out to play, Lisa Bicknell talked a bit about the family farm and her quilt block.
The property has been in Lisa’s family for seven generations after being settled as part of a large land grant in the mid-seventeenth century. The current owners were elderly cousins, who lived nearby but wanted a family to occupy the home rather than allowing it to sit empty. The house dates to the Civil War period, and the barn is probably about the same age. Lisa’s dad recalled helping to renovate the house when he was a boy.
When Lisa heard about the barn quilt project, she attended the first organizational meeting with her sister, Pam. “She is the artist,” Lisa said. “I thought if this is going to happen, she is going to be part of it.” The block that the two chose is called Sisters, but the two named it Sisters’ Choice. Pam had already painted a small quilt block of the pattern, which she found in a quilting book that had belonged to the girls’ Aunt Bessie, who had lived in the house before Lisa’s family. “We both chose the block,” Lisa said. “The smaller one was Pam’s choice, and the larger one was my choice.”
The two sisters met once a week in the basement of the church that Francine attends, along with a group of other ladies and, occasionally, their teenage daughters. They could not be more pleased with the result. Lisa said, “We wanted it to look like a quilt, and most are made from dress remnants, so we were going for a calico look.”
Glen and I left Kentucky behind and headed north to Indiana. The view from the bus was exhilarating, and we relished the attention our vintage vehicle drew from other motorists. On two-lane roads, Glen raised a hand in greeting to approaching trucks, buses, and RVs and reported on the results: “Got a wave. No wave. Finger wave. Waved first!” We were proud members of a high-riding club on the road.
Gracie seemed to share our enthusiasm. G-Pup, as we called her, had always found our travel routine comforting, with her well-established spot in the backseat of my Honda her napping place for thousands of miles. On the bus, Gracie was not confined to one area, and despite my efforts to convince her that the couch was the best spot to ride, she planted herself between us, gazing out the windshield. I couldn’t blame her. The vantage point was thrilling for us humans, and I supposed it might be just as much so for a well-traveled dog.
Indiana brought our first experience in camping in a single location for several days and provided a chance to sort through our belongings. We rummaged through our storage areas both inside the bus and underneath, and a series of “Did you bring the . . . ?” “Do you know where we put the . . . ?” conversations ensued. I am still not certain how my favorite cast-iron frying pan left Georgia stashed under the sofa or why I grabbed a dozen pairs of shoes but only a couple of unmatched socks.
In the evening we spread our patio mat, set up our camp chairs, and cooked dinner over a wood fire. Fresh local tomatoes topped off a feast of grilled T-bones, roasted corn, and marinated portabella mushrooms—perfect summer fare. Wood smoke infused my hair, a rich incense that lingered for the next couple of days.
I had no quilt trail tours scheduled but did enjoy a tremendous turnout at an evening talk, where not only quilters but also local farmers and farm wives filled the auditorium to capacity. Glen’s work schedule allowed him to attend, and he helped greet those who approached me afterwards. As we loaded the last box into the car at the end of the night, Glen turned and pulled me toward him for a one-armed hug, “I’m just so proud of you.”
The next night, we visited the Indiana State Fair. We strolled down the midway hand in hand, and Glen squinted up through the glare, “I will if you will.” The celebratory mood overcame our mutual fear of heights, and there we were, circling high over the sea of lights in a Ferris wheel, quite literally on top of the world.
Sisters’ Choice
There was still plenty of daylight when Glen finished work on moving day, and we had just a few hours’ drive planned. We were headed for the home of Hugh and Kitch Rinehart in Vicksburg, Michigan, where we planned to park. Glen teased me gently that the flat interstate would be a good place to practice my driving skills, but I demurred. Within about ten minutes I was glad that I had let him keep the wheel. “I think I smell something,” he said in a serious tone. I did not detect an odor, but just as I began to respond, Glen added more urgently, “I’m losing power. I can’t steer.” With obvious effort, he directed the bus towards the shoulder of the highway, and she came to a stop.
I grabbed Gracie’s leash to lead her outside as smoke became visible along one wall inside the bus. The three of us climbed down quickly onto the roadside grass, and just as soon as we landed safely, Glen scurried back up the stairs. I could not follow, not only because I was holding Gracie but also because the bus had filled with smoke. I dialed 911 while standing on tiptoes, peering in, terrified. The operator came on the line just as Glen reached the kitchen and shouted, “It’s back here!” I cringed as I saw him pull the refrigerator away from the wall and heard him cry out in pain as I frantically tried to describe our location over the phone. “No, I am not certain of the nearest mile marker. What? Are we within the city limits? I don’t know!” After much discussion, firemen were on the way. Glen reappeared and the three of us stood at a safe distance as the volume of smoke began to wane.
I was proud of Glen but had to resist the urge to scold him. He had found the source of the fire and saved the bus from destruction, but had risked serious injury in doing so. As I examined the red welt that stretched from his wrist to his elbow, another thought occurred. Strangers had dinner prepared and were awaiting our arrival. I was on the phone explaining that we might not make it in time to eat when two fire trucks arrived on the scene. Still shaken and trembling, I waited in the car with Gracie as the firemen surveyed the interior of the bus. I had my purse and my pup, and Glen was safe. As night fell and Ruby was pronounced fire free, we waited for roadside service to tow the bus away.
Two a.m. found us exhausted and dejected, having grabbed a night’s worth of acrid-smelling, smoky clothing from the bus and located a dog-friendly, but somewhat grungy, motel nearby. Our dreams of bus life seemed to have ended before they had fully begun. We were able to retrieve more of our belongings from the bus in the morning, but it would be several days before the extent of the damage would be determined.
We left Elkhart, Indiana, with the car packed to bursting. Two suitcases, several boxes of books, three laptops, and all manner of doggie supplies were crammed into the cargo area so that Gracie could occupy the backseat. We considered scrapping the trip. “We can be home tomorrow,” Glen said. “They will understand.” The comforts and safety of Georgia beckoned, but so did my obligation to those who were expecting me. Kitch Rinehart had assured me that we, and Gracie, were welcome in their home. Without knowing when we would see Ruby again, we rode on to southern Michigan and the Vicksburg Quilt Trail.
michigan
GLEN AND I arrived in Vicksburg disheveled and exhausted, but Hugh and Kitch Rinehart were so welcoming that our tension soon evaporated. Their lakefront home provided the comfortable refuge that we needed. Gracie had the run of the backyard, and she splashed and slurped along the sand, relishing her freedom. Kitch and I set out on a paddle boat, laughing as we struggled to maneuver the craft along the shore, while Glen zoomed across the water on a jet ski at full throttle. I felt as if we were on vacation instead of at work. Dinner on the deck with cold wine and lively conversation helped relieve the strain of the last twenty-four hours. “This might just work out after all,” Glen said, as we watched the sunset over the water,
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