Quilting to Save My Life

Beth, my research assistant, rockets through the front door in a flurry of enthusiasm.

"I found some biographical information on that Lakota artist! I looked through the census records for 1890 and found her last name."

I try to comprehend what she is saying, but I feel as if I'm struggling to arrive from a great distance. I've spent the last seven hours immersed in patchwork of vermilion and burnt umber. I find it hard to speak. Even more frightening, I find it hard to

Print Subscription

Digital Subscription

Already have an account? Log In Now.