Читать книгу Following the Barn Quilt Trail - Suzi Parron - Страница 12

the adventure begins

AFTER TWO YEARS, Glen and I had settled into a comfortable routine—visits to our favorite Jamaican restaurant for spicy takeout after a session at the gym, kayaking the Chattahoochee or Etowah River most weekends, scouring the farmer’s market for obscure spices and produce to prepare Indian and Thai meals at home. I had spent thirty-four years in Atlanta, all of my adult life, and had developed close connections to friends. I was entrenched in my routine and was proud of my skill at negotiating the infamous rush hour traffic.

When Glen mentioned moving from our home into a converted bus RV, my book club, his spacious office, and the folk art collection that had been ten years in the making flashed before my mind’s eye. I doubted that I could give up all that I had accumulated.

My love for travel tugged in the other direction. We could see the country and savor each location as temporary residents rather than as mere tourists. The prospect of leaving behind what had become an unfulfilling job teaching high school was certainly appealing. More than anything, I was touched by the fact that Glen wanted to go and to take me with him.

And then there was the quilt trail. There were dozens of new community projects, and we could follow them to Canada and California, on a route that would wind through most of the country. Donna Sue and I talked, and we wondered whether we ought to update our earlier book with a section that discussed these additions. Over dinner with Donna Sue and Gillian Berchowitz, the director of Ohio University Press, I began to list the trails I thought ought to be included. When I paused at about twenty, Gillian said, “Suzi, it sounds as if there is another book’s worth of new quilt trails out there.” Indeed there were.

Suzi Parron and Glen Smith with Ruby Photo by Linda Wiant

In April 2013, Glen located a 1980 MCI bus that had been converted to an RV inside, with sofa, dining table, a full kitchen and bath, and a bedroom in back. “What do you think?” he asked. “Mighty sporty, huh?” It was a nervous, but exhilarating, purchase. We christened the bus Ruby to reflect the color of her retro paint scheme and took her to South Carolina for some renovations to the undesirably retro interior and thirty years of wear.

For Glen and me, the bus was a huge step forward. For most, commitments might be sealed with diamonds, but a bus said a lot more than any piece of jewelry. The promise was unspoken, but long-range plans for the future had begun.

In August Glen and I packed everything we thought we would need into that massive vehicle and set off to explore the quilt trail. I had already contacted several quilt trail organizers and set up a schedule of visits. I would also be presenting talks about barn quilts to quilters and civic groups along the way. Glen worked from home already; and though his new desk was barely big enough for his two computers, he would be able to continue full-time employment.

We drove to South Carolina on a hot August evening with both our kayaks strapped to the top of the Honda and two bicycles bouncing along on back. We picked up Ruby and after admiring her clean new look we hooked the car behind her and set out for Kentucky. Glen had created a disc of favorite songs for our journey; we surrounded ourselves with everything from classic country to seventies pop and sang along. Instead of a map in the pocket next to my seat, I had a tambourine stashed—a gift from Glen who remembered my jokingly saying that it was the only musical instrument I felt competent to play. When an upbeat song came on, I whacked the wooden frame against my knees, slapped the skin with the palm of my hand, and joined the band. My rendition of “I Heard it through the Grapevine” is destined to be a classic.

We hoped to get to our campsite before dark that first night. Over the next several weeks, that hope would become a recurring theme. We seemed to always be running behind. I designed our route to follow my research stops and speaking engagements, and setting departure times was part of that. My devil-may-care attitude had always worked for tent camping; I could just about get those poles into place blindfolded. But backing that bus in between a picnic table and an electrical pole was precarious business, and doing so with only a flashlight beam as a guide was downright dangerous. I had often chafed against Glen’s need for planning and precision, but here it began to make sense.

A spacious grassy spot at a state park along the Kentucky River set the tone for our new lifestyle. The dark skies and silent woods might have been eerie had they not signaled the start of an adventure. We slow danced in the parlor to Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” with just enough room between the sofa and dining table for me to twirl at the end of the song.

The next morning I woke up invigorated and ready for my first foray along the quilt trail in nearly three years. My morning commute took me down miles of country roads through hills lined equally with pastures and woods. As barns appeared in the landscape, I spotted a few barn quilts and stopped to investigate. Some of the blocks were a bit weathered, which was not surprising. Most of Kentucky’s quilt trails came about fairly early on, so many of the quilt squares were nearly a decade old.

The road turned to gravel, darkened by overhanging trees. I was so enjoying my reentry into the realm of country driving that I had forgotten to check the directions that Francine Bonny, one of my guides for the day, had provided. I was not sure which turn I had missed, but I was fairly certain that the wooded road did not lead to the McDonald’s that marked the final turn. A quick call set me back on track, and soon I found my hosts waiting.

Mary Reed and Francine Bonny, who had spearheaded the local quilt trail, asked how I had liked the welcome signs with quilt blocks in their corners that were mounted at the Estill County line. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been concentrating too hard on negotiating the winding curves to have noticed. Once we drove to the nearest of the signs, we all realized that I had missed it because I had not entered the county by the intended route.

“Neither of us is from Estill County,” Mary said, “but we sure have a lot of pride in our adopted county.” The two had worked with the area arts council and other volunteers to paint forty-five quilt blocks, and the scrapbook that Mary and Francine had created chronicled the process. We took a drive through a curving network of hollers and hills, where abundant wildflowers flourished, a yellow and purple quilt in the landscape.

We arrived at the Bicknell farm in the midst of a family Sunday dinner, and, as Southern hospitality dictates, were invited in and urged to help ourselves. I filled a plate with homestyle fried chicken and pork-seasoned greens and sat on a kitchen stool among the three generations of family gathered for the day. As the youngsters headed out to play, Lisa Bicknell talked a bit about the family farm and her quilt block.

The property has been in Lisa’s family for seven generations after being settled as part of a large land grant in the mid-seventeenth century. The current owners were elderly cousins, who lived nearby but wanted a family to occupy the home rather than allowing it to sit empty. The house dates to the Civil War period, and the barn is probably about the same age. Lisa’s dad recalled helping to renovate the house when he was a boy.

When Lisa heard about the barn quilt project, she attended the first organizational meeting with her sister, Pam. “She is the artist,” Lisa said. “I thought if this is going to happen, she is going to be part of it.” The block that the two chose is called Sisters, but the two named it Sisters’ Choice. Pam had already painted a small quilt block of the pattern, which she found in a quilting book that had belonged to the girls’ Aunt Bessie, who had lived in the house before Lisa’s family. “We both chose the block,” Lisa said. “The smaller one was Pam’s choice, and the larger one was my choice.”

The two sisters met once a week in the basement of the church that Francine attends, along with a group of other ladies and, occasionally, their teenage daughters. They could not be more pleased with the result. Lisa said, “We wanted it to look like a quilt, and most are made from dress remnants, so we were going for a calico look.”

Glen and I left Kentucky behind and headed north to Indiana. The view from the bus was exhilarating, and we relished the attention our vintage vehicle drew from other motorists. On two-lane roads, Glen raised a hand in greeting to approaching trucks, buses, and RVs and reported on the results: “Got a wave. No wave. Finger wave. Waved first!” We were proud members of a high-riding club on the road.

Gracie seemed to share our enthusiasm. G-Pup, as we called her, had always found our travel routine comforting, with her well-established spot in the backseat of my Honda her napping place for thousands of miles. On the bus, Gracie was not confined to one area, and despite my efforts to convince her that the couch was the best spot to ride, she planted herself between us, gazing out the windshield. I couldn’t blame her. The vantage point was thrilling for us humans, and I supposed it might be just as much so for a well-traveled dog.

Indiana brought our first experience in camping in a single location for several days and provided a chance to sort through our belongings. We rummaged through our storage areas both inside the bus and underneath, and a series of “Did you bring the . . . ?” “Do you know where we put the . . . ?” conversations ensued. I am still not certain how my favorite cast-iron frying pan left Georgia stashed under the sofa or why I grabbed a dozen pairs of shoes but only a couple of unmatched socks.

In the evening we spread our patio mat, set up our camp chairs, and cooked dinner over a wood fire. Fresh local tomatoes topped off a feast of grilled T-bones, roasted corn, and marinated portabella mushrooms—perfect summer fare. Wood smoke infused my hair, a rich incense that lingered for the next couple of days.

I had no quilt trail tours scheduled but did enjoy a tremendous turnout at an evening talk, where not only quilters but also local farmers and farm wives filled the auditorium to capacity. Glen’s work schedule allowed him to attend, and he helped greet those who approached me afterwards. As we loaded the last box into the car at the end of the night, Glen turned and pulled me toward him for a one-armed hug, “I’m just so proud of you.”

The next night, we visited the Indiana State Fair. We strolled down the midway hand in hand, and Glen squinted up through the glare, “I will if you will.” The celebratory mood overcame our mutual fear of heights, and there we were, circling high over the sea of lights in a Ferris wheel, quite literally on top of the world.

Sisters’ Choice

There was still plenty of daylight when Glen finished work on moving day, and we had just a few hours’ drive planned. We were headed for the home of Hugh and Kitch Rinehart in Vicksburg, Michigan, where we planned to park. Glen teased me gently that the flat interstate would be a good place to practice my driving skills, but I demurred. Within about ten minutes I was glad that I had let him keep the wheel. “I think I smell something,” he said in a serious tone. I did not detect an odor, but just as I began to respond, Glen added more urgently, “I’m losing power. I can’t steer.” With obvious effort, he directed the bus towards the shoulder of the highway, and she came to a stop.

I grabbed Gracie’s leash to lead her outside as smoke became visible along one wall inside the bus. The three of us climbed down quickly onto the roadside grass, and just as soon as we landed safely, Glen scurried back up the stairs. I could not follow, not only because I was holding Gracie but also because the bus had filled with smoke. I dialed 911 while standing on tiptoes, peering in, terrified. The operator came on the line just as Glen reached the kitchen and shouted, “It’s back here!” I cringed as I saw him pull the refrigerator away from the wall and heard him cry out in pain as I frantically tried to describe our location over the phone. “No, I am not certain of the nearest mile marker. What? Are we within the city limits? I don’t know!” After much discussion, firemen were on the way. Glen reappeared and the three of us stood at a safe distance as the volume of smoke began to wane.

I was proud of Glen but had to resist the urge to scold him. He had found the source of the fire and saved the bus from destruction, but had risked serious injury in doing so. As I examined the red welt that stretched from his wrist to his elbow, another thought occurred. Strangers had dinner prepared and were awaiting our arrival. I was on the phone explaining that we might not make it in time to eat when two fire trucks arrived on the scene. Still shaken and trembling, I waited in the car with Gracie as the firemen surveyed the interior of the bus. I had my purse and my pup, and Glen was safe. As night fell and Ruby was pronounced fire free, we waited for roadside service to tow the bus away.

Two a.m. found us exhausted and dejected, having grabbed a night’s worth of acrid-smelling, smoky clothing from the bus and located a dog-friendly, but somewhat grungy, motel nearby. Our dreams of bus life seemed to have ended before they had fully begun. We were able to retrieve more of our belongings from the bus in the morning, but it would be several days before the extent of the damage would be determined.

We left Elkhart, Indiana, with the car packed to bursting. Two suitcases, several boxes of books, three laptops, and all manner of doggie supplies were crammed into the cargo area so that Gracie could occupy the backseat. We considered scrapping the trip. “We can be home tomorrow,” Glen said. “They will understand.” The comforts and safety of Georgia beckoned, but so did my obligation to those who were expecting me. Kitch Rinehart had assured me that we, and Gracie, were welcome in their home. Without knowing when we would see Ruby again, we rode on to southern Michigan and the Vicksburg Quilt Trail.