Along time ago

 

‘…I’m going to make a quilt, before the winter sets in, we’ll both snuggle up and  hibernate…’    she said a long time ago.             

 

It was a cold October morning when she emerged from the family dress shop.

Pausing for a moment on the steps to adjust cuffs of a vintage navy blue Zouave jacket trimmed with red braid.

Tucks yellow pantaloons into black scuffed knee high riding boots then, miming a dressage horse  trots sideways towards me doffing a blue beret, dismounts from her imaginary steed with a sweeping curtsy.

 

‘Good morning sir..may I…’      laughing as she fell.

‘Of course you may my dear…’  I bow offering a hand

 

A day or a week could pass before another change, a multicolour Ankara outfit, maybe a white flowery blouse blue dress with yellow laced red trainers.

Or a pick and mix of global clothing, soon the shop will running out of stock.

 

‘How about we go abroad… somewhere nice and warm…’ she chuckles.

 

I close my eyes and visualise a world of exotic travel.

Wherever we travelled, she would ride side-saddle on a strong stubborn mule trailing a lavishly decorated gypsy caravan filled with her collection of textiles, hats and outfits to sell along on the way.

First on the itinerary, Europe, embrace the culture, our fractured linguistic requests for food and drinks.

Friendly foreign faces smile…  

‘…welcome… sit here if you wish something to eat or drink requires no translation…’

 

Toss a coin.   Heads…a long trek through the America’s towards Alaska…

Tails.  Sail to the Far East or to…

                   

Time for a  quiz.  she would announce.

 

In which city are the Rue Foyatier steps, and how many are there?

 

Where can I hear Fado and savour Pastéis de Nata? 

                                                       

Flamenco and Fino?         

 

Lederhosen and strudel ?                  

 

Last one for five points!

 

Dodge toga wearing gladiators wielding swords?        

                            ……………………………………………

 

The quilt she created is a work of art that charts the clan diaspora scattered world wide.

As a child she said her grand father and other relatives kept the oral tradition alive with stories from the past. 

Long into the night gathered around the fire, tales of unrequited love and heart break.

The brother, a coal mine working deep underground, surfaces bloodied and broken.

Leaving the black behind to seek fools gold in the bright sun somewhere in America

one said.

A reading from an old faded letter tells of a long hazardous voyage to a distant land, hardship and the yearning to return home.

Old photos pass from hand to hand, one cries over a sepia print, a young married couple smile, their future unknown.

A creased black and white image, a sign of recognition, the family of six wave to the lens. 

‘That’s them in Australia…’  another says with pride.

Stained with the passing decades, a street plan where twenty nine small houses once stood.

‘I knew the family that lived in number fourteen, I think they went to Canada’

Of the twenty nine houses only three families were unaccounted for.

Most agreed that without a letter or a photo, it was either San Francisco, New York or

New Zealand. 

The fire crackles, sparks illuminate the last yarn to be spun as  ‘…haste ye back…’   draws the night to an end.

 

Weaving through the quilt the umbilical cord of family DNA, veins and arteries, the 

multicoloured threads delicately stitched into the fabric nourished them as they travelled.

From her collection of textiles, cloth, silk, velvet and more, threads lead to other stories for silent reading.

Purple to a remote coast path, perhaps  green or brown over rocky trails towards distant hills and mountains.

 

A patch of dark blue silk ripples, mauve tinted sky a storm brewing.                        

Wild seas, uncharted waters ahead, tall ships seeking shelter.

Red yellow dilute and slide under a hedgerow to emerge in fine orange ribbon behind a drystone wall topped with daisies.      

 

Rotate the quilt gently, in full bloom exquisite needlework, a summer appliqué of wild flowers picked out in vivid colour, endless lush velvet green fields lined with a hint of Poplar, elsewhere, Cypress and Weeping willow sway in the breeze.    

A furrowed field of brown cloth, another laid to fallow.

Hatched from shreds of fine coloured cloth, tiny birds dot the quilt here and there.

Aerobatics, a murmuration of starlings swoop and sweep red tinged cumuli.

Geese honking south whilst flamingos tip toe in emerald water.

Flying low, a beautiful red headed crane carries a geisha girl home, her fragile umbrella tilted at the noon day sun.

Peacocks strut with envy, flamboyance subdued for once.

 

Shake the quilt, listen, the crunch of rust coloured leaves…Autumn has arrived.

A morning frost necks the fish pond with a delicate filigree of ice.

Sky’s at night, dazzling constellations, shooting stars, a full moon smiling.

Each turn reveals another season, another landscape, more paths and tales to follow.

 

We never did run up the Rue Foyatier steps at dawn without losing breath, listen to sad Fado with tears over  Pastéis de Nata, nor dizzy on Fino with Flamenco and Highland fling .       

Schuhplattler over Strudel splattered Strasse. 

At the Coliseum, sword dancing to freedom, a kilt swap for a toga. 

 

At night I wrap myself in a quilt filled with the tog weight of love.

Bird call, waves breaking over shingle, the gentle toll of a church bell.

The smell of wood smoke, a song of love and longing.

Inhale her perfume, her laughter, everything she has created, the memories stitched deep into the silk and dream of her dismounting from her imaginary steed, doffing a blue beret with a sweeping curtsy and falling over laughing.

 

‘Good evening sir..may I…’  

‘Of course you may my dear…let’s snuggle up and hibernate under the quilt…’