Crazy Quilt Existence
USING COMFORTERS FOR BEDS may be the current trend, but it is not my personal favorite. I prefer the crazy quilt. Unique stitches outline different fabrics and shapes to maintain each piece’s sense of richness, bringing them together in an elegant display. These artistic creations remind me of my life and my character. As I sift through my sixty-one years of memories, I find a life as colorful, as chaotic, and as beautiful as a crazy quilt.
Blue and Maroon Velvet
In my infancy, I was placed in a box on a shelf, in a London sweet shop where my mother worked. My grandmother, Gran, came to visit and took me home with her to Folkestone, a coastal city eighty miles southeast of London. I would only see my mother five times after that day. But as bleak as that may sound, my life with Gran was as rich and smooth as velvet. Some days I climbed the breezy hills to gather wildflowers with friends; other days I’d walk my dog alone. I was ignorant and happy, warm and protected, unaware of the big wide world out there. I loved being outside, especially after dark when the warmth from the houses shone through the lace curtains at each window. Gran threatened to send me back to my mother if I came in too late, but I couldn’t resist staying out as long as I dared, wandering home after my friends were forced inside due to the late hour. Once inside, I’d lie next to Gran and listen to her stories as we watched the flames from the coal fire flicker on the ceiling. A descendant of gypsies, she related tales of her interesting life with my Italian grandfather that included séances, operas, and an illicit love affair. I colored my life with fantasies and dreams as elaborate as Gran’s memories. We were poor, but content.
Grey Corduroy
Life was happy until I reached my thirteenth year. Gran’s leg developed a carbuncle (an abscess, larger than a boil), which she tried to treat herself. When gangrene set in, she was hospitalized and her leg was amputated. Complications from this led to her later death. My pregnant aunt arrived to take me from one of the prettiest places of the south coast to the bustling, cosmopolitan city of London. From then on I was her “skivvy,” or servant.
With few exceptions, life was an unchanging cycle: off to school, then back to chores at home. I cared for the baby and kept my nine-year-old cousin company while I prepared the family meals, dusted, cleaned dishes, served coffee, made beds, and learned more about life than my innocent mind wanted to know. I received scanty bits of praise and generous portions of criticism. My aunt blamed me, not my mother, for the burden of my care. During this trying time I began talking and swearing in my sleep. My aunt sent me to a child psychiatrist. I was too afraid to admit to him that I disliked my aunt. The hateful things she said, such as, “You’ll never amount to anything,” rang in my ears and stopped my tongue. As a result of these visits the only thing the psychiatrist recommended was glucose in warm milk to calm my mind before bed. Even that simple remedy only lasted a few days because my aunt felt it was unfair that I had this soothing tonic, and her son did not.
My needs never took priority over her plans. When I told her I wanted to learn a trade as a window dresser, she forbade it. Her agenda was that I would take care of her baby every day while she worked; she needed to return money she’d borrowed from the bank to use for a trip to Italy. By the time my schooling ended at age fifteen, I was tired of being denied so much in life. I worked up the courage to tell my welfare officer about the years of verbal abuse. To my excitement and disbelief she arranged for me to return to Folkestone. Living through these colorless years left me tough and durable.
Yellow Brocade
This durability proved helpful when I entered the world on my own at sixteen. I worked hard and saved for one of my childhood dreams—traveling. Simply working toward this goal brought some light into my life again. Initially I hoped to see Europe, but my plans changed, and after only two years of working in Folkestone, I came to America. I spent a year in Ohio and began planning my return home, but the Lord had another course in mind for me. A series of events led me to San Francisco, and I stayed in the golden state of California and began a job as a waitress. Little did I know that more light was about to wash over me.
I accepted an invitation from two Scottish girls I knew to play the part of a flower girl in their ward production of My Fair Lady. My vanity took me through the door and that’s where I met the missionaries. I heard the message; it made sense, and I thought, “If God spoke to prophets of old, why not to a young boy now?” As a “golden” contact, I joined the Church at a simple baptismal service surrounded only by my two new friends and a group of strangers. As I emerged from the water I felt a lack of control as I sobbed and sobbed. There are no words to describe why. The subsequent conversion of the man I had been dating, our later temple sealing, and the welcoming of two children into our home solidified the joy I felt as a mother at this golden time in my life.
Black Moiré
Unfortunately, a blackness that followed the happiness of my conversion stretched over the next several years. This dark period began when my husband told me of his intention to leave us. We were awaiting the birth of our third child. I desperately tried to stop him, showing him our two precious sleeping toddlers, asking, “What if something happens to the kids?” He coldly replied, “I’m sure you’ll take care of it,” and he left. After he abandoned us I cried—bawled—and sat in astonishment and shock; but a voice inside pulled me up and helped me rely on the support of friends and the kindness of my mother-in-law.
A combination of romanticism, naïveté, and my intense desire for a complete eternal family led me to marry and divorce five more times. Each situation had its unique difficulties, but there were always more tears while in the marriages than there were when they ended. After each divorce I felt the same sense of freedom that I’d felt when I left my aunt’s house, like the misery had finally ended. I never intended to be trite about marriage or have three temple sealing cancellations. I had fasted for answers in making these decisions. Each time I married, I sincerely thought it would be the last. I believe Heavenly Father knew that my intentions were good, though my choices were not always ideal.
At the end of my fifth marriage, I decided to let life flow, with or without a spouse. I wrote a list of what I wanted, stuck it on the fridge for the Lord to see, and moved on. My faith in God, loyalty to my children, activity in the Church, support from ward friends and leaders, and the admiration of those around me kept me moving forward. Convinced that bitterness makes life ugly, I relied on my testimony and emerged from the black hole of these experiences still healthy and happy; their refining process strengthened me and added contrast that highlighted the brilliance of the colors already bound together and those to come.
Sky Blue Silk
My current husband and I now share a happiness that fills our life with beauty. Over the past seventeen years we’ve parented a combined family of eight children, fifteen grandchildren, and one soon-to-be-born great grandchild. Our weekly dates, cruises and trips, prayers, studies, hard work, and dedication in our Church callings have been our strengths. His constant kind, courteous, and humble ways have filled my life with a genuine love I always hoped was possible. “I believe I’m the only person that ever really loved you,” he says. I know he’s right. The scripture, “Perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4:18) has come true for me, and I am now filled with peace and joy.
Yes, “crazy” is a good word to describe this life of mine, with its sorrows, triumphs, failures, and successes, plus a multitude of adventures. I’m diligently piecing it together, anxious to organize it into a beautiful presentation that I can leave as a legacy for my children. When I die, I don’t expect or even ask that they will remember me as perfect. Instead, I hope they remember me as a woman who stayed strong during trying times, thanks to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. My hope of being with them again is the unbreakable, golden thread that binds together the fabric of my life. Yet unlike silk, I know this part of my life will never deteriorate.
Angela and her husband (an audiologist and first counselor in their ward bishopric) reside in Boise, Idaho. She is currently serving in her seventh year as a ward family history consultant and as a part of the stake family history library staff. Her greatest joys are service, teaching genealogy and computer skills, recording family history in words and pictures, helping other women find strength through trials, and serving in the community with the Red Cross— plus writing, painting, and traveling.
