I Shall Wear Purple

Once or twice a year the aunts would gather to finish a quilt and start a new one. It was the quilting weekend. It was magic. For years the cousins were banned from attending. We only wondered what happened when those ladies met as we saw the sewing machine carefully set into the back of the mini-van next to a grocery bag full of yummy snacks. If there were good-bye tears on our chubby kid faces they were brief and wiped away in hopes of much pizza from dad.

Years passed in curiosity.

Then the talk came. My mom asked me if I wanted to go to the quilting weekend. Could all of my adolescent begging have changed their minds? I tried to maintain my composure knowing it was beneath my teenage pride to squeal in sheer delight. I tried. I failed. The extatic jumping up and down accompanied by fast claps, big eyes and a toothy-braces grin was unmatched. Wait a moment, though. There was a catch. Too good to be true; I knew it. My mother told me I could come to the quilting weekend if I promised to one day write a book about it. Head cocked my eyes went to the side in ponderment of the task. Yes, I promised I would do it.

My mom, Jill, at the end of 2009

This time the quilting weekend was going to be at my aunt’s house in Iowa. They took turns. I found out that cooking was an activity that was prohibited from such sacred rituals. If they weren’t snacking they went out to eat. So I got to go with them.

A huge menu sat in my lap. It was so tall I couldn’t see over the top. The spin and point trick should work fine here. Good thing I did because one of those oh-so-juicy conversations had begun to pick up speed and I didn’t want to miss one word.

“When I am old I shall wear purple,” my adoring aunt announced. Since then I have discovered that this is the title of a book and a poem. When I heard these words my little brain went searching for a clever interjection to the conversation that I had missed out on up until then. It was only the good natured graces of my aunt that saved me in this moment from utter humiliation by validating my thoughts with a civilized conversation. Now, when I think back on this she was probably just talking about the book and it makes me blush.

“Why don’t you wear purple now?” was my smart question.

“That is a good question,” my aunt said after exchanging a few snickers with her sisters.

“Well, I just think that if you really want to wear something then you shouldn’t worry about what other people think and you should just wear it,” I reasoned.

The conversation was rescued by some kind of change in topic, but the thought stayed with me: one day I will be old. I didn’t consider my aunts or mother to be old. They were the coolest most wonderful women in my life at that time. Not many ladies have matched them since that impressionable era.

For a number of reasons my memories have drifted back to the quilting weekend days more frequently as of late. I have especially been thinking about that realization that one day I will be old.

My dad's mom, Grandma Houtz, Spring of 2007

So, I have started something new. When I was about seven years old I started praying for my future husband. This continued on through my whole school carreer. I prayed about every aspect that came to mind. Now that thoughts of aging have become more present I have begun noticing how people treat the elderly. I have begun praying for when I am old. Just as the prayers from a seven year old’s lips are superficial yet sincere my prayers now are fairly basic yet still very heart felt. I pray people are kind to me. I pray that my life is still purposeful. I pray that am happy. I pray that people are patient with me. I pray that if I do get loony I am not lonely so that people can laugh with me, or cry with me. I pray that God shines through me in all that I do.

As the prayers are happening the promised story will be brewing.

Tagged as: book, family, Purple