In the evening we spread our patio mat, set up our camp chairs, and cooked dinner over a wood fire. Fresh local tomatoes topped off a feast of grilled T-bones, roasted corn, and marinated portabella mushrooms—perfect summer fare. Wood smoke infused my hair, a rich incense that lingered for the next couple of days.
I had no quilt trail tours scheduled but did enjoy a tremendous turnout at an evening talk, where not only quilters but also local farmers and farm wives filled the auditorium to capacity. Glen’s work schedule allowed him to attend, and he helped greet those who approached me afterwards. As we loaded the last box into the car at the end of the night, Glen turned and pulled me toward him for a one-armed hug, “I’m just so proud of you.”
The next night, we visited the Indiana State Fair. We strolled down the midway hand in hand, and Glen squinted up through the glare, “I will if you will.” The celebratory mood overcame our mutual fear of heights, and there we were, circling high over the sea of lights in a Ferris wheel, quite literally on top of the world.
Sisters’ Choice
There was still plenty of daylight when Glen finished work on moving day, and we had just a few hours’ drive planned. We were headed for the home of Hugh and Kitch Rinehart in Vicksburg, Michigan, where we planned to park. Glen teased me gently that the flat interstate would be a good place to practice my driving skills, but I demurred. Within about ten minutes I was glad that I had let him keep the wheel. “I think I smell something,” he said in a serious tone. I did not detect an odor, but just as I began to respond, Glen added more urgently, “I’m losing power. I can’t steer.” With obvious effort, he directed the bus towards the shoulder of the highway, and she came to a stop.
I grabbed Gracie’s leash to lead her outside as smoke became visible along one wall inside the bus. The three of us climbed down quickly onto the roadside grass, and just as soon as we landed safely, Glen scurried back up the stairs. I could not follow, not only because I was holding Gracie but also because the bus had filled with smoke. I dialed 911 while standing on tiptoes, peering in, terrified. The operator came on the line just as Glen reached the kitchen and shouted, “It’s back here!” I cringed as I saw him pull the refrigerator away from the wall and heard him cry out in pain as I frantically tried to describe our location over the phone. “No, I am not certain of the nearest mile marker. What? Are we within the city limits? I don’t know!” After much discussion, firemen were on the way. Glen reappeared and the three of us stood at a safe distance as the volume of smoke began to wane.
I was proud of Glen but had to resist the urge to scold him. He had found the source of the fire and saved the bus from destruction, but had risked serious injury in doing so. As I examined the red welt that stretched from his wrist to his elbow, another thought occurred. Strangers had dinner prepared and were awaiting our arrival. I was on the phone explaining that we might not make it in time to eat when two fire trucks arrived on the scene. Still shaken and trembling, I waited in the car with Gracie as the firemen surveyed the interior of the bus. I had my purse and my pup, and Glen was safe. As night fell and Ruby was pronounced fire free, we waited for roadside service to tow the bus away.
Two a.m. found us exhausted and dejected, having grabbed a night’s worth of acrid-smelling, smoky clothing from the bus and located a dog-friendly, but somewhat grungy, motel nearby. Our dreams of bus life seemed to have ended before they had fully begun. We were able to retrieve more of our belongings from the bus in the morning, but it would be several days before the extent of the damage would be determined.
We left Elkhart, Indiana, with the car packed to bursting. Two suitcases, several boxes of books, three laptops, and all manner of doggie supplies were crammed into the cargo area so that Gracie could occupy the backseat. We considered scrapping the trip. “We can be home tomorrow,” Glen said. “They will understand.” The comforts and safety of Georgia beckoned, but so did my obligation to those who were expecting me. Kitch Rinehart had assured me that we, and Gracie, were welcome in their home. Without knowing when we would see Ruby again, we rode on to southern Michigan and the Vicksburg Quilt Trail.
michigan
GLEN AND I arrived in Vicksburg disheveled and exhausted, but Hugh and Kitch Rinehart were so welcoming that our tension soon evaporated. Their lakefront home provided the comfortable refuge that we needed. Gracie had the run of the backyard, and she splashed and slurped along the sand, relishing her freedom. Kitch and I set out on a paddle boat, laughing as we struggled to maneuver the craft along the shore, while Glen zoomed across the water on a jet ski at full throttle. I felt as if we were on vacation instead of at work. Dinner on the deck with cold wine and lively conversation helped relieve the strain of the last twenty-four hours. “This might just work out after all,” Glen said, as we watched the sunset over the water,
The next morning, Glen set up his laptops at the dining room table where a wall of windows afforded him a sunny view. I often felt guilty spending time on the quilt trail leaving Glen behind to his work. He was stuck in front of a computer, manipulating data and solving global problems for his employer. The work requires a sharp mind, intense concentration, and decades of experience; I admired the fact that he was at the top of his profession. Of course I was working as well, but instead of data, graphs, and teleconferences I enjoyed lively conversation, fresh air, and a chance to enjoy the local sights. My workday was fun, and, when I returned, my bubbling forth with stories sometimes felt like mocking rather than sharing.
I grabbed a quick bowl of cereal and my morning caffeine dose of Diet Coke and was ready to join Kitch for the tour. We chatted along the way about favorite quilts and quilt patterns and ideas she had gleaned from other quilt trails. Cindi Van Hurk, who chaired Michigan’s first barn quilt project, in Alcona County, had served as an early advisor to the Vicksburg group. This project is different from most, with its boundary not the county line but the Vicksburg school district, creating a compact and easily drivable route so that only a few minutes elapsed between barns. Kitch and I would stop mid-sentence, step out to view a quilt block and take photographs from every angle, then hop back into the car and resume our conversation seamlessly. After half an hour on the quilt trail, we had fallen into a rhythm like longtime friends.
Love the Land
Before we reached our first destination, Kitch said, “This might look rather familiar to you.” As we rounded the corner, I saw a barn quilt that did resemble one I had seen before; in fact the block is in the Iowa chapter of my first book. Kitch said, “I give barn owners the book and ask them what appeals to them—not to select something from the book but just to get an idea of colors and what looks good. After all, the colors are great combinations.” Freddi Coppes had been taken with the quilt block created by the Reese family in Iowa to honor their heritage and wanted the same one for her barn.
Kitch agreed that the barn quilt was lovely but thought perhaps it would not be an appropriate choice. The original design features a German flag, and Freddi’s husband, Richard, is a World War II veteran. “I just didn’t think that would work well,” Kitch said. A few changes made the block suit Richard and Freddi perfectly. Freddi’s ancestors were Dutch loggers and woodcutters, so pine trees were added to represent her side of the family, and the stylized American flags to honor her husband, the veteran. The couple could not decide what to call the finished product, so Kitch suggested Love the Land. The American flag snapping in the wind next to the milk house