Quilts, Tacos & Tattoos

The Red Boots

Sitting in the only empty chair in the break room, I stared at the other chairs that were overflowing with piles of finished quilts sealed in clear plastic zipper bags. Before lunch I had been looking for the tie-dyed log cabin baby quilt that I had made last summer, much to Mom's objection.

My moment of peace abruptly ended when Mom poked her head around the corner and exclaimed, "Get ready!" She grabbed the large black cordless phone off the jack on the break room wall and in one continuous, fluid motion, slid it across the table to me without saying a word about my orange, sticky fingers. I stopped the sliding phone in my right elbow.

Suddenly alert, I asked, "Is he here?"

"Just parked."

I washed my hands, picked up the phone and followed Mom into the main room of the store. I took my position behind the cash register counter as we had practiced and looked through the front window display of women and children mannequins sporting the newest country aprons.

I saw the old, beat up red Ford truck parked out front with mud splattered on its fenders and its personalized license plate, "KATCH EM." Mom had hurried ahead of me to take the central control position at the cutting table. Once behind the table, she pulled her orange-handled scissors out of the ladybug cup that held an array of colored-handled scissors. The phrase, "A different color handle, for each type of scissor and a different type of scissor for each type of project" was taped to the scissor cup as Mom's reminder to us all. None of us ever made the mistake of using paper scissors on fabric or fabric scissors on paper. That is a sin in Mom's quilt shop.

Looking at the door, Mom lifted the top bolt from the stack left from the last customer. Seeing this, I thought, "Ma Walker must be starting a new project." With a flip of her right wrist, Mom pulled the fabric off the bolt and it fell onto green cutting mat and into a puddle.

That's when I spotted him in the parking lot. Without taking her eyes off the door she said, "Watch for my sign."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Nobody move," she ordered to three other women in the shop that made up the rest of the staff.

I glanced at Betsy, who was outside the partially open office door located right in front of the break room. Customers often confused it with the bathroom. She stared directly at Mom with concern. At the end of the demo table, Luanne, was readying for a demonstration of a Bernina 1230, our best seller. She held a new spool of red thread in her right hand to go with a contrasting piece of light blue fabric stored in one of the baskets at her end of the demo table.

"Where is Ruthie?" Mom asked Luanne.

"Sorting the new fat quarters," Luanne answered, glancing and gesturing with a side nod of her head to the far left corner of the room. Mom waved her left hand at Luanne and took a deep breath.

"Fine. Leave her."

I could not help but look back at Ruthie. She was sitting in the corner sorting the fat quarters, which are made from 18" x 22" cuts of fabric that are rolled in up like a napkin and tied with a ribbon. She had been there all morning, and she loved her job. Well, I guess she loved it. It was the only job she did not complain about doing all day long. She struggled with fabrics that had multiple colors and wanted the fat quarter sections to flow like a rainbow. She was so picky that she would hold up multicolored fabrics to the light and squint to see which color was more dominate. Her small stool was invisible beneath her broad, patchwork-covered, behind. As I looked at her, I noticed for the first time that she blended in perfectly with all the quilts that were at the end of the fabric displays. I chuckled as I thought, "The only thing she needs is a 3" x 5" card attached to inform the customer the name of the quilt pattern and fabric collection used." I also thought that because she blended so well with the fabrics and moved slower than a turtle, he probably would not notice her.