Quilts, Coal buckets, and Rocking Chairs

Dear Reader,

The “Appalachian Museum” sign, hanging below street level, catches my eye as I wander through the hustle of downtown New York City. I am drawn several steps down to a little shop tucked underneath the bigger stores. Being from Appalachian Kentucky, I’m reminded that the mountain range of my home place also flows through New York State. It seems strange to be drawn into something mountain on my first theatre trip to the big city. The entrance is ordinary with no fancy adornment. I open the door to three small rooms filled with familiar artifacts that which stirred my memory.

The outside view of oneself is educational. I’d never seen my Appalachian culture as primitive, but as smart. We are a resourceful people who can find a use for almost everything. And things can be reused in interesting ways. Lard buckets, for example, become functional, if not pretty, chamber pots. Not everyone can afford porcelain. Problem with lard buckets is that they can make reverberating, ringing sound when splashed with liquid, especially in the middle of the night. Along another line of resourceful reasoning, I remember being told that even “scrappy tomatoes can be cut away to the firm inside and canned for a fresh meal in the winter. Why such things are perceived as primitive instead of smart nags at me. I must return to my story of the Appalachian Museum.

In a corner on a polished log table is a collection of wooden utensils. I love the small wooden coffee grinder that appears more functional that fancy with its sturdy black iron handle. I notice because I have my grandmother’s grinder, which is similar. On a table with hand-hewn wooden bowls and spoons is a solid hardwood rolling pin. Easy grip, no nonsense handles extend from both ends and they turn easily as I give the heavy pin a trial push. More weight to the wood means less elbow grease to roll out pie crust, dumplings, or biscuit dough. I treasure a similar pin that was carved by a great-grandfather at the turn of the 20th century. My newest, homemade rolling pin may also become a collector’s item some day. It was fashioned by my brother, John, from the trunk of a hardwood tree he had recently dug out his hillside farm. He had the luxury of modern electrical tools and made pins for his wife and each of his four sisters.

I see some folk art including homemade dolls, carved pull toys, and a collection of paintings. I like my mother’s primitive art better. Her work is elementary and I’m struck by the idea it could be shown in museums, like the one I’m looking at right now. Primitive art is not refined and is found in all cultures. Refined art is a different genre, I suppose.Do we want to refine the primitive nature out of an untrained artist or try to see its unpolished unreal reality?

I turn to see a traditional front porch rocking chair. Everyone has rocking chairs, don’t they? I ponder this question as I approach the chair, which is similar to those we used both on the front porch and also inside the house. Rocking in a chair is almost an art form in itself, isn’t it? There’s one way to relax and rock and watch what’s going on up and down the road, another way to rock and sing hymns or hit parade songs, or listen to the latest on an I-Pod, too. There's also a special way to rock before a warm fire as bedtime nears, and yet another way to rock the babies to sleep.

Babies like to be rocked at first in bold moves, which means the rocker will lift both feet off the floor in the beginning and push back with forward landing. The bold rocking is usually accompanied by bold singing. At our house, the singing style was ByeeOBaaabeeGotooo sleep, OoObaybeeegoootoooo sleep, sung to the tune of Amazing Grace. I have strong memories of Mother singing “don’t slam that door or I’ll give you a whipping, go get me a cigarette and a blanket right now”, also to the tune of Amazing Grace. We listened and followed each melodic order. As the bold rocking continues, the baby is comforted and begins to relax, the rocker slows down and listens for the particular nuance of sound specific to that chair—each chair is different.

The homemade chair may squeak with each forward move or the floor may groan on the back swing as the rocker pushes off again with both feet. One may hear a quiet screech as a chair arms is strained from its attachment to the chair back and its position is forced to change by the weight of the rocker, creating a sound that goes against its natural sound. A good rocker knows each sound and knows how to blend it in with the singing so the lullaby movement is consistent and predictable with no sudden unexpected sounds to disturb the baby.

The baby’s increasingly heavy eyes stay shut longer, and open ever more slowly to make sure they are still held in safe, loving arms. The rocker slows incrementally until the baby and rocker are still moving although the chair is quiet. Caregivers master the art of walking the baby to its bed and gently laying them down while maintaining a gentle version of the rhythmic dance of the rocking chair. Each chair has its own squeak that builds into a unique style of rocking. Babies must be weaned from the chair just as they had been weaned from the breast. I helped care for my grandchildren just this way, in a modern home in which the rustic rocking chair was a little out of place. I loved it.

I snap out of my reverie and pay attention to the old quilt displayed over the back of the rocking chair. The hand-stitched quilt is old and quite frayed and I wonder why on earth a better quilt wasn't selected for an exhibit right in the middle of New York City. The quilt is soft and tattered and reminds me of our quilts at home--the ones I was ashamed of when I was a girl growing up in the coal camp.

I remember Mother as more of a poet and artist at heart, never interested in domestic crafts. She always did the brutal chores she had to do to keep a family of 8-10 fed,clothed, clean, and educated. However, she much preferred a good conversation and a cigarette during her few leisure moments. I suppose she bought our quilts from the rural women who lived over the hill from us, and maybe they had also given her a few, since they all seemed to love her. The culture of the rural neighbors reminded her of own beloved parents and the richness of their simple lives.

Some of our quilts were scratchy with pure wool patches made from old coats and army blankets.They were warm, though, and when a house only has heat in the living room and none in the bedrooms, retaining the warmth is the key to making it through the winter. During the cold, wet winters, Mother would hang quilts over the door between the living room and dining room to keep whatever heat was generated moving towards the bedrooms. Usually, our windows would freeze on the inside, just as on the outside.

Now, I know Mother got up early, probably around 4 AM, stoked the fire, took down the quilt insulation, started boiling water for coffee, and the house warmed up a little she before she woke Daddy for work in the mines and us, to wake up and get ready for school. She endured the cold, as always with no complaint, as she did those early chores, and, as she told me years later, found a minute or two to have a cigarette and write a poem.

When it was really cold, we sat in the corner behind the Warm Morning coal stove eating our breakfast while we pulled on shoes and socks that had been warming there. Gravy and biscuits were standard fare. Sometimes left over cornbread took the place of the biscuits. Once in a while fried bologna was added for a special touch. At times,Mother would warm a quilt by holding it close to the coal heater, and then throw it over us to help us adjust to the day. I can feel that warm comforting heat right now.

Quilts are heavy, especially when several are stacked. People talk about how they loved a cold room with lots of heavy quilts. I wonder if that's really true, or if it was just the way it was--and we like what "was". I only know we never had blankets—such as the ones with satin borders that I yearned for.

I so identified with our old frayed quilts that I coveted the soft blankets with satin edges that a few of my "town" friends had. It was years before I would appreciate the resourcefulness of the women whose resourcefulness, work, handicraft transformed old army blankets, coats, and other clothes into the beautiful quilts we were fortunate and blessed to have.

I had never seen quilts as an art form until that day in the little "Appalachian Museum" under the street in New York City. The old frayed quilt on display was priced at $1000.00. I was astonished.

Since that day, many years ago, I have considered not using my quilts, but we use them anyway. They are truly so warm--especially my two pure velvet "patchwork" quilts that are not really quilted, but "tacked" with red yarn to a backing of red flannel. We're starting to tear some of the patchwork stitching, and I so wish I knew how to mend them. Maybe I'll learn quilting before it's too late.

My daughter took her custom made quilt to college and with her all over the US during her acting years. It's now quite ragged, but used and loved more than ever. I think her daughter will take it to college this year, too. In the 1980s a group of coal trucker wives made me a quilt of polyester—the leading fabric of the day! I bet that quilt will never wear out.

When I left the trucking company, the staff gave me a quilt that had been hand stitched by David Crafts Center Artisans. The Center is located in the very coal camp where I grew up. I recently learned that my king size "Double Wedding Band" quilt is worth $1400! I won't sell it, but am really happy for the David, Kentucky artisans who are generating a good market for their handiwork.

I've heard that some people decorate with quilts and coal buckets, but I saw enough of these items in my youth, I simply don’t see them as decor, but as functional objects. When you've carried as many buckets full of coal as we did as children—especially my brother, Rod, who was in charge of this task from the age of 7 on—the site of a coal bucket as a magazine is not particularly appealing to me. Maybe, though, those who have left Appalachia to live elsewhere might see such a memento as a possibility.

Last week in Birmingham, I was the house guest of a dear friend. There had been a sudden winter blast into the south so Betty was prepared. Being from Appalachian Tennessee, Betty did what comes naturally and laid out quilts on the top of my bed in case I got cold. Of course we had the "quilt" discussion and she showed me her collection of frayed "used" quilts. It was totally wonderful to be reminded of the beauty of a piece of my childhood that I didn't notice as a child.

Betty also pulled a black iron skillet of steaming cornbread out of the oven just as I arrived. Life is good! I wish I had been more conscious of my childhood while I was there.

As far as quilts go, I have come full circle.

*Quilt comments from my facebook friends will be posted soon.*