The Quilt

The Names

The Quilt

The Postscript

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            The eyes have it.

            If I knew who the subject of the pencil drawing was, I have forgotten, but I remember the artist, Dave Booth. Dave was a master. He’d take his pencil out of his pocket and draw something on a piece of paper and hand it to you as if was his calling card. To have a talent like that is a gift with spiritual blessings.

            The old woman, with her subtle smile and a look of wisdom and strength, greets me from the wall every time I sit down here to fire this laptop up. She is timeless although she fits perfectly next to a similar sketch of a 19^th Texas Ranger, a self portrait of Dave inserted into a historical photograph. It’s her eyes, though, that attract and capture your attention. They follow you around the room as if purposely trying to get your attention.

            A greater story is always there behind that pose. It reminds me of another, and that needs to be told, too.

            The Quilt

            Two early morning trips to the New Mexico Farm and Ranch Museum were features this week. The first was the morning it snowed. The sun had broken over the Organs and the image of the building that serves as an archive to our way of life was beautiful amidst the calm of the morning as it rejoiced with the departed storm.

            A search for the archivist was accomplished and we visited about Kelowna, the community on Okanagan Lake, the Riviera of Canada in the southern interior of British Columbia. She was born there up the road from Agriculture Canada’s lab and its best apple breeding program in the world. Nearby, too, was my friend, Richard Bullock’s apple orchards, where the artistry of growing pome fruit in the far north remains a perfection of life’s work.

            The point of the morning’s discussion was the intent to twist Kelowna’s arm to copy the stack of historic documents I was wagging. Before I could finish the spiel of why she needed copies for her files, she had agreed, and we sat down in front of the fire in the big fireplace and looked through them and discussed how many copies she would make and when they would be ready.

            One other subject, though, was discussed and that was a particular quilt that was hanging down the hall in a current museum display. It was created by the Community Development Club of Cliff, New Mexico sometime in the ‘50s. I asked to see it and she took me there, and, for a few minutes, we looked at it.

            Oh, my goodness!

            The Names

            The immensity of a much gentler time in the history of New Mexico was fully on display. Images and names exploded off the wall as signatures in red embroidery were interpreted.

            The quilt had been the product of a community fundraiser. For the price of two bits, a name was added. There were eight frames of which six are fully displayed (the top two cannot be seen in the way the quilt is draped in the display), but those six frames showcase a written history of Cliff/Gila and the Gila Valley like no book ever could.

            The emotion surprised me.

            There, as if they were still all alive and part of the living community, were grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, respected elders, legends, acquaintances, and images of a hugely different time and era.  They lived with a completely different set of rules, different means of communication, and different attitude toward community and relationships.

            So many of the names conjured images from the old club house, which was once a church, a meeting hall, and a gathering place of all social events. Others prompted other church settings, interior walls of the Cliff mercantile, Mullie’s filling station, the sound of dribbling basketballs, canyon bottoms, kitchens before sunup, ditch banks, Bear Creek, Sacaton, Haystack, hay stacks, Mesa Graveyard, Christmas trees cut by hand, Watson Mountain, Turkey Creek, corrals and burning hair, the smell of venison, Chevies, far off booms of opening day deer season, the smell of fresh turned soil, the river itself, dinner at noon, supper at night, Mogollon Creek, iron sights, the fairground, the mouth of Mangus, Lobo, water motés, the dance hall, the rodeo arena, events in the school gym, fresh caught fish in the sink, the auto patrol, and the post office.

            Nobody had much money. The land itself was the binding influence. Mogollon Baldy was always there looking down over everything.

            What a great place it was.

            The Postscript

            The second trip to the Museum took place the morning after the first visit. The snow had melted, and, this time, Kelowna was manning the front desk. The normal attendant was sick.

            She had the package (all neat and tidy) ready.

            We discussed it before the request was made to once more look at the quilt. That was granted, and the walk down the hall was made and the quilt was inspected. A picture was taken of each visible quilt frame.

            There was a sudden realization that the names were not just signatures in time, but life stories. The great majority are now gone. For the latter, there is no yet-to-be-discovered ending. The conclusions have been reached and punctuation marks have been sealed.

At once, that is both troubling and comforting.

There is a need to suggest to the rest, those who survive and know the names, to visit the quilt. Do so together to experience the fresh discovery of responses but save some time to spend a moment all by yourself. There will be unexpected emotions and memory impulses of forgotten events, faces, and impressions of such a special time and community.

Indeed, the eyes will have it.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Those precious ladies that conceived the idea and made that quilt had no idea how special it would become.”