0 MY WEDDING RING QUILT; by Alta Booth Dunn; June 1933

You like the pattern called the Wedding Ring?

It is a glowing, many-colored thing

Like Joseph's coat of old--

Ten times tenscore of pieces in its beauty. 

I made it for a pretty coverlet to spread

Upon my best-room bed--

Not just for homely duty. 

Sometimes, when work is done,

I slip off here alone

And softly touch the blocks. It's sort of fingering

Keepsakes...Yes, memories here are lingering...

This lavender sprigged muslin was grandmother's gown

That once she wore to meet a man of high renown.

The figured linen of pale maize is from my courting days;

And that checked gingham, white-and red,

He gave me on our second wedding day--

He's always had a tender, thoughtful way.

Blue-stripe was sonny's first small romper suit--

My, but it made him look as cute as cute!

Pink-posied dimity was frock of baby girl's--

She loved to wear it with a pink bow on her curls.

This sheer white lawn is new grand-baby's dress;

It is the dearest piece of all, I guess...

Like you, I'm partial to my Wedding Ring;

It's such a lovely rainbow of remembering.

Detail: MY WEDDING RING QUILT; by Alta Booth Dunn; June 1933

0 HONORING WOMEN--POETRY SELECTIONS

I was never a fan of poetry when I was young. It seemed that the teachers always picked the hardest and most confusing poems and then made the class analyse them. What an awful way to ruin a good poem, I thought. But I can assure you that each of the following poetry selections are not only enjoyable to read, but very understandable, too, with no analysis necessary!

The first one is a contemporary poem written by a fellow quilter named, Dawn. She wrote it several years ago about her Grandmother Mabel Amanda Gravely (Oppen.) Mabel lived in Minnesota and was one of the Lucky Pony Winners. In the picture below, she is posing with her pony "Scrappy." Dawn's Grandmother Mabel died in 1989 at the age of 88. Many thanks to Mabel's daughter Ruth, her grand-daughter Dawn, and the rest of their family for helping me to learn about Mabel. She must have been a wonderful woman to have been loved so much.

More about Mabel and her family can be found on my other blog: http://www.ponyclubchildren.blogspot.com/search/label/Child--Gravley-Mabel

"Memories of Grandma"

Oh Grandma. I remember when

I would sit on your lap

And you'd read me a story

Or we'd sit around and chat.

Mabel Amanda Gravley (Oppen) in 1915
at the age of 14, and her pony "Scrappy"

When you'd take me shopping

And buy me a book

Or we'd take the bus downtown

Just to take a look.

We'd go to our favorite doughnut shop
And have our favorite treats.
We'd sing into the tape recorder
And laugh out of our seats.

Grandma, I can still see your face
And I can see your wonderful smile.
Oh how I sometimes wonder
If you think about me for a while.

I remember all the games we used to play
And we'd smile, giggle and just have fun.
You'd tuck me in bed when I'd spend the night.
And we'd say our prayers when the day is done.

I remember when you'd let me sip your coffee
with a little bit of cream.
Or you'd fix my favorite breakfasts
And we'd talk and daydream.

You taught me how to crochet

And helped me learn to sew.

You'd sit by me and color
Or we'd watch the falling snow.

Oh Grandma, if you only knew

How much those times have meant to me.

They're a part of you I'll have forever

And they'll be treasured endlessly.

I wouldn't change any memories

But there is one thing I'd do

And that is to let you know,

Grandma, how much I do love you.

Both of the following poems, "The Mother" by Berton Braley and "The Farmer's Wife" by John Hanlon were published in 1927.

Detail: HONORING WOMEN--POETRY SELECTIONS

0 WINTER EVENING by Alta Booth Dunn, 1932

Ma, evening's long when you and me
Sit down together after early tea,
An' all the boys and girls are gone
Which way and yon from home. And yet, I swan
It's sweet—jest like it used to be
Come forty year ago—don't you agree?

That buzzard northwind from its pinions is a-flingin'
Big whitish feathers down, down—some call it snowin'--
But by the fire we're comf'table and warm
In our snug house on our own farm.

Here's this new radio a-singing'
Like sixty, Ma, and you a-sewin'
Pert as sixteen; the black tomcat's a-purrin'
Content, while yaller canary's churrin'
A bedtime tune to old Fido a-snorin'
In dreams 'bout rats before the oak log roarin'
Up the fireplace flue. . .
But say, I ask you, Mother,
Now is there any—any knowin'
How each would miss the other,
If one of us alone—er--should be goin'
Out where Eternity's great gales is blowin'?

Detail: WINTER EVENING by Alta Booth Dunn, 1932

0 YOU AND ME; by Edgar Daniel Krahmer; 1924

I wandered away in the dusktime,
Fragrant the garden close!
And I followed the magic of laughter
Till I passed through the heart of a rose,
Till I passed through a wood of wild wonder,
A forest of opal and gold,
To the valley of whimsical childhood
In the Land-Where-No-Child-Can-Grow-Old.

And oh, there were myriad children,
Witching and joyous and fair,
Their eyes all a wonder of dreaming,
The dust of the stars on their hair,
Tumbling in rapture together,
Hearing the leaves softly croon,
The little dog laughed to see such fun.
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

The song that they heard set them singing,
The cow jumped over the moon,
And Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard
Where all of the stars are strewn;
They frolicked and played together,
Laughing in careless glee,
And there was a dear little lass named You,
And a glad little lad named Me.

They came to me slowly and shyly,
I feared that they would not know,
But they rested close in my waiting arms
And my heart would have it so;
They kissed me and softly murmured,
"We Love You! We Love You True!"
The glad little lad whose name was Me,
And the dear little lass named You.

Detail: YOU AND ME; by Edgar Daniel Krahmer; 1924

0 THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD; by Winnifred J. Mott; 1935

They want to know my business in the old neighborhood.
They give advice about the things I shouldn't do--or should.
But all the while I sort of feel they mean it for my good.
And I can't get angry, somehow, at the old neighborhood!

They borrow--how they borrow! in the old neighborhood!
But when it comes to lending, they are, oh, so kind and good!
And they'll do a favor quicker than most anybody would--
For they feel an interest in me--in the old neighborhood!

There's a little world of sweetness in the old neighborhood.
And I wouldn't move away from it--no matter if I could.
Bless their hearts! I say sincerely. Bless their hearts with every good!
For with all my heart I'm grateful for the old neighborhood!

Detail: THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD; by Winnifred J. Mott; 1935

0 THORN APPLES AND SWEET ACORNS; by Elizabeth Wilson; 1915

I love the taste of thorn apples and sweet acorns and sumac and choke-cherries and all the wild things we used to find on the road to school.

And I love the feel of pussy willows and the inside of chestnut burrs.

I love to walk on a country road where only a few double teams have left a strip of turf in the middle of the track.


And I love the creaking of the sleigh runners and the snapping of nail-heads in the clapboards on a bitter cold January night.

In the first cool nights I love the sound of the first hard rainfall on the roof of the gable room.


And I love the smell of the dead leaves in the woods in the fall.

I love the odor of those red apples that grew on the trees that died before I went back to grandpa's again.

I love the fragrance of the first pink and blue hepaticas which have hardly any scent at all.

I love the smell of the big summer raindrops on the dusty dry steps of the school house.

I love the breath of the great corn fields when you ride past them on an August evening in the dark.


And I love to see the wind blowing over tall grass.

I love the yellow afternoon light that turns all the trees and shrubs to gold.

I love to see the shadow of a cloud moving over the valley, especially where the different fields have different colors like a great checkerboard.

I love the little ford over Turtle Creek where they didn't build the bridge after the freshet.

I love the sunset on the hill in Winnebago County, where I used to sit and pray about my mental arithmetic lesson the spring I taught school!

Detail: THORN APPLES AND SWEET ACORNS; by Elizabeth Wilson; 1915

0 VACATION TIME; by Alta Booth Dunn; 1930

Oh, all the care-free world is gypsying
While I, home-bound, must do the hearth-tending!
But Summer's at my cottage door
With blithesome visitors galore;
With birds and bees, and little winds that bring
Perfume from many a lovely blooming thing;
With fleecy clouds that run like lambs at play,
And thunder storms in splendid pageantry...

So all the day I work and sing
And go a-traveling
On fancy's wing!

Detail: VACATION TIME; by Alta Booth Dunn; 1930

0 COUNTRY COURTSHIP, by Velma West Sykes, 1929

He told her all the things he'd done that day--
Plowed all forenoon, and then had gone to town
For wire to mend a fence--and after that
Was done, the chores; and how he'd hurried through
To be with her. She blushed and swung her feet
And then began to argue how much more
She'd done that day--the butter that came slow,
The ironing that took up half of the day;
And then she showed a blister on her arm
Where it had touched the iron. His large rough hand
Closed over her small hard one, and their heads
Drew close together--breathlessly they kissed,
The drew themselves self-consciously apart
And laughed to hide the deep emotions stirred.

"Pa gave me the south eighty," he observed.
"It's got a house--not big--but good and warm."

"Ma gave me three new quilts last week," she said,
"My chest's so full the lid won't go clear down."

They kissed again, and apple blossoms fell
Around their feet and in the girl's dark hair.

Detail: COUNTRY COURTSHIP, by Velma West Sykes, 1929