When I first met my husband, Don, he didn't like ties. No one ever had to wonder about that; he made it quite clear. In fact, I don't think I ever saw Don in a tie until we both started working for a newspaper that had a dress code for men.

I say men, because if there was a dress code for women, I never knew about it. Of course, at that time there weren't that many women who worked at the paper full-time -- at least not in the newsroom. When I, at the tender age of 22, was put in charge of the copy desk, the newsroom was abuzz for days.

For one thing, no woman had ever worked full-time on the copy desk before (I was told it just wasn't fair to expect a woman to deal with all that stress). Then to have that young woman, three months out of college, promoted to a position supervising men who had worked there for 40 years -- well, there were those in the newsroom who thought the world had come to an end.

But I digress.

The dress code stated that all male employees, even those who had no encounters with the public, had to wear a sports shirt and tie every day. The dress code had been in effect for years, so all of the guys abided by the rule, even though no one was sure why it existed.

Then Don arrived.

I had recommended him for the job because he and I had worked together on our college paper, and I felt he was one of the best copy editors I had ever seen. Don certainly needed the job, but he had a definite problem with the "mandatory tie" rule.

His theory was: If the women at the paper didn't have to wear ties to work, why should the men? I agreed that his rationale was sound. But, as the department supervisor, part of my job was to make sure that the rules were followed -- even the ones that didn't make a whole lot of sense.

So Don and I compromised. He didn't have to wear a tie to work. He hung an old ratty-looking black tie in his locker in the break room. On his way into the newsroom every day, he would stop at his locker and put on the tie. As long as it was knotted and in place by the time he got to the copy desk, everything was OK.

Don had some rather interesting shirts in those days (he was particularly fond of paisleys), but, as he often remarked, a black tie goes with anything. So, day after day, Don wore the same old black tie, and it soon became a fixture in the newsroom.

The other guys on the desk used to take bets on how many strings had to be hanging from Don's old black tie before Linn Ann got out her scissors and cut them off. I had to do this about once every six weeks or so. No one at the paper knew Don and I were dating (no fraternization within departments was another company rule); we kept our engagement secret for a year.

After we were married, I tried to convince Don how great he looked in a coat and tie. I even got him into a tux -- once.

Gradually he got so he would actually buy a new tie every now and then. He had his favorite ties, of course (as I said earlier, he was always fond of paisleys), and sometimes he would even grudgingly wear the stripes I picked out for him.

After he passed away in 2005, I was amazed how many ties he had accumulated over the years. A friend of mine remarked one day that her mother makes quilts and other items out of men's ties. Perhaps, my friend suggested, her mother could make something out of Don's ties.

So I borrowed her mom's pattern book. Page after page showed quilts, table runners, lamp shades, skirts, stuffed animals, even picture frames -- all made out of men's ties. I was overwhelmed.

I simply could not make up my mind. Most of the items required that the ties be cut up into tiny pieces and sewn together. While all of the items were beautiful, I wanted something that would preserve the entire tie.

Finally, I decided on a quilt pattern that looks like a huge sunflower. The background of the quilt is cream colored, the edging blue. The center circle is dark brown. Don's ties point outward from that center like large beautiful flower petals.

My friend's mother, who is a very gifted seamstress, created 34 petals using the large ends of Don's ties. In each corner of the quilt, she used the small ends of the ties to create small fans pointing toward the center flower.

This past week my brother-in-law hung the quilt on a wall in my home. The quilt is the first thing I see now when I enter my house. I am still struck by its beauty and the way it reflects Don's personality.

When I first took Don's ties to my friend's mom, I showed her which ones were his favorites. There was his shamrock tie that came all the way from Ireland (Don was Irish); his famous Mickey Mouse tie; the wide multi-colored one that looks like something tie-dyed out of the '60s; all of his paisley ones; the blue one he bought for our wedding; the yellow one I bought him (he never liked it that much, but he wore it because I did).

And, of course, his old black tie.

Every time I look at that quilt of many colors, I smile. Don was just as colorful as his ties. After he died, I received so many hand-written notes and e-mails from his former students, his former co-workers, nurses who knew him as a patient, even his high school classmates, some of whom I didn't know.

The writers recounted tales of Don's shenanigans, his laughter, his love of children, his courage in the face of adversity. In short, each note reflected on the different, colorful facets of Don's life and how he had touched each writer's life.

I have a friend who recently lost her daughter. There is no way I can begin to know the grief my friend is feeling. But one thing I do know with absolute certainty: God has made each of our lives like the giant flower on my quilt.

The petals, made up of the wondrous patterns and colors of our inner being, reach outward, bringing beauty and delight to all of those we touch with our special gifts.

Each life, regardless of its duration on this earth, is a beautiful quilt of many colors.

Linn Ann Huntington is a longtime

journalism educator who

lives and works in Hays.