Journal: Reminiscing About Cars, and Heading to Colorado

A week ago last Saturday, Larry got his scissor lift off of the trailer it had been on since we got home from Missouri and Kansas.  Good thing Teddy came to help – or that thing might still be rolling down the hill, all the way to the Loup River, taking Larry’s big garage along with it.  The general size of that piece of equipment, combined with the steep slant it would be going down to get off the trailer in addition to the slope of the driveway, worried him enough to have him putting blocks behind every tire on the triple-axle trailer and all six pickup tires, too. 

They started winching it off the trailer and down the ramps.  As the weight shifted to the rear of the trailer, it rose in the front, nearly lifting the pickup – a one-ton Dodge dually to which it was hitched – right off the ground.

And then a chain came loose.

I was in the house, and heard a lot of loud crashing.  I dashed out onto the back deck, fearful of what I would find.

The scissor lift sat on the drive.  Motors were running (scissor lift? pickup? both?), and Larry and Teddy were trotting back and forth around all this rumbling equipment, shouting to each other over the top of the racket.

My heart gradually slowed, since I figured they wouldn’t have had the vigor and verve to trot and shout like that, had they lost any limbs or digits, or even bumped their heads.

It was a large, heavy metal frame of some sort that Teddy had positioned south of the apparatus that had finally brought the scissor lift to a stop.

Some of my friends and I have been discussing our first cars, and remembering how we learned to drive.  I learned to drive on my father’s stick shift.  When I got old enough for a car of my own, I had the cutest little Le Cars by Renault.  First a plain blue... then a purple with ‘Le Car’ and stripes on the sides... and then a red one with ‘Le Car’ and stripes that we had until shortly before Teddy, our fourth child, was born.  I absolutely loved that car.

One lady said, “I learned to drive in a cemetery.  My passengers figured they were closer to their Maker there.”  haha

Daddy let me practice in our church parking lot, which bordered an alley and had a sideway in the middle, so I could do figure eights from one lot to the other, learning to shift, brake, and corner when I was just barely or not quite 15.  One time after a series of figure eights, I parked... ran home for a snack... and ran back again.

I started the car – it was one of those little 4-cylinder, 2-door things – put it in reverse... started letting the clutch out... the car barely started to go – and died.  I restarted it, tried again – and it died.  I did that half a dozen times before I concluded in horror, I’ve ruined my father’s Honda!! and dashed home to tell him. 

He was sleeping.  I had half an hour of agonizing before he would wake up so I could tell him my tale of woe.

He smiled.  “Did you have the emergency brake on?”

I thought about it a moment – and knew I had.  I also knew that if a person drove with the emergency brake on, it would destroy the brakes.  “Oh, have I ruined it?? ” I cried.

“No,” said Daddy, “If the car kept dying before you could go anywhere, it’ll be okay.  Just remember to take the emergency brake off from now on before you go anywhere!” 

I never forgot again.

My sister’s first car was  a Morris Minor, right about the time I was a fresh-hatched babe – 1960.  My father had one exactly like it.

About two years later, Daddy had a bright red Saab.  I loved that little car (maybe that was part of the reason I was so delighted when he later gave me the little red Le Car).  The salesman gave me a little Matchbox car that perfectly matched Daddy’s car, and I thought it was absolutely the cat’s meow.

The next year, Daddy sold it cheap to a parishioner who desperately needed a car (Daddy was known for doing that)... and I, disappointed to the bottom of my toes, told somebody mournfully, “Daddy gave that car away, just because it had a little bit of rust!”

First he didn’t give it away, and second, it didn’t have a speck of rust.  (I probably didn’t even know what rust was.)  The friend duly reported my remark to my father, and then, a few days later in the middle of a sermon, something in the text reminded my father of my comment on rust.  He was preaching from the verses about heaven, “Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.” 

So of course he just had to tell the congregation what his small daughter had said.  They laughed.  I remember sitting there beside my mother, making sure my face looked pleasant, but not embarrassed (I practiced faces in the mirror at a young age, heh), and wondering what on earth everyone had found so hilarious about my statement.

I have another story or two about learning to drive...  (I always have stories, don’t I?)

I was 15 years old, and now had a learner’s permit.  I was behind the wheel of one of my father’s diesel Peugeots, Daddy in the passenger seat, and Lyle, my future father-in-law, riding in the rear seat.  The drive went uneventfully – until we got back home.  I slowed at the bottom of the sloped drive, shifted down... I’d never driven up the drive before.  And it was a manual, 4-speed transmission.

And then Daddy said, said he, “Now, you have to give it a little more gas to get up the drive without lugging it – ”

No sooner said than done.  I was nothing if not quick on the trigger.

In one fell swoop, I stuck it in first, stepped down on the throttle, and smoothly lifted my foot from the clutch.

Scrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!

Up the drive we shot, laying two black strips of rubber all the way, the looming garage door seeming to fly at us headlong.  Nobody had the slightest chance to say a word—I imagine they were still inhaling sharply—before I jerked right foot from gas pedal and slammed it down hard on brake pedal, simultaneously shoving in the clutch with my left foot.

We came to a squalling, abrupt stop mere inches from the garage door, car rocking so violently one could hear the fuel sloshing in the tank in the dead silence that ensued.

I waited, cringing, for my father to come unglued.

But into the silence, Lyle said in his low drawl, “Could somebody please come ’round and get me out of the glove compartment?”

My father took a breath, started to say something, coughed, tried again, spluttered, – and suddenly burst out laughing in his big, rollicking laugh.  So my life was spared.

He later told my mother, “I never knew diesel Peugeots were so snappy!”

And to my brother, who sometimes went with me on my learning excursions, “You don’t need to tell her not to lug it.  Ever.”

And then there was the time my father let me drive – he asked if I wanted to, and I wasn’t about to say ‘no’ – our big International TravelAll (like a Suburban) pulling a 31-foot Airstream camper right through Peoria.  I was 15.  It was kinda scary – there were too many big trucks in too many lanes of traffic!

Daddy’s name on the CB radio was ‘Preacher’.  We went through Peoria fairly often, on our way to Shelbyville, Illinois, to visit his side of the family; so there were regular truckers thereabouts who recognized our rig and knew who we were and would give us a call out on the radio.

Halfway through that city, the CB crackled to life with the following:  “Preacher!!!  Tell your daughter to relax her grip on that wheel!  Her knuckles have all turned white!”

Hee hee  It was one of the truckers I had just passed.  And he  was right; my fingers were white-knuckled!  

Daddy keyed the mic, laughed, and said, “She just might be as relaxed as she’s gonna get, in this town!”  :-D

I remember him praising me for doing such a good job of keeping that rig smack-dab in the center of the lane, and executing curves and exits and off-ramps so nicely.

Daddy didn’t dole out praise unless he thought it was earned.  I was pleased as could be with his commendation, and ready to progress on to large trucks and jet airplanes.

“And how did the jet plane driving go?” asked one of my friends.

“My Mama wouldn’t let me,” I told her.  (Not that I ever actually asked.)

When I was wee little, about three years old, we had a Studebaker.  My mother and I came home from somewhere... she pulled up the steep drive to the flat landing at the top, stopped, and got out to open the garage door.

She forgot to set the brake – and the flat landing... wasn’t quite flat.  The car started rolling, slowly, then picking up speed.  I was sitting on the front seat, and I recall seeing my mother running as fast as she could, trying to reach the door handle – but the car quickly got onto the steeper part of the drive, and coasted right down it.  It kept going across the gravel street, until it came up against the slight bank at the edge of the neighbor’s lawn, where it stopped.

In retrospect, it’s probably a very good thing my mother was not able to get that big door open, because she likely could not have jumped in before the car started going faster, and that door could very easily have knocked her down.  Mama was 43 when I was born... so she would have been about 46 when that happened.

I remember sitting in that Studebaker, wondering why Mama was so worried, and thinking, My Mama sure can run fast! 

And then there was the time we were coming home from the grocery store, Mama and I, in the Renault Dauphine.  I was standing in the back seat, looking out the back window at a car behind us – making faces at them.  (Remember, I practiced these things.)

And then a woman pulled out smack-dab in front of my mother, Mama slammed on the brakes, and I tumbled off the seat and landed in one of the grocery sacks – the one with the eggs, of course.

Smashed every single one of them.

When I got back up, I made sure to keep well below the top edge of the back seat, so the people in the car behind us wouldn’t see me.  Huuu-milly-atin’.

I was positive the Lord didn’t like what I was doing and directed the woman to pull out in front of Mama, and then shoved me off the seat, besides.

My father’s first car was a Model T.  He got it for $15.  It looked pretty much like this one:

This was in... ?  1935, I suppose, the year before he married my mother.  He went to pick her up for a date... and proudly drove her through town – Bethany, Illinois.

Much to his consternation, she was mortified.  “We just sit way up here in the air where everyone can see us!” she exclaimed.

He told that story, laughing over it, ’til the day he died.

The vehicle needed to be painted, so Daddy went to the hardware store, bought a gallon of paint for a few cents, a paintbrush for a few more cents, and set to work.

He was careful and precise, and was quite pleased with himself when friends later thought he’d had it professionally done – or bought a different car.  He didn’t want it to look like the refrigerator his own father had painted, some years earlier, after all! – Daddy said that refrigerator looked like someone had stood about 40 feet away, slung a bucket of paint at it, and called it good.  When he was through, my grandpa looked to have more paint on him than the refrigerator did.

The car was old, though, and had mechanical issues that eventually could no longer be fixed.  It was falling apart.  He and my mother lived at the top of a hill, and down at the bottom of the long hill and around a corner was a junkyard.  Daddy decided it was time to take the car to its final resting place.

Except...

It wouldn’t start.

He got a friend to help him push it to the slope of the hill, then they jumped in and Daddy guided it – with difficulty; the steering was shot – the rest of the way down. 

As they rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, the driver-side door fell off.

As they coasted into the junkyard, he realized he didn’t have any brakes.  He aimed for a hitching post, and let it bring him to a crashing stop.  The rear bumper then fell off.  Daddy and his friend ran back up the hill, picked up the door, returned and threw it in the back, along with the bumper.  Then they went to negotiate with the junkyard owner.

The man gave Daddy $5 for the car.

“Best $10 I ever spent!” Daddy always said.

And Mama would say quietly, “It sat up so high.”  😁😄

We had stuffed potatoes last Monday night.  They were buttered, salted, and peppered, then stuffed with well-seasoned hamburger (Italian seasoning, sage, oregano leaves, salt, and cracked pepper) with chunks of onions and summer squash tossed in when the meat was nearly cooked, so the onions and squash stayed a little bit crunchy... rice, tomatoes (fresh from the neighbors’ garden, as was the squash), sour cream, picanté sauce, and Mexican shredded cheese.  We followed this with strawberry yogurt.

A couple of hours later, feeling not quite satisfied, I pulled a new box out of the cupboard:  Nature Valley Granola Cups with Almond Butter filling.  It was the first time we ever tried these.  Mmmmm... they’re yummy!  Made a nice little (and easy) dessert.

Tuesday, I worked on my customer’s ‘Golden Days of Hollywood’ quilt.

The last time I rolled the quilt forward before quitting for the night, the final border showed up!  I would be able to finish it the next day.

In writing to my online quilting group, I mentioned pouring myself a glass of Martinelli unfiltered apple juice – not from concentrate.  Mmmm, it tastes like freshly-juiced apples.

“You may be drinking our apples!” one lady responded.  “We sell the apples from the trees in our yard to Martinelli.  They have their plant here in Watsonville, California.”

“It’s a small world!” I replied.  “How many apples do you sell?  The Martinelli story is interesting... I always enjoy reading histories:  https://www.martinellis.com/about/history/

“Do you sell apples anywhere else?  Do you have a ‘roadside stand’?  Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

That last remark reminds me of a youtube video I was watching recently of a smart little parakeet that had been taught to say over 350 words and phrases... but he got them muddled now and then.  He asked a couple of times, “Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”  Then, “I’d like a hamburger!”  And finally, “Is this the Spanish Hamburger?”  hee hee

The bird, Kiwi, had been raised by humans when his mother died, so the only other birds he’d seen were in videos... and his stuffed toys.  So one day when his owners brought home a new (and very young) parakeet to keep him company, he was nonplused.  Baffled.  Perplexed. 

They first kept the birds apart, but close enough to hear each other.  Then they’d move them close enough they could see each other ... and finally, they let both out of their cages at once.

Kiwi went ’round and ’round the new bird, Pixel, and bumped beaks with him a few times, saying, “Beep!  Beep!  Beep!”  Pixel, still shy about his new surroundings stood still and only uttered little twitters now and then.

And then Kiwi finally backed up, cocked his head at the newcomer, and said quite clearly, “You’re a cute little chicken!”

haha

Kiwi is the brightest little parakeet.

Here’s the people’s channel:  https://www.youtube.com/user/zakooldude

I’ve looked at a number of their videos, so I’m not certain which one is which anymore... but they’re all cute as can be.

In one, Kiwi flips his owner’s wedding ring around on the couch cushion like he’s playing soccer... it falls off the couch... the owner picks it up... repeat... finally, the bird flips it off onto the floor, the owner doesn’t pick it up right away – and funny little Kiwi leans over the edge of the cushion, peers down at the ring, and call, “Hey, Siri!  Hey, Siri!  Hey, Siri!” quite as if he expects the helpful person on the smartphone to come pick the ring up for him. 

I realize that birds mostly just imitate, but they also start equating certain words with certain results, just like a baby does when learning a language.  And they do understand cause and effect.  Scientists have found that trained parrots can have the intellect, in many ways, of a four-year-old child.

I tried teaching one of our parakeets to talk.  I made a tape of my own voice, repeating, “Hi!  My name is Chalcedony!” (a bright green gem) 

The bird never uttered a word.  Loud, unmelodious squawks, yes.  Words, no.

The children, however, went around saying, “Hi!  My name is Chalcedony!” ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

I stopped playing the tape.

I quilted steadily for a couple of hours, and my hands needed a short break.  I paused at a good stopping point... watched the pretty pictures scrolling through on my laptop... and interrupted them by saying, “Hey, Cortana.”

“Listening,” chimed somebody named Cortana who lives inside my laptop.

“Make me some coffee,” I instructed.

The lady answered, “Liquids make me nervous.”

Realizing it was almost time for church, I ordered, “Bring my car around.”

And she said, said she, “Just drive it off the roof.  You can drop a car from orbit without damage so long as you land it on its wheels.”

Okay, break time was over!  I had 45 minutes to quilt before church time.  This ‘Drama’ pantograph is one of the most finicky pantos I’ve done yet, on account of all the lines that so closely parallel each other.  I had to go slooow on most of it.  I finished it that night after church. 

Thursday afternoon, Victoria came visiting for a little while with Baby Carolyn.  The baby slept the whole time they were here, with a few wiggles and sleeping baby noises.  Teensy came in to see Victoria.  Afraid he’d try to jump on her lap before he realized it was already occupied by a baby, I picked him up and attempted to show her to him.  The baby wiggled.  Teensy stilled – and proceeded to stare out the front door.  I don’t know if he ever actually looked at the baby; it seemed to me that every time she made the slightest noise or movement, his head swiveled, and he studiously stared out the window. 

Victoria said to me, “Do you want to hold her, so Teensy can get in my lap?”

Teensy knows those words – ‘get in my lap’.  He immediately made imminent plans to land himself in Victoria’s lap, and I hurried to get little Carolyn.  She was barely away from Victoria before va-PLOOP! – up went Teensy, straight into Victoria’s lap.  He purred and butted his head into her, and pumped his paws on her leg.  Then he spread himself out far and wide over her lap, trying his best to take up the entire area, whilst turning his head and looking at me all squinty-eyed, as if to say, You just hang onto that little whatever-it-is; I’ve got Victoria.

What a funny cat.

Victoria and I both headed for town at 4:30, she to her house with a baby who was making hungry, ‘I’m about to wake up’, noises, and me to the post office to mail my customer’s quilt and the doll bonnet I mentioned last week.

Home again, I went downstairs to work on Todd and Dorcas’s Baskets of Lilies quilt.  I got all the ‘baskets’ cut, and started on the ‘flowers’.  Hmmm... there are 25 basket blocks.  There are three ‘flowers’ in each block – 75 flowers all together.  There are four petals (half a Lemoyne star) in each flower.  So I need 300 petals.  I’m 9% done.  😉

In hunting through my meager stash for fabric suitable for the petals, I found a piece of baby girl fabric printed as if it was a pieced quilt.  There was a length of soft pink fabric next to this piece; I probably put it there a long time ago, thinking it would make a good backing.

I decided it was high time I did something with that piece of fabric, which is still in perfectly good condition, as it’s a tightly woven percale.  So, as soon as I had all the ‘petal’ fabric pulled out and sorted into coordinating stacks (my ‘scrappy’ things still must coordinate), I paused with Dorcas’ quilt and ironed the baby fabric.  I loaded the fabrics on my quilting frame, tucked in a piece of batting, and quilted away.  The fabric is printed to look as though it is pieced.  It will be Baby Malinda’s Christmas gift from us. 

“Reckon I should square it up, so I don’t get all crabby when I try to load it on my frame, like I do with customers who send me parallelograms and irregular polygons?” I asked somebody.  Oh, haha... I couldn’t think of the word ‘polygon’ (the simplest words oft escape me), and found a funny arithmetic/geometry website where they call those things ‘shmoops’.  Hee hee

Shall I write on my blog pages that tell how quilts and backings should be prepared for quilting, “Just don’t send me a shmoop!”  ?

The UPS brought the box of background fabric that afternoon.  I’d ordered 15 yards of white on white.  In the ‘item description’, it said there were something like 225 yards available.  So... if that’s the case... why did I later get an email telling me that only multiple cuts were available, and wanting to know if that was acceptable?  I said yes, it was acceptable, because, after all, I’ll be cutting mostly smallish pieces.  Here are the cuts I got to equal the 15 yards I ordered:  7.0 + 3.5 + 1.5 + 1.5 + 1.5 yards.

Friday evening, we had supper at Norma’s house, and Kurt, Victoria, and Carolyn came, too.  Norma fixed a roast, potatoes, gravy, green beans, peaches, and dinner rolls with homemade pear butter.  Victoria brought a few of the dishes—chicken, sweet potatoes, and a strawberry crisp dessert.

When we got home, I finished quilting the little piece of baby fabric.  I was pretty sure it was left over from something someone made me when I was a baby – my sister and I found it in my mother’s basement once upon a time when we were cleaning it for her.  I did a fake ‘stitch in the ditch’ to make the quilt really look pieced.  When I was done, I thought, Why didn’t you put borders on that thing?!   It would have looked a lot better, and been a nicer size, if you had’ve put borders on it!

Answer:  because I have this motto:  Whatever it is, I can make it harder!

Well, it seems like that must be my motto.

Sooo... I got the little quilt off the frame, pulled out a piece of matching blue, a few more strips of batting, and, with some difficulty, added them to the central piece.  I hadn’t yet trimmed backing or batting, so was able to butt strips of batting to the batting of the quilt, and zigzag them together.  I only needed to add to the pink backing at the top of the quilt.  I added the aqua-blue borders to the front, and was ready to continue quilting it.

Saturday, I sewed strips of muslin all around the quilt so I could attach it to the leaders on my frame, using water-soluble thread in the bobbin.

I reloaded the quilt onto the frame and quilted the borders.  Upon removing the quilting from the frame, all I had to do was lightly spritz the seams between muslin and quilt with a little water, and presto, the muslin pulled away like magic.  Time for the binding!

I suppose I should get the water-soluble thread out of the bobbin before I start putting the binding on?

I stuck some matching bobbin thread into the bobbin holder, sewed on the binding, and was done.

Outside, I could hear Larry mowing the lawn. 

I really should’ve been packing things, because Larry wanted to go to Loveland, Colorado, Monday morning, where he planned to purchase a pickup camper.  I needed to pack everything we would need for a week in the mountains – and it would be chilly out there.  In addition to clothes, we would need everything for camper living – pans, dishes, sheets, towels (there’s a shower in this camper; it’s one of the bigger ones), ... and cleaning supplies.

“Don’t forget warm boots and socks!” a friend admonished.  “Dry socks are really important.”

“They’re on the list!” I assured her. 

I have a list on my computer of everything we need – whether traveling with only the Jeep, or with pickup and camper.  I’ll have to pack Larry’s one sock for him, too; he’s always too busy doing too many last-minute things with large equipment to worry about such a mundane thing as a sock.  (I say that one sock is all he thinks he needs, no matter where we go or how long we’re going to be there – ’cuz, after all, if he should happen to step in a puddle, he’s quick-witted and has good enough reflexes to avoid stepping in it with the other foot, now, isn’t he??)

Okay, now I’ve made you think Larry is a bit of a pigpen, and that’s not the case.  He faithfully showers every single night after he gets home from work, without fail.  He just doesn’t like (or have time) to pack clothes, and if he does, he never, ever packs enough.  So I do it.

“What handwork are you going to take along – or are you?” asked another friend.

“A camera and a laptop and a tablet!” I told her.  (That’s handwork, right?)

After finishing the baby quilt late that evening, I didn’t have enough energy left to pack for our trip.  Mañana.  I went to bed.

I wonder why time always flies extra fast on Sunday mornings when I’m trying to get ready for church?

Several people have asked about my iron.

I have a Rowenta Steam Station.  I purchased it from someone on the SewItsForSale yahoo group, and only paid $50 (plus $20 shipping) for it (regular price, $170).  Here are some on Amazon, but they are newer models, and quite a bit more money:  Rowenta Steam Stations

I absolutely love mine, and if it ever goes kaput, you can be sure, I’ll be crying until I replace it with one just like it or better.  It steams like a locomotive – or not, if you turn off the steam.  Steam amount is totally adjustable.  Water is in a reservoir separate from the iron, so the iron isn’t as heavy as an iron that holds water; but it’s plenty heavy for good pressing.  As long as you pull the trigger, it keeps right on a-steamin’.  The reservoir holds a quart of water, and that’s enough to steam for several hours.

The iron doesn’t leak, since it doesn’t have water in it, and you practically never have the problem of it spitting on your fabric – though I managed to accomplish it the other day by using the iron, turning it off... changing my mind about what I was going to wear a while later... dashing back to the iron with another item of clothing... turning it on – and then, when there was still pressure in the tank but the iron wasn’t yet warm, I jumped the gun and pulled the trigger (right over my sweater, of course) – and the iron valiantly tried to do my bidding, but only succeeded in spewing a drop or two of slightly discolored water onto the sweater.  I must need to clean out the tank – haven’t done it, in all the time I’ve had the iron, which is... hmmm... five years, according to my journals.  Oooo.  Yes, I should clean that thing out.  Our well water is very pure, almost like distilled, so things don’t need to be cleaned as often as they do when using city water, I’ve found. 

I had to replace the cap and gasket on the iron’s pressure tank once; that was $15.  The iron does not have an auto shut-off, thank goodness.  I hate auto shut-offs.  They’re always off, right when I want to use them!

I mostly use mine for sewing ... but I do iron or steam (steam, more often) my clothes for church, too.  I use my iron almost every day, sometimes for many hours a day.  If anyone uses an iron a lot, and uses steam, I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t love the steam station.  And if you don’t pull the steam trigger, and instead just dry iron something, it never drips, even when you’ve just been steaming.  But... yes, it’s pricey, especially if you don’t find a good used one like I did.  Amazon seems to have the best prices.  There are some other brands that aren’t as expensive as the Rowenta; I don’t know how well they compare.  An advantage to the newer models over mine is that the water heats up faster – 2 minutes, compared to 10, when the reservoir is full.

Here’s a good review:  Just How Perfect is the Rowenta Perfect Steam Station

Sunday afternoon, Mary Beth, a cousin of mine from North Dakota, commented under the pictures of the baby quilt that I posted on Facebook, saying that she thinks her mother, my Aunt Pauline, was the one who made me something with the fabric!  If so, then it’s even more of a keepsake than I thought.  Mary Beth and I were both born to mothers who were 43 years old, when our siblings were all grown.

And then Tracy, Aunt Pauline’s granddaughter and Mary Beth’s niece, wrote this:  “I know mom has that fabric on a quilt too!”

By evening, another cousin, Helen Jean, had written to say that she, too, has a quilt made of this fabric by her mother, my Aunt Pauline.  I guess that pretty well clinches the theory:  the fabric was left over from all the quilts Aunt Pauline made – including one for me, when I was a baby.  Aunt Pauline probably bought a whole bolt of the stuff at their rural general store – cheaper by the bolt, back then!  (And sometimes, still.)

Lydia will like that; she’s sentimental over family memories and keepsakes.

A lady on the quilting group asked me if I wash flannel before quilting.  My answer:

Not usually, though if I’m putting flannel on the back of a plain cotton-pieced top, I’ll wash the flannel, as it shrinks more than plain cotton. 

I like quilts to feel crisp and new for a while, until washing.  And then I like the crinkle, after the first washing.  Since I don’t usually wash fabric first, I don’t have to iron it much... and I sure don’t have to spray it with starch.  Saves money and time and starch residue hither and yon.

People get into quite the debates over this issue!  Some are allergic to dyes in the fabric... some give quilts to charitable causes and don’t know who they will go to... so that’s a good reason to wash. 

I did wash all my fabrics the time I made the wool/velvet/corduroy/velveteen/velour quilt, because I knew all those fabrics would shrink differently.

You will have an easier time sewing the flannel before washing it, probably.  But... maybe you’d like the results better if you washed first.

Some wash their fabric before they cut and sew it... and then wash the quilt again after they complete it.  Then they hand it to someone and say, “Here, I made this piece of dämp rrrrag (roll that r, like the original narrator of Winnie-the-Pooh stories did, in the story of Eeyore’s Birthday Present [it was a burst balloon]) for you!”

Okay, I’m kidding... just kidding.  Sorta.  😉 

It’s mostly a matter of preference!

When we got home from church last night, I started packing.  I discovered it was raining when Weather Cat came in and wanted on my lap to dry his wet feet off.

Monday morning, we loaded our things into the pickup, did a bit of housecleaning, and then we were off.

We stopped at the O’Reilly’s in Central City for new windshield wipers.  It was raining and misting, and the wipers weren’t doing much good.  Larry got me a gel lumbar support seat cushion, and it made the pickup seat a lot more comfortable. 

I wrote to the kids, making sure they knew where we were going and what we were doing.  Hester wrote back – sending pictures of a young calico cat they just got.  Their other kitty isn’t so sure that was a good idea... but Hester said the cats are getting along fairly well.

We stopped in North Platte a little after four to get fuel.  It was 65° there (a chilly 65°), and when I checked the weather, I discovered they’d just been issued a flash flood watch.  I wonder why?  I didn’t think it rained that much.   Maybe it rained more out west?  The high elevations got 4” of snow last night... and they’re expecting 5 more today.

It’s going to be in the 20s in the mountains overnight, some nights this week.  We brought a thick sleeping bag... the wool/corduroy quilt... and that thick, soft fleece blanket we use on our bed in the wintertime.  We have a little space heater, and the man says the camper’s furnace works good.

It is now a quarter ’til seven.  We’re 25 minutes from the place where the camper is, and the people are expecting us.  We’ll get a motel in Loveland.

,,,>^..^<,,,        Sarah Lynn        ,,,>^..^<,,,