The Tale of a Vintage Native American Cradleboard

or, how a Thrift Store Find Became a Museum Donation

Dan and I did a bit of shopping this past week at our local Quartzsite Salvation Army Thrift Store. We were looking for specific things, but as usual, each came away with a bag full of unexpected treasures. My armful was promising. I was looking forward to showing Dan my bargains. As I rounded the corner toward the checkout lane, a patch of faded green and red plaid fabric caught my eye.

On a bottom shelf under several coiled belts, I spied a bit of a butterfly patch and some brightly colored embroidery floss. As I lay my items down on a shelf and pushed the belts to the side, I caught my breath and stood in wide-eyed wonder at what lay before me.

I knew right away what it was. I felt it draw me closer. My heart overflowed with the feeling of a mother’s pride. Then a fine ribbon of sadness floated around me, just barely a whisper. I thought about how the emotional impact of motherhood surely swings deep and wide and did even way back then.

The store was closing in two minutes. The miniscule five-dollar price tag shocked me. I wondered if the store knew what they had. Still, I knew it didn’t belong to me. In a rush, I snapped a few pictures, replaced the cradleboard on the shelf, and hurried to the checkout.

It haunted me all evening long. I knew it didn’t belong in that store. It didn’t belong in someone’s home, either. It belonged in a museum. I had to go get it. When I shared with Dan how I felt, a huge grin spread across his face. He knew by the careful, reverent way I held it that it would be hard for me to not come to its rescue. He was all for the idea. He’s always up an adventure, and we are both huge history buffs.

We were there when the store opened the following morning. I nearly cried when I saw it waiting there for me on that bottom shelf. I noticed that the tag said it had been for sale since March 22nd, or maybe March 2022. The cashier remarked that she had not seen it until that very day. Dan and I have been in the store many times since March and also never ran across it.

I marveled at the clever and resourceful use of bits and pieces of discarded fabric, and the tiny knots in the thread that held the concern of a mother preparing to protect her newborn child from the harshness of desert life. Even the little stuffed neck pillow was hand-stitched. There were obvious signs of wear throughout, but the fabric may have been fairly pre-worn before it became part of this object.

Maybe the sadness I felt was the mother’s sorrow at her tiny baby outgrowing such a beautifully fashioned necessity. I loved the heart and the butterfly, lifelong symbols of my very own soul in this lifetime. I carried it out to the van, wondering when it had last seen the sunlight.

I stood it on its end in the van for a moment and imagined it holding a little one. I promised that I would honor the memory of this family, this child, and get it to the place where it rightfully belonged. I set my intention and listened, waiting for clues.

An ad came up for a garage sale happening in two days that would benefit a small local museum. The museum was closed for the summer but would open for a few hours for the sale. I felt butterflies in my belly, knowing that this would be our first stop. If it felt right, the cradleboard would stay. If not, we would keep looking until we found its home.

The sale was being held at the Palo Verde Historical Museum in Blythe, California, a little more than 20 miles from our home in Quartzsite, Arizona. In the wee hours, I had held the cradleboard in my arms as a mother or grandmomma would, singing softly, saying prayers and sending blessings to those to whom this once belonged. I leaned it up against our tree, leaving it out there in the warm summer breeze until we were ready to go. It seemed like the right thing to do. We took it along with us but didn’t bring it out of the van when we first arrived.

My eye was immediately drawn to a vintage-y tablecloth. Now it was my turn to grin. I have been occupied with the creation of a submission for NPR (National Public Radio), who put a call out for stories attached to favorite family recipes. My submission was centered around my Mom’s delectable meatloaf recipe. I was lamenting the fact that I had three wishy-washy meatloaf pics from posts that I have made on my Facebook travel and inspirational page, “The Sunny Side”. None seemed right to attach to the recipe and family story. The words were forming, but the photos were still fuzzy. I would need to make a nice, fresh, homemade meatloaf and take a few pictures. Twist my arm, I thought. The burger meat is thawing as I write this.

The tablecloth, to me, was a nod of approval from my Mom-in-spirit, who collected vintage linens. I originally thought the “meat” of the story would be about my deep admiration for her scrumptious meatloaf recipe, but instead, HER papoose, me, was supposed to tell the tale of my own creation instead. I needed to tell my Mom’s “mom” story in only two hundred words. I didn’t know if I could do it. I hadn’t visualized my angle at that point.

The words came the minute I held that fifty-cent tablecloth in my hands. I am as grateful for the words that come THROUGH me as those that come FROM me. I have been doing deep healing work related to my family of origin and my Mom’s passing in 2020. Being a mother of grown children and a Grandmomma myself has been a difficult transition for me, one that I am still trying to understand.

In moments of clarity I realize that each of us (hopefully) do the best we can with what we have and what we have learned, and maybe sometimes it is enough for those who love us to linger on memories of finer days, as I have as I wrote my piece. I felt like she had a lot of input about what I said in that piece. They are never more than a thought away from us, this I know for sure. There was more to the story than the meatloaf recipe.

I would love to share my submission with you, but I am not sure if I can before they decide whether it’s fit for publication. I will when I am able to. In the meantime, if you get a hankering for meatloaf, I imagine you can find “the” recipe anywhere you see a meatloaf picture on “The Sunny Side”. Like Mom, I am always happy to share my recipes.

I know she is pleased to know anyone who wants meatloaf will have access to a really tasty recipe. She loved to feed people, too. Besides, it’s time you run over there and see what that page is all about, anyway, if you haven’t already. You will not find yourself at a loss for what to make for dinner. The apple did not fall far from the tree.

When the museum opens in the fall, the cradleboard will hold a place of honor in the display shelf on the right, in the space meant to honor the local Native American presence in the Palo Verde Valley. The museum volunteers who were on hand for the garage sale were really happy to receive the artifact. We were taken on a quick, private tour of the artifact storage room which wa

I have always wanted to find or own something interesting or valuable enough to donate to a museum. With this, I check off another bucket list item. I feel honored to be part of this cherished relic’s story, and glad y’all are here to hear about it. Thanks again for coming along on our journey!

Best meatloaf recipe wishes,

Brenda Cordray

“The Desert Rose”

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