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Few of us today have an opportunity to experience the warmth and love of a hand-sewn cotton quilt.

My grandmother folded and stacked her cotton quilts neatly on a closet shelf along with stacks of split, washed and neatly folded biddy feed sacks.  The feed sacks would be used to make new school dresses as needed with matching  patterns that had been shared.

The aging quilts were the handiwork of willing and caring hands and passed down from one generation to the next.

The oldest quilts were neatly folded as pages from the past of people who had helped shape and mold the lives of several family generations.

My grandmother didn’t have to remind us that the quilts were treasures. Some were so worn and tattered that they should only  be admired and appreciated.

But, each quilt was honored and treasured because so much love and caring had gone into their making.

Much of our family history was neatly stacked on the closet shelves. The biddy feed sacks didn’t have much history because the chickens went through the feed so fast that we used the sacks for dry wishes and for snuggling tiny kittens.

But, what I remember most about the warmth of those soft but heavy cotton quilts was my mama.

Although the windows of our house were chinked with newspaper so tight that the wind would blow right back on itself, our house was still winter cold.

At night, we would sit by the fire and listen to stories read or told and the Grand Ol’ Opry on Saturday night.  When bedtime came, Mama would hold a big towel close to the fire to get it warm. Then, I would run jump onto the bed and Mama would hurry and wrap my feet with the towel and cover me with a warm quilt and a lot of love. I’ll always remember the warmth of a cotton quilt and the love of my mama.