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The drive took about five hours. Clifton was not awake, waiting for us. We came as quiet as a secret. Our secret was we were not a family on vacation. In the morning I would wake up not moving from my bed on the floor. My eyes took everything in slowly. My senses were catching up. I started with the quilt that was my bed. I traced the design with my finger looking at every shape of fabric, flowers, stripes, polka dots. All cut into a triangle shape. Five more triangles met to make a star, each piece a different color brought together at the center. Next came the stitches holding the fabric. In and out, disappearing, attaching the star in place. Each stitch was the same length. This was important to keep the stitches uniform. All of this took discipline, concentration. This was art turned into practical rules, trained, self-control and obedience to standards. This was abstract art using a form to take care of a family. A blanket to give comfort and warmth when all the stars met and were sewn together. This was useful art. The patterns and values here teaching me to select, organize, rearrange, and place in a format. Granny did this without a Fundamentals of Design 101 class. She would cut fabric, piece it together, sew, and it was to be used for her grandchildren. This quilt was a lesson in recycling, salvaging, and reclaiming. The fabric came from old shirts and fabric left over from making a housedress. There were bags of fabric pieces with odd shapes and batterns to be smoothed out over her knee. Which pieces of fabric would be chosen and woven into her creative design? My grandparents were the West, via Oklahoma. They were part of the great migration of 350,000 Okie farmers moving away from their failures. Moving west to try and find work they drove together with their two children, my mother and uncle. Driving a 1926 Model T Ford across some of the same roads we had just driven they parked in Phoenix without jobs or money. Their first home was located under the Salt River Bridge in Tempe where they lived for a year. It was when America was kinder to the people on the move. They weren't homeless they were down and out. My grandmother knew how to survive without a tent and camping equipment. They slept underneath their car, built campfires, cooked using a black iron skillet and looked for work during the day.The dust was still on them from Oklahoma and it never could be washed off. They took the dust with them. I lay on the floor and listened with my eyes closed. This gave me protection. I could hear my grandmother in the kitchen getting breakfast. The house smelled of coffee and bacon grease. My grandfather's voice was at the kitchen table with my mother calling him "Daddy". Her cigarette smoke filled our small spaces, starting from her mouth, moving around the corner into the living room where my brothers slept, looking for clean air and finally into the bedroom where I listened. Mom was talking about my father. She had a new audience for her anger and they listened because she was their daughter. She always came to her parents in need. She too wore the dust from Oklahoma and was down and out. Grandpa asked how she would be