In January 2006, a friend and I wandered into a fabric store in a small tourist town. At the back were bins of fabric quarters, most were reproductions of vintage prints. We spent over an hour looking through them, choosing our favorites, changing our minds, and choosing more favorites. Maybe squabbling now and then over who got that only of of that kind. Maybe.
When we left we both hefted large bags of fabric scraps. We looked at one another. "Does this mean we are quilters?" "Um, I think so." "Do you know how to quilt?" "No. Do you?" "No."
I had done a few small hand-quilting projects in high-school (yes, I was that kind of high-schooler). But cutting? Assembly? Batting? No, ma'am. Not a clue. So, I did what made the most sense. I procrastinated.
A year goes by. I get some initiative. I quickly discover anything beyond squares will make me a mad woman. Squares it is. Good enough for my great-grandmother, good enough for me. By October 2007 I am here:
The intention was a throw or twin size. But, not being one to measure in advance, I sewed enough four-squares for a full-size quilt. Okay. That's fine. It's just going to take a little longer to finish. It will be ready for the bed I'm given in my rest home.In March 2009, to my great surprise, I am on my last quadrant of hand-quilting (and have convinced another friend to make her own):
July 2010, having faced down my terror of making binding and overcome a few miscalculations on that front, I launder and hang out to dry, just like a frontier woman would, the finished product:
By September 2010, the final touch:
Proud? Quite. Going to make another? Yes. Eventually.
