“It was brought over on the Mayflower by the Pilgrims,” she answered to her son's delight. The question was one whose answer was too mundane to inflict on a wide eyed little boy, so Elise stretched the truth just a little. “But before long, it warms up, and I’m snug as a bug in a rug.

“I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed,” her little man observed the first night he wrapped himself in the old quilt. The person who pieced together this labor of love must have spent countless hours shaping the useless remnants into a usable blanket. Elise felt it was her duty to repair the inevitable rips as an homage to the unknown creator and as a manifestation of her adoration for the little boy who cherished it. To call it a quilt stretched the definition as it was nothing more than a thousand pieces of oddly shaped swatches stitched together, layer after layer, until the whole of it was thick enough to hold in the warmth of a small boy's body as he drifted off to sleep. There was no way of knowing, the day she bought it at a flea market, that it would become her son’s most valued possession. A mom’s job is never truly finished-Elise knew this instinctively when her son was born. For at least the hundredth time, she sat next to his bed in that chair mending his quilt.

Home of the brave park