The Sun Always Shines on the Home Place
Original Song by Laura Vinson (RedWing)
Story by Sheri Fulton
Quilt # 6
She liked to drive fast the last half mile to the crest of the hill and then let her foot off the gas to coast down to the turnoff. That way she could descend into the valley like a swan, gliding in for a landing on the lake, or today, more like a prodigal child falling back into her family’s particular dysfunction.
“Oh, the sun always shines on the home place….I can still see it coming through the trees,. The creeks are cool and clean and the hills are always green…… that’s how I remember it to be….”
The words to the song must be sung aloud, as one arrives. Tradition. Her heart and her head battled in that moment of homecoming; her heart softening to the beauty of the valley spread below and silencing her hard head for the moment. Home. Now there is a loaded word.
Her mind registered flickers of change as she sped by. A new beaver dam had altered the flow of the creek into the lake, the horses, including some unfamiliar colts and yearlings, were down from the hill pasture fighting flies by the salt block, someone had cleared the brush behind the shed, and Mom must have used up the last of the red barn paint on the pole fence surrounding the house. This last thought brought her to a silent stop in front of the ranch house. The city stayed behind in the car as she opened the door and drew a breath of mountain air, stepping into her past and her role as youngest of this family, a family now without a father.
Sam, the family dog, appeared to greet her, although he would have preferred at his advanced age to bark from under the shady porch. Thankful that some things hadn’t changed, she bent to bury her face in his neck and assure him and herself that she belonged here. Eager to show off who he had found, he led the way to the back yard overlooking the lake, where everyone had gathered on a variety of mismatched lawn chairs in the shade of the poplars. Hugs around the circle brought her finally to her mother, her hands full, bringing assorted potluck covered dishes out of the house to the picnic table. Now she was home.
The weekend passed in swatches of colour and emotion. Family and neighbours were in and out of the house sharing memories, some laughs and some tears, as a life was remembered and familiar stories retold. It seemed that facts were not always required. The hugs and some moments of private conversations with each family member brought her shoulders down from her ears. Sunday morning, she finally found herself smiling, while washing dishes with her sister, to overhear her aunt complain in a loud whisper,
“Whoever wrote that eulogy sure didn’t know him very well. I thought I might have stumbled into the wrong funeral.”
Loading the car with her luggage that afternoon, she looked up to find her mom, both hands full of grocery bags. One bag undoubtedly contained leftover sandwiches for the drive, but the other was bulging with familiar plaid, denim, and striped material. Her Mom was not a quilter like she was, preferring to spread the love from her hands in her kitchen and her garden.
“I thought you might like some of your dads’ shirts to make a quilt.”
My tears started once I reached the top of that hill and I looked in the rear-view mirror for one last glimpse of my valley. I realized that my tears were not from loss, but of gratitude for a family made up of so many different bolts of cloth, seemingly so different that nothing beautiful could ever be created, but when miraculously pieced together, stitched with love and memories, and backed by a shared sense of place, a true comfort. I knew immediately what I was going to make from those shirts.
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