to relax and let Glen decide how certain things ought to be done. I still preferred my own method of folding towels but had grown to appreciate the merits of filling the car’s gas tank before the warning light glowed.
I began receiving requests to speak to quilt guilds and civic groups about the quilt trail and welcomed the opportunity to do so. Glen often accompanied me on my talks, and soon he was as well versed in barn quilts as I was; we often joked that if I were sick, he could deliver my presentation from memory, though perhaps without my flair. Glen has competed with the quilt trail for my attention quite a bit along the way but has never complained. If he only knew what he was getting himself into.
FOLLOWING THE BARN QUILT TRAIL
the adventure begins
AFTER TWO YEARS, Glen and I had settled into a comfortable routine—visits to our favorite Jamaican restaurant for spicy takeout after a session at the gym, kayaking the Chattahoochee or Etowah River most weekends, scouring the farmer’s market for obscure spices and produce to prepare Indian and Thai meals at home. I had spent thirty-four years in Atlanta, all of my adult life, and had developed close connections to friends. I was entrenched in my routine and was proud of my skill at negotiating the infamous rush hour traffic.
When Glen mentioned moving from our home into a converted bus RV, my book club, his spacious office, and the folk art collection that had been ten years in the making flashed before my mind’s eye. I doubted that I could give up all that I had accumulated.
My love for travel tugged in the other direction. We could see the country and savor each location as temporary residents rather than as mere tourists. The prospect of leaving behind what had become an unfulfilling job teaching high school was certainly appealing. More than anything, I was touched by the fact that Glen wanted to go and to take me with him.
And then there was the quilt trail. There were dozens of new community projects, and we could follow them to Canada and California, on a route that would wind through most of the country. Donna Sue and I talked, and we wondered whether we ought to update our earlier book with a section that discussed these additions. Over dinner with Donna Sue and Gillian Berchowitz, the director of Ohio University Press, I began to list the trails I thought ought to be included. When I paused at about twenty, Gillian said, “Suzi, it sounds as if there is another book’s worth of new quilt trails out there.” Indeed there were.
Suzi Parron and Glen Smith with Ruby Photo by Linda Wiant
In April 2013, Glen located a 1980 MCI bus that had been converted to an RV inside, with sofa, dining table, a full kitchen and bath, and a bedroom in back. “What do you think?” he asked. “Mighty sporty, huh?” It was a nervous, but exhilarating, purchase. We christened the bus Ruby to reflect the color of her retro paint scheme and took her to South Carolina for some renovations to the undesirably retro interior and thirty years of wear.
For Glen and me, the bus was a huge step forward. For most, commitments might be sealed with diamonds, but a bus said a lot more than any piece of jewelry. The promise was unspoken, but long-range plans for the future had begun.
In August Glen and I packed everything we thought we would need into that massive vehicle and set off to explore the quilt trail. I had already contacted several quilt trail organizers and set up a schedule of visits. I would also be presenting talks about barn quilts to quilters and civic groups along the way. Glen worked from home already; and though his new desk was barely big enough for his two computers, he would be able to continue full-time employment.
We drove to South Carolina on a hot August evening with both our kayaks strapped to the top of the Honda and two bicycles bouncing along on back. We picked up Ruby and after admiring her clean new look we hooked the car behind her and set out for Kentucky. Glen had created a disc of favorite songs for our journey; we surrounded ourselves with everything from classic country to seventies pop and sang along. Instead of a map in the pocket next to my seat, I had a tambourine stashed—a gift from Glen who remembered my jokingly saying that it was the only musical instrument I felt competent to play. When an upbeat song came on, I whacked the wooden frame against my knees, slapped the skin with the palm of my hand, and joined the band. My rendition of “I Heard it through the Grapevine” is destined to be a classic.
We hoped to get to our campsite before dark that first night. Over the next several weeks, that hope would become a recurring theme. We seemed to always be running behind. I designed our route to follow my research stops and speaking engagements, and setting departure times was part of that. My devil-may-care attitude had always worked for tent camping; I could just about get those poles into place blindfolded. But backing that bus in between a picnic table and an electrical pole was precarious business, and doing so with only a flashlight beam as a guide was downright dangerous. I had often chafed against Glen’s need for planning and precision, but here it began to make sense.
A spacious grassy spot at a state park along the Kentucky River set the tone for our new lifestyle. The dark skies and silent woods might have been eerie had they not signaled the start of an adventure. We slow danced in the parlor to Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” with just enough room between the sofa and dining table for me to twirl at the end of the song.
The next morning I woke up invigorated and ready for my first foray along the quilt trail in nearly three years. My morning commute took me down miles of country roads through hills lined equally with pastures and woods. As barns appeared in the landscape, I spotted a few barn quilts and stopped to investigate. Some of the blocks were a bit weathered, which was not surprising. Most of Kentucky’s quilt trails came about fairly early on, so many of the quilt squares were nearly a decade old.
The road turned to gravel, darkened by overhanging trees. I was so enjoying my reentry into the realm of country driving that I had forgotten to check the directions that Francine Bonny, one of my guides for the day, had provided. I was not sure which turn I had missed, but I was fairly certain that the wooded road did not lead to the McDonald’s that marked the final turn. A quick call set me back on track, and soon I found my hosts waiting.
Mary Reed and Francine Bonny, who had spearheaded the local quilt trail, asked how I had liked the welcome signs with quilt blocks in their corners that were mounted at the Estill County line. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been concentrating too hard on negotiating the winding curves to have noticed. Once we drove to the nearest of the signs, we all realized that I had missed it because I had not entered the county by the intended route.
“Neither of us is from Estill County,” Mary said, “but we sure have a lot of pride in our adopted county.” The two had worked with the area arts council and other volunteers to paint forty-five quilt blocks, and the scrapbook that Mary and Francine had created chronicled the process. We took a drive through a curving network of hollers and hills, where abundant wildflowers flourished, a yellow and purple quilt in the landscape.
We arrived at the Bicknell farm in the midst of a family Sunday dinner, and, as Southern hospitality dictates, were invited in and urged to help ourselves. I filled a plate with homestyle fried chicken and pork-seasoned greens and sat
