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When I was a small child, I remember going to an occassional quilting bee with Mom.  As the women quilted, we kids played, not really paying too much attention to what the women were doing.  But I remember the products of these “bees.”  We had quilts in our home.  I loved them because they were made with remnants and scraps of material that Mom used in the clothing she made for the family.  (I never owned a store-bought garment until I went to college!)  We knew what shirt or dress contributed to each patch of the quilt.  Grandmamma was a quilter, too, and I loved to snuggle under one when we visited the farm on a cold winter day.  We always had scads of quilts around the house.  The quilt pictured here, sad to say, is store-bought.  I don’t have any quilts from my youth anymore.  Over time the material wears thin and the batting begins to push out at the seams, and then through the threadbare material itself.  But this only tends to happen when quilts are used on a regular basis, as we did.  This quilt hangs on a wall and collects dust.  It just isn’t the same.  Quilting bees were times when women gathered and chatted and worked together to create artfully crafted utilitarian masterpieces for daily use.  I miss having handmade quilts around the house.  I am grateful for quilts, and the memories of a bygone era.

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