By now, you probably know that I dearly loved my grandmother, Katie Arlean Cox Wilson.
Mama Katie, as we called her most of our lives, was born in 1904, and grew up near Okolona, Mississippi, in a small community called Egypt. She had several sisters and two brothers, all of whom lived in Mississippi their entire lives.
As a child, my grandmother was charged with taking care of her younger siblings – one of which literally died in my 13-year-old grandmother’s arms. So, like most children born in that era, life was harsh and very real for my grandmother. But Mama Katie also had a very loving home, one in which her father adored her mother. So, she grew up very secure and sure of herself. A little too independent perhaps, for she never really looked for or found a young man that warranted her attentions.
In fact, she was attending what she called “teacher college” when she came home for a visit back in 1925. The night before she was heading back to campus, a young, widowed father of eight children came calling. His name was Daniel Foster Wilson, and he laid out his case to my grandmother; very businesslike.
His beloved wife of almost 20 years had died three months earlier, and he desperately needed help. He was too busy and too bereaved to even contemplate courting. And to be honest, he doubted he could ever love again like he had loved his first wife. But his children, ranging in age from toddler to teen, needed a mother. So, Papa Foster asked Mama Katie to marry him.
On that crisp Autumn night, my grandmother promised Foster Wilson to think on it and pray. She did, and she never went back to college after that night of prayer.
They married, and as good as her intentions were, life was very difficult for my grandmother from that point on. Her eight new children wanted their beloved mother back, not a live-in substitute. The older children resented her presence so much that they made it difficult for the younger ones to even become attached to my grandmother. My grandfather, still absolutely grief-stricken, could not (and never would) ask them to call her momma.
So, my grandmother did the best she could.
The one thing she could do best was make quilts. And since her new family was in dire need of coverings for their beds, she started piecing quilts immediately. I forget how many she made for my uncles and aunts that first year, but it was an impressive number.
I can only imagine the tears and prayers that went into each quilt. Just think! She literally laid down her dreams and desires, her plans for her future, and she picked up the futures of eight children who would never in all their lives call her their mother and a man who never truly loved her – till much, much later in life.
I cannot imagine my grandmother’s pain or her doubts and maybe even her second guesses. Her what-ifs or should-haves and could-haves. But whatever Mama Katie felt, she just kept on making quilts. In truth, she kept on covering people who did not even realize they needed covering.
It was not long before she began having children of her own. She had six, in fact, four sons and two daughters. By the time her last child came along, my grandfather’s first children were mostly grown, and many of them already had children close in age to his younger set of kids.
Now, keep in mind that since my father was the 13th of my grandfather’s 14 children, Papa Foster died several years before I was born. So, I only learned of him from stories. But those stories are exactly the opposite of the ones told to me about my mother’s side of the family.
My maternal grandmother died when I was three, and therefore, Mama Katie was the only grandmother I ever really knew. In fact, she probably had the biggest single impact on my life of any person besides my parents. And most people will tell you that I am every bit like her. I am not sure if she appreciated the comparison. I didn’t either until I was old enough to recognize her tenacious (stubborn) inner strength as one of my greatest inherited blessings.
Her quilts are my other greatest inheritance.
In fact, when my parents went to a local nursing center a few years ago, my sister and I divided their quilts like treasured pieces of gold. I chose one, then my sister – one by one until we had evenly shared our quilted inheritance equally. And to be honest, we already had a good many quilts of our own since my dad was the only child who lived near Mama Katie.
But have no fear! All her family members were given their share of her quilts.
Every single one of the Wilson kids and their children were given a quilt upon birth, at high school graduation, and wedding days. Mama Katie even lived long enough that many of her great grandkids got their three quilts as well, and living so close, my boys got a few extras.
That’s a lot of quilts and a lot of love. Those patchwork masterpieces are a pretty impressive legacy left to us by the daughter and wife of Mississippi sharecroppers who used the gifts God gave her to bless others.
But the greatest part of our legacy is not the time or talent it took to make those quilts; it was the countless prayers she prayed for us while she stitched those quilts. So, long after those quilts fray and fall apart, our faithful heavenly Father will continue to honor and answer our grandmother’s earthly prayers.
Yes, Mama Katie still has us covered.
