The Quilt Walk by Dallas Sandra

Author:Dallas, Sandra [Dallas, Sandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781585368006
Publisher: Sleeping Bear Press
Published: 2012-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

Pa and Uncle Will had gone ahead with the wagons, and Ma, Aunt Catherine, and I walked together, the three of us in a row, through the prairie grass. The animals churned up so much dust that we didn’t want to follow behind them on the trail.

“How is your quilting coming, Emmy Blue?” Aunt Catherine asked.

I shrugged, thinking that it wasn’t coming fast enough. I hoped this didn’t turn into a quilt-walk day.

“Show her your square,” Ma suggested.

I took it out of my pocket, pressing it against my hand to get out the wrinkles. Then I held it up. But I sighed as I did so, because I had used a dark strip where I should have used a light one. “I guess I have to take that one out,” I said, before Ma could tell me I was sloppy.

Ma took the square from me and studied it. “Oh, leave it be,” she said to my surprise. “Only God is perfect. You don’t have to be.”

I opened my mouth so wide at her remark that you could have tossed an apple down my throat without touching my tongue.

“Do you know that Bessie Fisk at home purposely made a mistake in each of her quilts?” Aunt Catherine said. “She told me she thought God would be offended if she made a perfect quilt.”

“Well, she didn’t have to trouble herself. She makes enough mistakes for all of us,” Ma said. She and Aunt Catherine began to giggle.

“Meggie, shame on you,” Aunt Catherine said, and laughed again. Then she took my quilt square from Ma and studied it. “One piece put in like that will only add interest to your quilt, Emmy Blue. Why, some might even think you did it on purpose. I would be one of them.”

I wouldn’t, but I didn’t say so.

A drop of rain fell onto the quilt square, and Aunt Catherine looked up at the sky. “Hurry along, Meggie. We mustn’t lag too far behind. The weather is about to turn. I believe we are in for a real rain.”

The sky was turning dark, and the air was suddenly cold. When I looked up, drops of rain fell onto my face. We hurried along, and by the time we reached our wagons, the sky had opened up. Ma and I huddled together on the wagon seat, wrapped in a quilt that was covered by an oilskin poncho. But still we got wet. I hoped Buttermilk John would call a halt so that we could set up our tent, but I knew he wouldn’t. He’d said we wouldn’t stop for anything but a presidential election. I asked what that meant, and Ma explained that we wouldn’t stop for anything at all, since the presidential election wasn’t until fall, long after we expected to reach Colorado Territory. “Your Pa will vote for Mr. Abraham Lincoln,” she added.

So we sat huddled on the wagon seat in the heavy, cold rain, our wet sunbonnets limp around our faces.

At last, Buttermilk John decided on a camping spot, and we climbed down from the wagon.

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