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Emma Alice’s Attic by Elizabeth Johnson
It was 1948 and I was eleven years old. My grandma, Emma Alice, was hosting her Tuesday quilting bee in the front parlor. On any other day, I would have been outside under the willow tree narrating stories in which my dolls and stuffed animals took part. But on this particular Tuesday, the rain was coming down furiously and I had been restricted to indoor activities, and quiet ones at that, so as not to disturb the assembled group downstairs. After unsuccessfully attempting to immerse myself in the magical realms afforded by my pile of well-read books, I wandered off through the house searching for something new to play with to pass the time until my mother returned from helping Aunt Amy with the new baby. This was to be a special day. One that would ultimately alter the direction of my life.
We had come to live with my grandma in her lovely old house only recently, returning to the community my mother had grown up in after my father's business in a neighboring town across the state had suffered some serious setbacks. For my parents the move "home" had been difficult, but for me, there was no better place imaginable than Grandma's house. I realize now that for my Dad it was probably an added burden that he was immersed in a household dominated by females, but my tomboy self tried to be a good companion to him.
Having tired eventually of rereading my old books, I decided to explore the third floor of the house, which wasn't much used then except for storage. I would always come across some old thing up there that puzzled me and would later evoke a story from grandma. It seemed everything in that house was connected to some bit of family history and I loved hearing her tell the tales. I had favorite stories that I would request over and over again.
I thought I knew that part of the house by heart. There was the old woven sewing basket on the table at the end of the hall, whose lid was decorated with pale colors of silk embroidery, faded over time. I had looked through this basket many times, and been told that it had belonged to my great grandmother and still held her favorite embroidery scissors and thimble. I was more taken with a small tin box that was full of metallic black seed beads, and some tiny ivory elephants, no more than one-half inch high. I opened that box on many occasions and so far my questions about its contents posed to Grandma had elicited only the terse response, "Those are just do-dads."
This time, walking past the table and the sewing basket, I noticed what appeared to be the outline of a door in the wall behind the table. I wondered for a moment if I dared explore this further. Naturally, my curiosity won out. I could hear the bubbling sounds of the quilt ladies downstairs, and occasional bursts of shared laughter and decided there was no real danger of being caught. I leaned against one end of the table and pushed until it slowly shifted along the wall and I could see the usually hidden handle. Opening the door out toward me, I could see the bottom of a dark stairwell. I found no light switch but could see a stream of light coming in from somewhere above. I climbed the stairs finding it odd that I had never wondered before about an attic in this sprawling house, having certainly read about wonderful things happening in attics in my books. As I reached the top of the dusty stairs, I could see that the single slanting ray of light entered the attic space through a small window in the end wall of the cluttered room.
I felt like I had stepped back in time. Before me lay an array of antique and broken objects, old valises, trunks, boxes with their contents spilling out. There was a filigreed birdcage on a tall metal stand, an old handmade rocking horse wearing a permanent grin, a wooden globe of the world - a world that no longer existed as pictured, and a large tricycle, with a huge front wheel, almost as tall as I was.
But the entire motley collection was dominated by a large wooden wardrobe that stood against one side wall, the dull light from the cloudy day outside falling against its doors. It looked very grand, especially in contrast to the dusty and decrepit items surrounding it. I considered for an excited moment whether it might provide an entrance to another world, an outcome of my reading too many fantastical books. It was with considerable caution that I approached the wardrobe and reached for the key that stood in the lock. I turned it slowly and pulled open the doors to reveal several shelves filled with what appeared to be stacks of fabric, so carefully arranged that I knew the contents were precious to whomever placed them there.
I heard a small sound behind me and turned to see my Grandma standing in the shaft of light, particles of dust moving between us. I was concerned that she might be upset about my forging ahead into this unknown territory, but she was beaming down at me like a person who has just whispered her most treasured secret to a special confidante. Without uttering a word, Grandma walked to a chair next to one of the open doors of the wardrobe and smoothed her hand reverently across its polished wood. She indicated a small footstool beside her chair and gestured that I should sit. Reaching over, she pulled out what I could now see was a quilt, in dark blues and white. As Grandma unfolded the quilt, I was amazed to see the tiny squares sewn into an intriguing pattern. "This was her first. It's what got her hooked. She said it was like apple pie for the soul," Grandma began. She stared past me as if she were talking to someone else up there in that old musty attic. "Back in her day, women weren't always given the opportunity to go to school. Many couldn't read or write. And your great-grandma was no exception. But she became a magnificent storyteller, must have been my greatest influence. She told her story - which became my story, and now is your story - through these quilts. She used to recite the tales to me as she tucked one of the quilts around me, pointing to this block or that fabric as it related to the story. We've got storytelling in our blood." I smiled at this thought, knowing how much I loved reading stories, never guessing that I might tell them, too. Grandma continued, "We may never be famous like Louisa May Alcott, or E. Nesbit, or Charles Dickens, but we can spin a tale with the best of them using needle and thread instead of quill and paper, and are storytellers just the same."
The next week I joined my grandma and her friends when they came together to stitch and I began to learn another language for preserving family tales. It began what has become a lifetime involved in quilting. In honor of the women and the stories that have lived before us, we at Story Quilts are putting together stories and quilts based on these early family treasures to share with you and hopefully stimulate your own search for your family stories.
Welcome to Story Quilts!
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