did I think that a large part of my story would intertwine with the lives and stories of thousands of other folks across the United States and Canada.
In order to tell my story we have to go back sixty-plus years. I grew up in West Virginia. My mother and father were the first generation to move to the city away from the farm. As a family—my dad, mother, brother, and I would visit my grandparents most weekends.
My brother, Michael Blaine, was five years younger and a general pest to me. Riding side by side in a car for any length of time caused us to squabble. Those were the days of no cell phones, handheld games, or DVDs. It was impossible for us to play the typical license-plate game because all we saw were West Virginia plates. To keep us occupied Mother created a game counting barns. If it was a certain kind of barn, you got two points; if it was another type of barn, you got three points; if it had advertising on it, you got a bonus of five points if you could read the ad. Barns like “Chew Mail Pouch,” or “See Rock City,” or “RC Cola” were five points. Red barns were two points and white barns minus two points.
The game helped us not to fidget and poke at one another. It was an opportunity to practice our math and reading. The game sparked family discussions regarding farming practices such as the style or the function of barns. My dad loved photography and sometimes we stopped to take a picture of a barn. I was thrilled if we saw a farmer and I could ask him questions. Memories of those trips are some of my happiest!
It wasn’t unusual for me to spend a weekend or a summer visit with my grandparents. I remember that my first toys, or “pretties,” as Grandma Green called them, were empty spools, pieces of fabric, string, and a tin full of buttons. Both my grandmothers quilted and I was captivated with the process—from the piecing to the quilting. I particularly loved the pattern names such as “Robbing Peter to Pay Paul,” “Pickle Dish,” “Broken Dishes,” or “Grandmother’s Flower Garden.” Discovering that the fabric remnants were someone’s dress, shirt, or pajamas sent my imagination soaring. They pieced and quilted and I asked questions. I begged for stories, particularly the ones about the bygone days or what it was like when they were little girls.
Eventually my path took my mother and me to Adams County, Ohio. In the spring of 1989 Mother and I bought a small non-working farm that had a barn on it.
I finally had my own barn. Ours was a tobacco barn. One day while we were admiring it, I mentioned to my mother that I thought the barn was plain and needed something to brighten it up. I said it needed color; I halfheartedly said a big quilt square would look nice and promised her that I’d paint one for her someday. That 1989 “someday” promise took fourteen years to come to fruition.
During the 1990s I started working for the Ohio Arts Council and traveled throughout the Ohio River Valley and Appalachian Ohio counties meeting artists and members of art organizations. While working for OAC, I learned the value of using the arts to build a sense of community, particularly through creating large public murals. I also realized that the majority of communities held annual quilt shows and everyone seemed to have a quilt story or a quilt to show me. Pondering what I had learned, my promise to my mother lingered in my mind.
On my numerous OAC road trips, I, naturally, watched for barns just as I did as a child. It was during those road trips that an idea started to formulate that led to my “aha” moment. Most rural communities did not have large, blank, store walls or a floodwall for murals, but they did have barns. To me the barn walls looked like empty palettes waiting to be decorated. Why not make use of those barn walls specifically for a community project decorating them with quilt squares?
As the years passed my friends asked if I still planned to paint my mother’s quilt square. December 2000 was a turning point when those same friends offered to help me paint the quilt square that I had promised her. I mentioned my “aha” idea. I suggested, if we were going to paint one quilt square, why not paint several and invite tourists to travel a trail using quilt squares? I believed that a dedicated trail would lead to increased economic opportunities for us and highlight Adams County, Ohio, as a place to visit.
Enthusiastically my friends said yes and we formed the first committee. We rolled up our sleeves and started to plan. In a few months the original quilt-trail model was birthed. The Ohio Star was our first quilt square and was unveiled October 2001, during the Lewis Mountain Herb Fair. We dedicated it to my mother and my Appalachian mountain heritage. It wasn’t until three years later that I finally fulfilled my promise to Mother when we hung her Snail’s Trail square, painted by Geoff Schenkel.
Once Adams County dedicated our trail we had other counties and states that wanted to duplicate the model. We decided to pay-it-forward and share the model with anyone that asked. We happily passed along our how-to information with them. But, we did ask for a couple things in exchange. First, we asked that they remember where, who, and why it started; second, we asked that they share the model with others, along with the lessons they learned. As each community passed along what they learned, I felt the model would strengthen as it traveled to new communities.
For the past fifteen years I’ve found purpose and delight working with communities as they planned, developed, and implemented quilt trails across the United States. But my journey for the last ten years has been one of debilitating illness. Continuing to act as a mentor, consultant, cheerleader, and the go-to person for new trails has kept my mind occupied and depression at bay. The work has given me the impetus and desire to live. Even as my health continues to deteriorate, the ever-growing community of quilt-trail participants embraces me with friendship, love, prayers, and, above all, hope. They have cooked for me, driven me to appointments, and held my hand. They’ve dug deep into their pockets, and their generosity has helped pay for my living expenses and my ever-growing medical costs.
Daily, I am reminded that I am part of a greater community that is bound together by a magical quilting thread. That floating thread has allowed me to virtually travel from my home. By the use of social media, letters, pictures, emails, and telephone calls, I feel like I have actually visited almost all the quilt trails across America and Canada!
I’ve learned from their stories that we are not so different from one another: in important ways, we are much more alike. Although I did find a couple of differences—our last names may vary and the scenery around us may be mountainous or flat—I learned that we all want and desire the same things. Our fears are no different.
I’ve learned that we are a kinder, gentler nation, person-by-person and neighbor-by-neighbor, than the evening news would have us believe. I’ve heard childhood stories telling of growing up in rural America—how a quilt or barn played a role in so many lives. I’ve been told how working with others to create a trail transformed these lives and gave them new purpose—even giving some a will to live. I lived for those stories; stories were and continue to be my lifeline to the outside world!
Over the years I had numerous inquiries from individuals wanting to write a book about my story and the ever-growing phenomenon of quilt trails. I struggled giving any of them the green light until I spoke with Suzi Parron. When Suzi and I first chatted I immediately knew she was the right person to tell our story. Her enthusiasm and willingness to travel impressed and excited me. Suzi had an eye for detail and accuracy. With my blessing and the support of Ohio University Press and our editor Gillian Berchowitz, Suzi and Gracie hit the road running and never looked back. As she traveled the back roads of America, Suzi met Glen Smith, a fellow kayaker who would become her best friend and an enthusiastic road-trip partner. Eventually their friendship turned to love. Now Suzi’s, Glen’s, and Gracie’s stories are forever entwined with mine because of the American Quilt Trail.
In closing, I send a heartfelt thanks to Suzi for helping to define and save the memories that we share.
No matter where you live—I may not have been there in person to travel your trail but I am always
