Tuesday 5 April 2005
9:33 a.m.

I was on my way to Mom and Dad’s one Saturday morning several weeks ago when I noticed a garage sale on the street and pulled over. A young woman had her sale items set out on a table on her driveway, and next to it, on the grass, she had folded homemade quilts and such.

“What are you asking for this one?” I said, holding up a quilted red tablecloth (see above; it had matching curtains and valances with sunflowers on them, and I thought might be useful as fabric for future projects).

“I don’t have a clue what it’s worth,” she replied. “My mother made it.”

“Your mother made it, and you’re selling it?” I was incredulous.

“I don’t really like it.”

“One day you may regret selling it,” I speculated.

“I don’t think so. We’re not on speaking terms.”

I didn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I told her. “I hope you get things patched up. My mother is seriously ill. I’ve always treasured the things she made and gave to me, but when she’s gone, I expect I’ll treasure them even more.”

She didn’t hesitate either. “I never had a good relationship with my mother and I don’t care if I ever do. My grandparents raised me.”

There was another quilt, a black and purple bedspread quilted in a starburst pattern, with matching pillow shams. “My grandmother gave me that one,” the woman said.

“And you’re selling it?” I still couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like to have them in the years to come?” I was thinking this woman was making a mistake.

“She makes 30 of them a year and gives them all away.”

“All right,” I said (30, my ass), “if you’re absolutely sure you want to part with these ... how much do you want for them?”

“I don’t have a clue what to ask,” she grinned.

“They’re worth plenty,” I told her. “This bedspread here, brand new, would sell for hundreds of dollars.”

“Huh? You’re kidding!”

“No I’m not. A quilt like this takes many many hours to sew by hand, as your grandmother has done. And the fabric isn’t cheap either.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Maybe you should find a marketplace where you’d get more for them than you will at a garage sale. Advertise them in the paper, maybe.”

“Nope, I want to get rid of them today.”

“Well, I’ll offer you $20 for the quilted bedspread set, and I’d be getting a hell of a deal if you said yes. They’re worth far more than that. You could ask more at a quilt shop or on ebay or somewhere.”

“Nope. Not only can you can have the quilt for 20 bucks — I'll throw in the whole shebang — both the tablecloths and the curtains too."

As I was paying for them, two ladies got out of a car and strolled up. “We stopped for the fabric,” one of them said, “but I see you’ve got it already.”

“So I do.” I picked up a shopping bag with each hand. “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked the vendor one last time.

She had my money in her hand and was satisfied with her sale, so away I went, lugging the bags up the stairs to Mom and Dad’s condo, excited about showing them to Mom. She was asleep, but when she got up I immediately took the items out of the bag and unfolded them before her. The quilted bedspread had a large patch on its underside, embroidered with “Made for my beloved granddaughter, T__S__, by grandmother E, on such and such a date.” Both Mom and I were shocked that anyone would sell a handmade gift like this, but more than that, Mom was disgusted.

“To think that a woman put so much time and care into that quilt, and her granddaughter did not value it enough — even if she didn’t really like it — to keep it in her linen closet or use it underneath a bedspread that she does like. Hmph! How spoiled can you be.”

I figured I might go back and give the young woman my contact information so that one day, when she realizes her folly, she can reach me and I can give her heirlooms back to her.

“How old is she?” was Mom's response.

“Probably in her thirties,” I guessed.

“If she’s this stupid at her age,” Mom said, “she doesn’t deserve these things. They're better off where they are.”

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