Confessions of a Want-to-be Quilter©
Memoirs of Carol S. Jackson, Evans, GA
Printed by the author
Episode # 10
Success Follows Failure
Granny prepared grilled cheese sandwiches as I told her my tragic tail over the Winter holidays. “That was a cruel thing to do to a kid,” she mused. “Well, we all know that you can sew, you just didn't have the right material and a good coach.” Let's make a nice dress while you're here in the summer.” Sounded like a good plan to me. And so it came to be. A very nice dress, but not made with slick material. It could be dressed up with accessories, suitable for opera, symphony or Sunday wear. The simple neckline could be graced with a strand of pearls or the collar that I had embroidered with MawMaw. I never wanted to sew with my mother again. I didn't want to be in the kitchen with her. I didn't want to be in the same house. But I had no choice. I found escapes with Girl Scout activities.
My first real quilt was completed as a scout project when I was in Junior High school, start to finish. That quilt was tedious. I was using my craft scissors to cut the quilt shapes. There were times I thought I would have been better off chewing the pieces. Dad sharpened the scissors, but the results were still not clean cuts. There were thread ravelings everywhere. I had inherited MawMaw's old hoops and used the largest to hold each section of the top to the blanket lining and flannel backing. It was cumbersome, and had to be completely hand sewn, I wasn't about to ask if I could use the sewing machine. Although it was just squares of scraps lined with an old G.I. blanket, and not particularly memorable, I sewed a lot of anger and emotion into the quilt. I felt better when it was finished.
That quilt was my drag-it-around everywhere quilt. It was all mine, start to finish, with no outside assistance. It was the culmination of talents taught by the two most beloved women in my life, and the caring scout leader who extended my badge requirement date. It was draped over my shoulders as I sat by scout campfires playing my ukulele, singing folk songs. I shared it with Slim, Bunny, Goldie, and Flower.
One of the most memorable nights with that rag-tag quilt was just after graduation. It was one of our last camp-outs together. Our troop was assisting a senior sailing troop as host of Mariner Gamm. The event was a multi badge weekend for the Junior High aged scouts. We worked with the land based competitions, while the sailing troop handled the aquatic activities.
The location for this 300 person event was a wilderness camp owned by the Knights of Columbus in the Honey Island Swamp of lower Mississippi. There was a grand old plantation house, and quite a few bunk houses scattered about among the trees. The bunk houses were on low platforms with only a couple of steps to the screen door. Walls were wooden halfway up, then screen to the large over hanging roof. Hard wooden bunks were built along the walls. The younger troops had been assigned to the bunk houses, and numerous tent clearings. Some of the younger troops were also in the plantation house, along with the sailors and my troop. We selected the lower, screened porch, as our bunk location. The adult leaders shared bare bones bed room floors.
The sun was setting as we rolled out our bed rolls. The sound of the crickets grew louder as the bird songs softened and became silent, except for the occasional hoot of an owl and call of a whippoorwill. Someone, off in the distance was blowing a whistle. We were rattling our brown bags, eating sandwiches from home and being exuberant teen girls. The whistle continued, and continued. We wished it would stop. It was distracting from the beautiful sounds of nature. I detected a pattern. It was three short, three long, three short bursts, a universal S.O.S. I mentioned it to the girls, they paused and agreed with my observation. We decided it was part of the competition, and that the younger girls were the ones who needed to take action, and resumed out idle chatter.
Finally, I had just about had enough! I grabbed my flashlight and started out the door. “Injun, where ya goinin’? asked Slim. If someone is in trouble I’m gonna find out what they need. If not, I’m gonna stop that racket”, was my reply. Slim and Goldie said they’d go with me. The three of us, began walking down the road in our pajama clad bodies and thongs. (No, not the underwear, it’s what we called flip-flops back then.) As we progressed on our walk toward the sound, my flashlight waving willy-nilly across our way, an adult voice emphatically called out, “Don’t come down the road! Don’t come down the road! Get a car! Get a car!” Obediently, we quickly retraced our steps to the big house. We began to tell our tail to our leader, all three excitedly talking at the same time. Before we had time to finish, she had grabbed her keys and was headed to the car. We all piled in and began driving down the road. Just past the point where we had turned around, was a slight bend in the road. As we turned the bend, the headlights struck a brown bear standing in the road. Mrs. Dinkle continued to drive slowly toward the bear. The bear thought better of standing in the road, returned to all four, and lumbered on off. The car continued toward the near-by cabin in the woods. The bear had shown up just after the troop had eaten their evening meal, and was rummaging around in the garbage can, then stayed close by, rooting about in the dry leaves and palmettos. We were heros. The bear was gone, the cabin of frightened, tearful, eleven year-old girls could finally walk from the cabin to the out house.
We returned to the porch of the big house where we shared our story with the rest of our troop. I had gotten cold in the damp evening air, and crawled into my bedroll when the shock of what could have happened hit me. I was bear bate. I was going out into the woods alone to answer an S.O.S. with nothing but a flashlight, not even my pocket knife. My stomach began to knot up, and I felt stiff all over, yet I was shivering. I pulled my quilt up over my head, and I felt a couple of tears run down my cheek.
Now, I laugh about that night. Who needs ghost stories when you can tell true ones like that?
. . . Finale - The Early Years. . .
To read or re-read the story to this point:
episode #1
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-89325-1.htm
episode #2
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-91439-1.htm
episode #3
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-93252-1.htm
episode #4
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-95299-1.htm
episode #5
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-97179-1.htm
episode #6
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-99313-1.htm
episode #7
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-101509-1.htm
episode #8
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-103467-1.htm
episode #9
http://www.quiltingboard.com/t-105491-1.htm
Please contact the author for reprint information.