Joyce White stitched a quilt for our Henry when he was a baby—lions across bright fabric for our little Leo. We still keep it close. It’s one of those things that’s hard to let go of, even if it no longer quite fits over his growing legs.
Joyce made things that lasted. Her quilts are all over my mom’s house—not hung for display, just used and appreciated. They’re full of color, weight, and care. She had a way of showing up like that in life too—quietly steady, fully present, always herself.
When we were working on The ‘Sip’s Bicentennial issue, I asked Joyce if she’d make a quilt for the magazine cover. She said “yes” without much hesitation, even though I knew it was asking a lot. We went to the fabric store together, and I watched her pull prints—magnolias, riverboats, fish, musical instruments and historic buildings. She even included a wavy line around the state to mark the Mississippi River. It felt less like design and more like storytelling.
That quilt became the heart of the issue: a visual love letter to Mississippi. It reflected the complexity, creativity, and contradictions of the place we were celebrating. And in keeping with the spirit of the magazine, we raffled it off to a reader. The point was never to hold on to it—it was always meant to be shared.
Joyce’s death earlier this month hit hard—especially for my mom, who leaned on Joyce in the years after we lost my dad. Joyce didn’t ask us to be anyone but ourselves. That kind of presence doesn’t just disappear. It lingers. In fabric. In memory. In the way people made you feel.
That same issue also included one of my favorite stories from The ‘Sip: LaReeca Rucker’s piece on the Tutwiler Quilters. The story is about a group of women in the Delta, who built a community together, one stitch at a time.
Quilts aren’t just fabric. They’re history. Love. Protest. Preservation. And sometimes, they’re how we carry the stories we didn’t know we’d need to remember.
This year, as Vicksburg celebrates its own bicentennial, I’m reminded that our city—like that quilt Joyce made—is layered, complicated, beautiful, and worth holding on to. Some of the stories we’re uncovering are hard. Many are joyful. Most are both. But they all belong.
The tradition continues in Olivia’s family, too. Her mom, Ardona, and her sisters quilt together—some are made for family, others donated to veterans through the Quilts of Valor program. Grady still has his Harry Potter quilt she made him, and Henry’s construction truck quilt from his Blippi phase stays folded on the couch. These quilts are part of our daily life—markers of time and care and attention.
This work we’re doing through Amplify? It feels a lot like that. It’s layered, imperfect, and carried forward with intention. We’re stitching something together—story by story, person by person.
Joyce understood that. So did the women in Tutwiler. And I hope we can carry it on, one piece at a time.
