Make Quilts Not War - By Arlene Sachitano Page 0,15
popcorn and pickles for dinner at least once each time my uncle Hank was away on a business trip.”
“Why would you do that on purpose?” Carla asked, still obviously confused. “My mom and I ate combos like that just before we ran out of food.”
No one knew what to say. Carla’s face got redder as she realized she’d said something wrong, but still didn’t understand what.
Aunt Beth put her arm around the young woman.
“They wouldn’t, sweetie. It’s a poor joke by two people who’ve never wanted for food in their lives. We should be more sensitive.”
“So, did you eat that or not?” Carla pressed, still confused.
“Yes, we did,” Harriet said. “Not because we had to, though. I’ll tell you all about it later. You want to help me unload a couple quilts from the back of my car? When they put out the call for quilts for the food area, I got to be one of the drop-off points.”
“Did I miss anything?” Jenny asked as she walked up to the back of Harriet’s car, her quilt held tightly in her arms.
“We just got here,” Harriet said. “These are some of the quilts Marjory rounded up for the food court.”
“I’m supposed to meet with the two volunteers who are going to stand with my quilt when I’m not there. They’re also helping hang quilts, so we thought we’d meet here.” Jenny said.
“We better go inside,” Aunt Beth called with a glance at the darkening sky. “It looks like it’s about to start raining.”
Harriet and the Threads joined the women assembled in the exhibit hall, where they were divided into groups and given instructions on how to hang their assigned quilts. Jenny took hers and followed the two volunteers and another woman from the show committee.
Her quilt would be hanging in a place of honor in an alcove created from black curtains and with a raised plywood platform. Jenny or one of the other volunteers would stay with it and answer questions about not only about her quilt but pieced quilts in the sixties in general.
“Hey,” Lauren said to Harriet an hour later. She’d just come into the building, shaking the rain from her jacket as she took it off. “I had to work with my client,” she explained. “Did you know Colm Byrne is setting up in the next building? Not his flunkies, the man himself.”
“Really?” Carla said.
“Would I lie to you?” Lauren shot back.
“Can we go see?”
“It’s your lucky day, honey,” Mavis said. “Marjory’s bringing a cart full of quilts for us to take to the auditorium and hang.”
“I’m going to see if Jenny’s done,” Harriet said. “This may be our only chance to see Colm Byrne.” She went to find their friend, returning minutes later with Jenny in tow.
“Is that little guy tuning the guitar Colm?” Carla whispered when the group had reached the auditorium.
They stretched their first quilt open and held the edges of the hanging sleeve so that Mavis and Connie could slip the rod that would suspend the quilt into it.
“I have to admit, he looks bigger on TV,” Mavis said. “Not that I’ve spent a lot of time watching him, mind you, but he’s been interviewed on all the local morning shows this week.”
“I must have missed that,” Jenny said, unfolding a cathedral window quilt made from small-scale floral prints in mauves and pinks. “Then again, I was never into that sort of music.”
“Not even in the sixties?” Harriet asked.
“Not even then,” Jenny said and cringed as someone struck a loud and discordant note on a guitar. “I wanted to grow up to be a concert pianist. I listened to classical music.”
“Wow,” Carla said.
“I listened to a lot of classical music when I was young, but only because it was part of my parent’s carefully orchestrated plan for my education,” Harriet said. “I also had to learn how to play piano and cello. I listened to grunge bands whenever no one was looking.”
“I thought my childhood was weird,” Lauren said, “but you definitely have me beat.”
“What was so weird about your childhood?” Harriet asked.
“We’re talking about you, Miss I Played Piano and Cello While I Was Still in Diapers.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault I was an overachiever by proxy.”
“He’s staring at us,” Carla said in a hushed voice.
“No, he’s not,” Lauren said. “He’s practicing his come-hither look. It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me.”