The Quilt
My mother's name was Lorraina Mae,
Named after her mother, Lorraine.
Now she's ten years gone, God rest her soul
From toil and sorrow and pain.
She became an orphan child
When she was but nine years old.
It's a story she mostly kept to herself,
Not one that she lightly told.
She was a kind and gracious soul
Who lived to be ninety-three,
And more than once in her living years
She told the story to me.
Her family was traveling on the Gloria Jayne,
Headed for America's shores.
Her parents, two brothers, and a sister all
Fleeing the Protestant wars.
A storm arose and the ship capsized,
There wasn't five minutes of warning.
The passengers were still in their beds,
'twas early in the morning.
She remembered the sound the timbers made
When the Jayne rolled onto her side.
In no time at all, the ship broke up
And all but my mother had died.
She had gotten up early and gone on deck,
O'er her shoulders she'd a quilt wrapped round her.
And thus she was thrown in the angry sea
Where the waves made efforts to drownd her.
She clung to a barrel most all of that day
With none but the quilt for a friend,
Till a passing whaler spotted her there
And saved her from a watery end.
She worked in the galley to earn her fare,
This the whalers insisted in trade.
She came to this country with the clothes on her back
And the quilt which her mother had made.
It had intertwining vines
That ran all around the border,
And these moved into the quilt
In a wry and whimsical order.
Oh, the quilt is a precious thing
And in time its colors made fade,
But to her 'twould be
A joy to see
The quilt that her mother had made.
As it turns out I never did
Find the love of my life.
I believe I would have made a good husband
If I had found me a wife.
I spent my days working out in the woods,
Cutting timber for the lumber mills.
The living I earned never mounted to much,
Still I managed to pay the bills.
And I managed to read a few books in my time,
Even wrote me a poem or two.
All told it hasn't been much of a life,
But I guess it will have to do.
My mother loved her mother's quilt,
To her it was like a treasure.
When she passed on the quilt became mine.
I'm the last one who'll have the pleasure
Of wrapping up in its quilted folds
Or admiring its grand design.
For after me there is on one else,
I am the last of our line.
So when you prepare my coffin
When I have completed this test,
Please wrap me up in my grandmother's quilt
When you lay there to rest.
It has intertwining vines
That ran all around the border,
And these moved into the quilt
In a wry and whimsical order.
Oh, the quilt is a precious thing
And in time its colors made fade,
But 'twill always be
A joy to me,
The quilt that my grandmother made.
I went down to the Common Ground Fair
And I chanced to talk to a woman there
Who had some quilts upon display.
And though a bit shy still I managed to say,
"I'm not one to brag, but all the same,
I've a quilt at home that would put these to shame."
She handed a business card to me,
Saying, "Sir, what quilt would that happen to be?"
I described the quilt as best I could.
"It's a Celtic quilt," she said as she stood
And inquired as to its age and its hues.
Then she said, "Sir, I have excellent news.
"I'll give you a thousand dollars
Sight unseen for your Celtic quilt.
This she said with a smile upon her face
And she gave her head a tilt.
"If you gave me a thousand dollars,
You could have me and my good looks;
You could have my car, such as it is;
You could have my collection of books;
"You could have my antique mantle clock
With its angels all goldly gilt;
"You could have my dog;
But you could never have
My beautiful Celtic quilt."
Now I did not mean to be rude to the lady,
That's usually not my way.
So I looked at the card, QUILTS BOUGHT AND SOLD
For something kind I could say.
"I believe Lorraine is a beautiful name.
It's a personal favorite to me."
"It was my grandmother's name," she said.
"She was lost in a shipwreck at sea."
"And what was the name of the ship," I asked.
"The Gloria Jayne," she replied.
"She capsized in a sudden storm
And most all aboard her died."
"And who survived?" I carefully asked.
"My father, though he was only five.
He floated upon a broken plank
Till a steamer saved him alive."
"And by chance is your father still living?" I asked.
Then the woman she looked at me oddly.
"He's old, but alive," she said with a laugh,
"He's a crumugeon most ungodly."
"And do you have children?"
"I do," she said.
"Grandchildren as well, but why
Do you ask me these questions,
And pardon me sir,
But is that a tear in your eye?"
"I'm not a man much given to tears,
So it comes as a surprise
That I who've not cried in over sixty-five years
Should have tears come to my eyes.
"Your grandmother sewed that quilt, Lorraine,
She made every stitch by hand.
It took her two full years to complete,
Least so I understand.
"And I would not sell my Celtic quilt
For a million dollars or two.
But meet me here tomorrow, luv,
And I'll give the quilt to you."
It has intertwining vines
That ran all around the border
And these moved into the quilt
In a wry and whimsical order.
And among the traveling vines
And the leaves and the berries rife
In pleasant scenes
All neatly sewn
Are the treasure of her life.
There's her natal home and the names of those
Who resided in that place.
There's the church where she became a bride
And wore her bridal lace.
There's the hill above her married home
Where she and her husband would climb.
And there's other names and places,
Now lost to us in time.
And from each scene a single vine
Leads off all on its own
To intertwine around a heart
That stands in the center alone.
And in the heart in golden thread:
A heptameter of names.
There's hers and sewn beside it
Is that of her husband James.
And there's her two fine sons
And her two fair daughters.
And two of them were spared
From the Atlantic's treacherous waters.
Oh, the quilt is a precious thing
And in time its colors made fade,
But may it always be
A joy to thee,
The quilt that your grandmother made.