lap coverings, etc., I want to tell a bit more about the Scottie-dog described in the earlier post. Charlotte, my mamma’s sister, made it. Aunt Charlotte and I wrote back and forth to one another with some regularity, especially the last few years before she died. She sent me a picture of herself with a quilt she had made. That brought my Scottie-dog quilt to mind so I wrote to tell her how much it had meant to me. It had been a very long time and she didn’t even remember having made it! I was so glad I could remind her. It would be a nice thing to have an actual picture of it, though in my mind’s eye I still do.
One day while we were visiting, I told the Scottie-dog quilt tale to my husband’s sister, Mary, an avid quilter. She delighted with me over my memories as we looked over her quilts and plans for more projects. Because she lives in Florida and we in Texas, we didn’t get to visit and muse that often. Once I was home I forgot our conversation, but she didn’t. In December, a few weeks later, our doorbell rang. There was a neatly wrapped package addressed to me from Mary. I confess. I do love packages in the mail, surprise or otherwise, but surprises are the absolute best!
Upon the opening, this surprise was magnified. There lay a twin-size Scottie-dog quilt with a special message tag sewed on it: “Sue’s Scotties II” Mary had tucked a note inside stating in part, “I’m sure this quilt bears little resemblance to the one you remember as a child. Since I could not replace that one, I decided to interpret and update it a bit. Hope you’ll be happy with the results and that you’ll be curled up under it with a good book very soon!”
Later, in response to my thank-you, she said, “I’m getting pretty fussy (in my old age) about whom I create for, but I felt sure Sue and the Scotties would be a good match. I hope you will spend many a happy winter together.” A few winters have come and gone since then. Not only have I been warmed physically by “Sue’s Scotties II” but also emotionally by the loving memory-connections it conjures up from generations past and present.
Thank you, Aunt Charlotte. Thank you, Mary.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 3-18-2011

QUILT MEMORIES

With the writing prompt to write about a quilt or a blanket, it took little to get the memories moving.

She was a cute toddler with coppery-colored curly hair and eyes. She lived in a two-story house. When it came time for a nap, her mother took her by the hand as they started to climb the stairs and made a game of learning while they counted the steps as they went up…one, two, three…

Once in her room her bed greeted her with a line of dolls and toys that lay from the wall side of the bed all the way to the other side. Her pillow was covered so there seemed to be no place to lay her head. Since a nap was one of her least favorite things to do laying her head down was in the same category. She sat with her back towards her toy-laden pillow and covered her lap as she studied the handmade quilt that warmed her legs and encouraged her imagination.

Her aunt had made the quilt from 9” squares of white muslin using four-inch
deep rose-pink sashwork to frame each square. At the same time the design created vertical and horizontal lines making a rectangular quilt of three squares across by four squares down. It was just the right size for a little girl and her single bed.

Why would such a quilt inspire imagination in a small child? The answer lay in each square. A silhouette of a Scottie dog made of feed bag calico was centered in each square. Each was made from a different calico print and outlined with hand-embroidered black buttonhole stitch. Each Scottie dog had a black circle eye made from the six-strand embroidery floss as well.

As the little girl sat in her bed she would look down at each Scottie dog and choose a “Favorite of the Day.” Since she had a Favorite Favorite, he was chosen a lot more often than the rest. Sometimes she felt rather bad about choosing him so often. On that day, she’d choose another just so that one would not feel left out.

Finally the eyes of the little girl would grow heavy. She’d lay her coppery curls on the empty space on her pillow from where she’d taken her dolly to cuddle in her arms. Now she and her dolly would each snuggle under the warmth of the little quilt while the other toys would watch with wishful eyes as they heard the little girl teach her dolly, “One, two, three…”

© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 3-16-2011

Picture is author and her big brother Kent Wilmer Libby.

SOMETIMES ANGELS WEAR DOCTOR’S COATS

The recent surgery of a dear friend brought to mind a similar time of my own.

Mine came following what was the most difficult decision-making time in my life: that being admitting my aging mother to the care of a nursing home. In the few weeks she had been there, it had already been a rough time. I was dealing with emotional and physical pain. Necessity caused the physical pain to win out.

It was approaching Thanksgiving. My personal care physician ordered a sonogram that showed gallstones necessitating immediate surgery. My pain had already told me something had to be done soon. I went for the requisite pre-surgical procedures only to learn there was concern regarding my heart. What? I was too young to have heart issues. The medical staff assured me it was probably nothing but a precautionary extra step. Still, with no warning, my dad had died from a massive heart attack just prior to his fifty-seventh birthday. I was assured the surgeon would do his utmost to swiftly get me in for those tests and the surgery.

My husband and I waited for the expected phone call but none came, so we knew we would be held up past the Thanksgiving weekend. More pain and no tasty, filling meal of turkey and gravy for me, that was obvious. Friday morning following Thanksgiving, our phone rang. It was the surgeon. He explained he had been unsuccessful in several tries to reach us, but our line was continually busy. Apparently after a phone call with one of our family members, we inadvertently left it off balance. He explained he had made arrangements for the heart doctor to meet us at the hospital ER, to do the necessary tests on me if we could be there before noon that day. If everything checked out okay, he would do the surgery first thing the following Monday. Relief was in sight!

We scurried to the hospital. I successfully passed the tests and was cleared for upcoming surgery. With orders in hand, I looked forward to Monday morning. Surgery was swift and successful. Pain was gone, except as my friend has said, a new pain was temporarily in its place.

After I was once again on the road to good health, it was with much pleasure I wrote a thank-you note to the surgeon. He had been so thoughtful in taking time out of his holiday to see to it that I got good care as soon as possible. Having learned he had a son following in his footsteps, I also commended him for the exemplary lifestyle he was setting for future generations. Imagine my surprise when almost in return mail, I received a thank you for my thank-you! He explained that it was infrequent that he heard such, that it was more often he heard the other side, and he was so pleased that I was happy with his care.

How could I not be? After all, even though he was a human being, Dr. Gabriel (really his name) was to me an angel wearing a doctor’s coat.

© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 3-12-2011

PERCEPTION

“Just wait ‘til your father gets home!”
When our grown children visit, that’s a phrase I frequently hear when our son is reminiscing about his upbringing and how I, as a mother, chose to discipline. Need I say his memory and mine differ?

I neither deny nor doubt using that phase but I definitely deny using it as frequently as he recalls its being touted. Could it be that he, as a child, seldom listened, but when I pulled out the big guns, so to speak, he knew he’d better listen…or else?

One reason, I know I didn’t use it as often as he seems to think I did is the fact I did not believe in passing the buck. I was the mother in the home and as such, I was Johnny-on-the-spot. When I saw a wrong, it was my job to correct it. Even though I joke about my having been the youngest in a family of four and the only girl, and having learned well the art of tattling, I didn’t choose to bring that art into the raising of our children. No, just waiting to tell dad wasn’t my choice of discipline. “Nip it in the bud,” as Deputy Barney Fife has oft been heard to say.

Additional reasons “Just wait until your father gets home” wouldn’t be particularly effective include:

1) When our son was approximately three to five years old, his dad was working two fulltime jobs. During that time we had no car, so that meant we used the city bus, walked, or after his late night shift at a radio station, the dad in our family took a well-deserved cab-ride home, arriving around 1 a.m.

Waking that kid at that time for punishment sure seemed like exactly what he needed, but I always tried to be a woman of my word, and if I had said, “Just wait until your father gets home,” surely I would have meant it, so-o-o… Oh, no wonder he remembers it with such clarity. I wonder how it has slipped my mind so completely.

2) Following that, eventually we did have a car. My husband’s job took him out of town to manage an ice cream shop. He left early in the mornings and came home late many nights. Eventually, job transfers allowed us to make moves, but those were after we’d spent two summers living in a tent in order to be where his job was.

3) That brings us up to our son’s being approximately age ten when we spent a summer in England where Dad went to work in the morning, came home mid-day for a long lunch, then spent the afternoon up until ten p.m. or the wee hours of the following morning at The Fitties, what we would call an RV park, helping introduce the equivalent of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
“Just wait until your father gets home”? I think not!

4) Oh, but wait! Teen years were yet to come, right? Oh, yes, the teen years. Travel was introduced when summer vacation arrived. Son was up early in the morning and off in the car beside dad. They made quite a pair as they sold fruit and produce to restaurants along the east coast of Maine on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, then the southern coastal areas on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays!
Oh, yeah, right; “Just wait until your father gets home!” (And brings you with him!)

5) By this time, our son had spent too much time with his dad. He had learned too well the art of teasing. One day I was seriously aggravated with him. He was trying to laugh me out of it as he looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m not afraid of you.” I was so taken by surprise. I lost it. I laughed! At that very minute, I knew that from now on, whenever discipline was to be dished up, I would have to say,

“Just wait until your father gets home!”

© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 3-3-2011

GIFTS FROM THE HEART

They’re thinking about me, these friends of mine.

She’s out shopping when she sees a book to buy. She picks up two, one for herself, but one for her friend…me. Later she sees another book she likes, but after a thorough search, realizes there’s only one. When telling me about it, she says she is planning to share. We go to another store in the same chain, look on the bookshelves, and after a search she calls out in delight, “Here it is!” I reach for it, planning to add it to my purchases. She grins as she hurriedly moves to hug it back to her body, as she says, “No, I said I was getting it for you!” We both like to write and both books are about…you guessed it…writing.

I’m sitting at home. The doorbell rings. I had no idea: they’re thinking about me, these friends of mine.

As I start to open the door I see the mailman or one of the deliverymen has left a package by our door, but no, my friend who is standing there, bends to pick up the tall, rather large box. On it is the picture of a lighthouse. Oh, yes, indeed, they’re thinking about me, these friends of mine! Inside the box is a solar-powered lighthouse that will glow in the dark of night. The two who are giving me this gift see my heart’s love for the coastal land of my birth. She is here to give me their gift, to tell me they know this should be mine. This is not the first such gift from them.


As I look around my rooms, the many gifts given with smiles are frequent reminders of friends of mine. I am thankful for the mementos, but I am even more thankful for dear friends who are thinking of me.

“I thank God in all my remembrance of you…” Philippians 1:3 (NASB)

© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 2-24-2011

BEFORE YOU CAN DRY ANOTHER’S TEARS

Today we received word that a dear friend has hours, at most, left on this earth. Over the past five years as she has battled her illness, we have reached out with prayers requests. There have been many heart-touching kindnesses shown along the way that have lifted and cheered us. Sometimes kindnesses appear when we least expect them and in most unexpected ways.
One such thing occurred just two days ago. I went into a local chocolate shop called Sugar Daddy Desserts. I thought I was strong until the owner was ready to wait on me. When he looked up to ask, "May I help you?" I broke as I said, "I'm hurting." You see, I knew the background story of his life. He had lost his wife, the mother of his children, to breast cancer. The story was recently written in our local newspaper.
I pulled myself together enough to show him my friend's picture, explain the circumstances, and say I had hoped the young woman I'd seen working in the back room could tell me what kind of chocolates my friend usually bought. He said, "Just a minute," as he scurried to get her." In what seemed like seconds, they both returned on my side of the counter, loving empathy in their eyes. He said, "This is my daughter, Michelle."
I explained I'd known her from having met her years before at the church we attend, but I didn't realize she was his daughter. The tension of the sorrow was somewhat relieved as he lightly joked about their keeping that a secret. She expressed her sympathy at my circumstances, while adding regret that she didn't recall my friend's choices. I said I'd look for something to take anyway. After asking my friend's favorite color, Michelle excused herself "to the back room for a few moments." I heard her dad quietly say something to her, finishing with, "Do whatever you want."
In the meantime, I found a chocolate block to take and selected a wooden rose, and waited. The shop gives a wooden rose to each lady on each visit, so by now my friend had a pretty good collection.
When Michelle returned, again to my side of the counter, she carried a beautifully wrapped, in florist-style, bouquet of at least a dozen of those wooden roses...shades of pink...my friend's favorite color! When Michelle had asked earlier, it had gone over my head as being perhaps some special chocolate treat trimmed in pink she was preparing for me to take to my friend.
I once read something to the effect that you have to weep before you can dry another's tears. These people certainly knew how to take a gray day and add sunshine. I am thankful and wanted to share this message with you.
If you would like to say thank you to them, too, you can access their e-mail by visiting their site through this hyperlink: http://www.sugardaddydesserts.com/

©Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 1-28-2011

THE MOST EXPENSIVE CHIPS AND SALSA I NEVER ORDERED

I once read about a mortifying mistake, never dreaming I’d live through one, but such was the case this past Sunday when we took out-of-town guests out to lunch. The problem seemed to be the restaurateur and his minions were the ones out to lunch.

We arrived at the restaurant at 11:50 a.m., promptly requested a table for seven and were told there would be a twenty-minute wait. Elderly friends who have been married a year longer than we have been alive, that being seventy-two years for them, went in just ahead of us. They must have been led to their seat in a hurry because they disappeared right away. Another friend appeared from the recesses of the restaurant, thinking it was just my husband and me standing there, waiting. He was planning to invite us to sit with him and his wife. They had just been seated in a booth for six.

After forty minutes had passed, we questioned the hostess and she said she’d check the table they had in mind for us. Oops! The people had just ordered dessert so it’d be another twenty minutes…sorry. When we had been there approximately an hour, my husband asked if it would be possible if two tables for four emptied, they could be pushed together to make room for us. An agreeable nod led to nothing more than a hovering consultation at the hostess stand that we were forced to witness as we continued to wait while those with lesser numbers who came in after us were continually called.

In the meantime, our out-of-town guests were very patient considering they had planned to eat lunch, then get headed back towards their homes, a four-hour drive once they were on the road. The longer the wait, the deeper my embarrassment grew. As each minute ticked off, I tried to avoid joining in like manner. In the meantime, our elderly friends came through the lobby with a to-go box in hand. The sweet lady asked, “Are you still waiting? You can have our booth.”

Finally, we were given a choice: we could wait for the dessert-eaters to leave (we were informed they had just asked for to-go boxes) or we could take two small round tables pushed together in the bar. My husband selected the bird-in-the-hand. We headed for the bar area and climbed onto the high bar stools. Thankfully my precarious Parkinson’s imbalance wasn’t working overtime and since there was little elbowroom on which to lean on the tiny tables, I managed to plant my feet quite securely on the ring surrounding the stool’s lower edge.

The manager, whom my husband had asked to speak to earlier, miraculously showed up this time…not the same manager who had been involved in the hostess stand conference as before….hm-m-m-m. He personally delivered chips and salsa and cheesy dip that was no charge “because he knew we had had a long wait.” Oh, he had no idea! He also promised that Stonehardt (name changed lest I be sued) was “going to take good care of us.” Once again, he was mistaken. Stonehardt showed up with what appeared to be a chip on his shoulder. (Not the kind served with salsa! Maybe Santa cheated him out of that sports car he really, really wanted…but, hey! Don’t blame me. At this point, do I even slightly resemble a jolly fat man in a red suit?)

In the meantime, our friends who had planned to invite us to sit with them came searching for us in this hidden nook, saying they thought we must have left. They saw we had just been served our water and cokes, and were interested in our story of how their tee-totaling friends ended up in the bar. Since they realized the already-long wait we’d had to be seated, they left with a few hugs and smiles all around.

Once Stonehardt realized we weren’t out to make him pay for the hold-up out front, he seemed resigned to do his job in a less surly manner but certainly not in a glad-you-are-here way. He was busy, but without customers such as we were still trying to be, where would he be?

Our meals were a long time arriving and once there, my sandwich, which should have been warm through was barely so, and cool in places. Our granddaughter’s meat was rare instead of cooked well done. The waiter did offer to replace it and when she said, “No, thanks,” he removed the cost from the ticket.

When we had completed the meal and asked for to-go boxes, Stonehardt brought them immediately, along with the bill, but then, the wait began once again. The bill is time-stamped 2 p.m. It had been a long afternoon already. We were thankful to have had good company with whom to spend it, except we knew they were eager to get on their way. Eventually, my husband asked another waitstaff to get the manager (who did not appear) but Stonehardt did, carrying food for another table. Finally, well over two hours after our arrival, we were able to pay and be on our way.

I was just glad our guests were the ones who had made the decision to go to that restaurant. Of one thing I am pretty sure: even with free chips and salsa, upon their return to our city, they’re not likely to ask to go there again.

© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 1-3-2011