My grandma is a life-long quilter. For most of her nearly nine decades, Grandma has been churning out warmth for her family.
Some of my most prized possessions are Grandma Quilts. We have three baby-sized ones, a worn out double she made for me when I was a teen (which, over time has been demoted to a dog blanket), and the beautiful wedding quilt she had to rush to completion when Erin and I shocked her with our short engagement.
Her mum taught her how. Grandma once told me she and her brothers and sisters had to crawl under her mum's quilting rack in order to get to the stairs in their little farm house.
Since my grandpa died, she's quilted with a group of women who meet a few times a week in an old school/community centre. A few years back, the stitches of one of the group's older members started to become inconsistent enough to become a problem. That day, Grandma gave a fateful job to one of the other women.
"When that happens to me, let me know."
Grandma got that call a few weeks ago. I don't think she's been back since. She could still go and knit or even just have tea, but Grandma doesn't want to. It's always been 'work', and if she can't work, she doesn't feel she should be there.
Tonight, I'll wrap one of Grandma's finest efforts, a beautiful green and yellow nine-block baby quilt, around Jane as I take her up to bed. The others I may put into retirement along with their maker. At least until Henry, Jane and baby X can wrap their own kids in them.