Meditations On Hand-Quilting (Love, The Quilt Scout.)

Mom's hand-quilted Tulips quilt hanging on the back porch at the lake house. Photo: Marianne Fons
Mom’s hand-quilted Tulips quilt hanging on the back porch at the lake house. Photo: Marianne Fons.

From where I sit in Sacramento, I’m about two hours away from the Pacific Ocean; if the breeze blows just right tomorrow, I might get some salt in my nose. Who doesn’t like that? I’m fourteen-and-a-half hours from Berlin, by the way. But I’m glad I’m at my aunt’s house. I don’t want to be in Berlin and I don’t want to be home right now, either. It would be hard tonight, being among all those objects that have now changed shape.

Tonight, rather than moping around or rubbing it in my auntie got us facials at the spa tomorrow (it has literally been a year since I had a facial) I shall direct you to the latest Quilt Scout column wherein I share my maiden voyage into hand quilting. This column has been up for about a week, actually; Quilts, Inc. has gotten a bunch of mail about it. I didn’t realize just how many hardcore hand quilters there are out there. I have been invited to join several groups already and I might do; if I bring the quilt and huge quantities of cookie bars to each group, I might get some sewing bee-style help and get that dang thing done by 2021.

The post is about memory, though, too: our first memories in life. What’s yours? What does our first memory say about how we see the world? My first memory, as I say in the article, is one of sitting on my mother’s lap while she hand quilted a wholecloth quilt. The resonance of her voice in her chest. The rocking of the rocking chair. That’s what the post is really about, I guess.

Tonight, feathers in the rocking chair to you all. Goodnight, friends.

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