To the generous, gifted, and winsome quilters I spent Friday and Saturday with in Pennsylvania: Thank you.
Not only were you fun to hang with, you were particularly fearless in your workings of the patch (patchwork) and you geeked out right along with me with the quilt history stuff. Really, thank you for being so Good.
I’ve been thinking about my Pennsylvania experience since I left, but right before I sat down to write, something I said the other night suddenly hit me as being true in another respect: I told you that even though much of my time is spent writing about quilts, talking to quilters, teaching patchwork, lecturing on quilt history, reading and thinking about quilts in America, etc. — after all that, when I get home in the evening, what do I want to do? Sew.
Of course, it isn’t always the case; sometimes I’m so pooped when I get home, “sewing” looks more like “eatin’ chips”. But it’s generally true that making quilts is still, always something I want to do; indeed, if I didn’t have pages to turn in for workshop tomorrow, articles to write for the paper, and TV wardrobe to select, I’d be sewing right now.
I thought about that sentiment when I sat down because I have been writing all day. I worked on an essay; I edited an article; I drafted a number of delicate emails; I wrote up pitches; I researched things and made notes — and that was just the four hours between 5:30 and 9:30 a.m. I left the house a little after that and the rest of the day had me writing, too, just in different locations.
And what do I do when I get home? Exactly. Because it never fails me. Now, I fail at writing, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t fail me, just as needles and thread don’t fail me or anyone else.
“Mary,” you ask me, and you cock your head to the side. (You look adorable when you do that.)
“Yes?” I reply, reclining in my patchwork kimono, eatin’ chips. “What can I do ya for?” I say, and I think this is hysterical, so I laugh, which causes me to inhale some chip dust. I’m good, though.
“You gave this post a title that, as far as I can tell, has nothing to do with anything.”
“Au contraire,” I say, and I wipe my chippy fingers on my sock.
“When I get home from a long day of quilts, I want to sew. When I get home from a long day of writing, I want to write. Well,” I say, licking a tiny chip from the corner of my mouth, “I have been traveling and lot and will continue to in the next months, but I still want more trips.”
“Ohhhh,” you say, ” — and you want to go to Europe.”
I tell you yes, that’s it, exactly: I would be so excited if I could visit quilting people across the pond. Maybe I have to put it out there to move the ball forward; I am definitely not too proud to beg.
And that’s it. That’s what I wanted to say.