Journal: The Quilt Police Strike Again

Last Tuesday afternoon, I took Loren some chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, California blend vegetables, chocolate banana pudding, pomegranate blueberry juice, maple nut ice cream, and half a little loaf of 12-grain bread.

At the time I went to his house, I wasn’t sure... but by evening I knew:  I had pinkeye in my left eye.  (Loren is fine; I was careful not to share it with him.)

Just for kicks, I plugged into Google ‘COVID-19 and pinkeye’ – and discovered that pinkeye is indeed one of the rarer symptoms of COVID-19 (if you can believe the reports, that is).  Got me so upset, I sneezed, then coughed, then blew my nose, then got a sore throat.  heh  Actually, I always have a slightly sore throat, on account of 1) swollen lymph nodes, caused by rheumatoid arthritis, and 2) that very sophisticated problem called ‘post-nasal drip’.  (Why didn’t they name it ‘lilac-raindrop-osis’ or something nice?)

So either I had a slight infirmity, or one foot in the grave.  While I waited to find out which it was, I trotted upstairs to quilt.  After all, just about every disease known to man has now somehow been linked to COVID-19. 

Probably brilliant people will realize any day now that lack of breathing is connected to death.

That day, I worked a bit on sewing together the ninety 3D Flying Geese for the Old-Fashioned Sewing-Machine quilt.  They consist of a folded rectangle between two squares, sewn with one seam – so the edges of the triangle are folds, not seams.

Poor old Teensy is getting old, on thyroid medication, and a little gimpy sometimes.  In the last couple of weeks he’s hurt a paw or leg, and it takes him longer to recover than it used to.  I couldn’t find a wound.  He got better... then got worse again – probably from chasing bunnies – and now he’s limping only a little bit.  We love this kitty; he’s extra special, somehow.

After supper, Larry went off to Genoa, 20 miles to our west, to work on his friend’s vehicles in the man’s large garage/shop there.  He makes extra money doing that, but he does get quite tired. 

He enjoys working on vehicles, whether on the body, or on the mechanics.  He’s good at it.  We like to say that if you give Larry a paper clip, a garbage disposal, and some hair tonic, he’ll build you a truck. 

Joseph wrote to tell us that they’d gone over Independence Pass, crossing the Continental Divide at an elevation of 12,095 feet.

 On a drive over that pass years ago, we stopped at a pullout – and spotted a small, wadded-up sports car way down beside the Roaring Fork River.

And then there was the time we were coming back down the mountain, heading east, when a bad windstorm hit.  We rounded a hairpin turn, and I glanced back up the road — just in time to see an entire stand of evergreens, ten to twelve of them, tip right over ka-blooey onto the road above, where we’d just been driving.

Yet another time, we came around a corner on a one-lane-only section and met up with a large straight truck that was traveling much too fast for the road.  The driver, who looked too young for the job, veered wildly (and unnecessarily) onto the very narrow shoulder with its vertical drop-off – and ran the right front wheels up onto a large boulder that was serving as a guardrail.  The truck teetered frighteningly, and we thought it was going to tip over – which direction, onto us or into the ravine, we couldn’t hazard a guess.

It came crashing back off the boulder, bounced crazily, and came to a stop inches from the cliff on one side, and inches from our bumper on the other.

Wednesday, I awoke with pinkeye in both eyes.  Ugh!  Plus, my throat was sore.  I therefore assumed I had the Bubonic Plague. 

Hannah offered to take Loren some lasagna for supper, and I gladly took her up on it.

“I wonder where you got pinkeye?” she asked.

That reminded me of the time Lydia, who was about four, caught a cold, and when my mother commiserated with her, she said mournfully, turning her little palms up in a ‘who knows’ gesture, “Nobody else has it, so I must’ve gotten it from my dolly!”

Hannah said Loren tried to pay her for the Arby’s sliders she took him last Saturday, because she accidentally left the receipt – for the entire family’s meal – in the bag.

“He finds those things like they’re magnetic!” I told her.  “He once found an old grocery receipt in a bag I took him a couple of years ago – and wanted to pay the entire bill!”

Having been relieved of that responsibility, and deciding I’d better not go to church that evening, I trotted upstairs to my quilting studio and played there the rest of the day, attaching 3D Flying Geese to each other.  For those who have asked, I don’t have a pattern, but here’s a tutorial with a good explanation and good photos of the 3D Flying Geese:

http://www.right-sides-together.com/3d-flying-geese-tutorial/

Late that afternoon, barn swallows were swooping all around the house, on all four sides, in circles and figure eights.  There must’ve been a massive insect hatch.  Sometimes, seeing me standing at a window or door, they would fly right at me, curious little birds that they are, and only dodge away at the last moment.  Their long wings and scissor tails make them agile flyers indeed.

Thursday morning, I worked out in the flower gardens for an hour and a half.  The front yard looks good... the west side looks good... part of the back looks good – but I didn’t make it to the southeast part of the back yard or the east side of the house.

Early that afternoon, a FedEx man knocked at the door.  He gave me a large, flat box.  I brought it in... opened it... and there was my New York Beauty quilt, home from Paducah, Kentucky.  It’s once again safe and sound, but it only got to attend one of the three quilt shows for which it qualified.  The rest of the AQS shows for 2020 have been canceled. 

There were half a dozen flood warnings for the Ohio River while that quilt was in AQS’s warehouse there.

I will probably save the quilt for next year’s shows.  Lydia won’t mind, I don’t believe, because she once said, “Could you run it through a laminator, so the kids won’t get it dirty?” 

And Jeremy, before he knew I was making them this quilt, was once sweeping up a pile of chocolate birthday cake crumbs under one of his kiddos’ chairs, and he grinned at me and remarked, “If you ever make us a quilt, it better be in shades of chocolate and mud!”  hee hee

June 24^th was Jacob’s 11^th birthday, and June 25^th was his Mama’s (Lydia’s) 29^th birthday – but they’re on vacation visiting Todd and Dorcas and Trevor in Tennessee. 

June 25^th was also Bobby and Hannah’s 20^th anniversary.  I gave them the Mosaic Lighthouse quilt, having learned a couple of weeks ago that not only did Hannah like it, but she also has a wall on which to hang it.  I’m so happy to do this; I’ve been wanting to give that quilt to someone in the family ever since I made it, and just didn’t know who.  It needs to be hung, but it’s big and heavy, and we need to get them some heavy-duty hardware.  Laying it on a bed doesn’t do it justice, since the picture can’t be seen well at that angle.

Lydia sent pictures from Ijams Nature Center, Knoxville, Tennessee.  See Malinda, trotting along the boardwalk beside the Tennessee River?

I gave Lydia the news about her quilt, adding, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you it was going to be yours!  By the time I finally give it to you, you won’t like me anymore. 😏 ” 

“Oh, that’s good it’s home again! 😅 ” she responded.  “It’s okay; I can wait patiently. 😂 ”

When I was little, my father and I had this running argument going:  Daddy, whose favorite color was green, said God obviously liked green best, because there’s so much of it.  I, who preferred blue (or red, or purple), said He liked blue best, because there was waaay more blue than green, taking into consideration the sky and the waters.  Daddy said no, because more people are in the middle of green than in the middle of blue, and waters are just reflections, in any case, and skies look blue only because of scattered particles.

I argued right back, "But He causes us to see those particles as blue!"

Many the longwinded discussion we had over the matter.  I even checked out books on color and light and refraction at the public library in order to continue and prolong the debate.  I learned waaay more about molecules and photosynthesis and suchlike than I would have done, had we been in agreement.

And no, Daddy didn’t do that on purpose, just to get me to learn; but he enjoyed the discussion just as much as I did.

That night, I finished putting together the Old-Fashioned Sewing-Machine quilt top.

Friday, I found a suitable backing for it amongst my fabric stash.  It had to be trimmed and then pieced back together a bit, but it worked.  I loaded it on my frame.

I then opened a large bin full of batting, pulled out a bunch of pieces of thinner cotton, stitched them together until it was the right size, and loaded it on the frame.  Next, I stitched together several high-loft poly pieces and loaded that onto the frame.

I’ve been piecing batting together and haven’t bought any new rolls for the last six quilts, except for the Atlantic Beach Path quilt.  I had more batting leftovers than I thought!  I’m down to two large totes, and those totes have quite a variety in them.  I combined them willy-nilly for this wall hanging; it won’t matter at all. 

That afternoon, I took Loren some food:  ancient-grain-encrusted cod, green beans, applesauce, and half a little loaf of 12-grain bread, sliced, buttered, and popped in the oven for a minute or two.  Oh, and V8 cocktail juice.

Upon telling Loren what kind of cod it was, he asked, “Couldn’t you afford new grain?”

I said, “Well, at least the grain is ancient, and not the cod.” 

He laughed at that.

While I was there, I got the rest of Norma’s clothes, except for a few shoes, from Loren’s house.  It took eight trips from his house to my car – and his house is not set up for convenience (or for older folks); the main floor is one flight up.  It’s half a flight of stairs from main floor to front door, and another half of a flight from front porch to driveway.  To make matters worse, my brother keeps his house too hot.  Whew.

When I got home, I let those clothes percolate in the Jeep for a while; I’d run out of steam.  I quilted for a while, then Larry came home from work, and we had supper.  He then went to Genoa, and I returned to the quilting studio. 

Somewhere around 9:00 p.m., I noticed there was a beautiful sunset, so I trotted down the stairs, grabbed my camera, and stepped out on the porch to take some pictures.

It was cooler by then, so I brought in those clothes.  That entailed another eight trips – and this time, I had to carry them up two flights, as I was putting them in the little library upstairs so Lydia, Joanna, and Emma, who wear that size, can take a look and see if there are any clothes they might want.  I might keep a few, too.  Whatever is left will go to the Goodwill or the Salvation Army.  They should be pleased as punch to get them; Norma wore stylish and nice clothes.

Fact:  it is harder carrying heavy stacks of clothes up flights of stairs than down flights of stairs.  I think I got enough exercise that day.

Back in the quilting studio, I loaded the Old-Fashioned Sewing-Machine quilt top.  I stitched in the ditch around the outer narrow border... quilted some fancy leaves... decided I didn’t like them... and picked them out.

Larry returned home.  It was a good time to close up shop, head for the recliner, and tuck a heating pad behind my back.  And just like that, another day was in the wind.

It rained two or three nights last week, and the flowers showed their appreciation by blooming like everything.  The daylilies along the eastern fence are bursting into bloom all at once.

Here are a couple of amazing bits of trivia:  the longest lightning bolt ever recorded was one that stretched 440 miles across the southern region of Brazil on October 31, 2018.  It broke the previous record of 199.5 miles, when a lightning bolt stretched across the state of Oklahoma on June 20, 2007.  And the longest-lasting lightning duration?  16.73 seconds.  That strike occurred in Argentina.  What do you think those long bolts are called?  ‘Megaflashes’ of course!

I knew you’d want to know.

Saturday evening, I could hear a bat squeaking in my quilting studio, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.  He was up near the ceiling somewhere... maybe hiding in the light/fan fixture.

I turned the fan on full blast and went downstairs to eat supper, hoping the problem would resolve itself in the meanwhile. 

I told this story to a friend, who responded helpfully, “At least you won’t have any mosquitoes in your studio.”  Haha 

I didn’t hear the bat again that night.

By the time I quit for the night, I was a third done quilting the Old-Fashioned Sewing-Machine quilt.  More pictures here.

Here’s a website where they sell this panel, which is called ‘A Stitch in Time’.

And now, just for the fun of it, look what someone on an online quilting group wrote to me:

I would like to know why a lot of quilters use a beautiful, special panel (like magestic [sic] animals, birds, etc.) in the middle of a quilt, and then sew on rows and rows and rows of fabric of different colors and with different designs.  

That really, really frustrates and aggravates me!  I think the center panel should be the focus of the quilt.  And, all the different colors and patterns in the surrounding fabrics just negate the beauty of the center panel.  Plus, all the intricate quilting patterns also negate its beauty.  It’s the magestic [sic] center panel that needs to shine.  Nothing else.

I absolutely hate to see a perfectly gorgeous creature or natural landscape diminished to the point of appearing to be of no value whatsoever.  

I would very much prefer to see a solid color border.  I might consider more than one color, but prefer just one color – white or beige, depending on the colors in the panel.  

In other words, why can’t avid quilters just leave perfect alone?  

Do the quilters just HAVE TO show off their piecing and quilting skills?

No offense intended.

==========================

That last line is just as good as ‘bless your little heart’, don’t y’all agree?

Reckon I should grade her spelling and send her email back to her?

She then sent another email saying I should send her pictures of the Sewing Machine quilt with the Flying Geese borders laid out around it, before I sewed them on, so she could tell me if it looked all right.  “I’m not yet positive that vintage sewing machines and geese go together,” she finished.

Maybe I should have made Flying Sewing Machines?

I wrote back, “Nope, nope, nope!  Me do by self!”

And just look:  I made this quilt exactly like she thinks I shouldn’t have.

‘Showing off piecing and quilting skills’.  Should everyone ‘hide their light under a bushel’?  Why should we ever cut up fabric and sew it back together again?  Why should craftsmen do fabulous things with wood?  Or stone?  Or brick?  Or glass?  Why should we tend flower gardens?  Just let wildflowers grow where they will!  Does she ask, “Why can’t avid gardeners just leave perfect alone?”

Upon my earlier remark that I was deciding whether to give Jeremy and Lydia their quilt or to save it for next year’s AQS show, she wrote this:

Well, I have an opinion on this, too.  Of course.   

I would give it to Jeremy and Lydia.  

1)    I think family comes first.

2)    I feel my children are more important than a contest.  (No offense meant.)

3)    I just couldn’t trust the quilt going all around the country again, and maybe getting lost or stolen; because, if that happened, Jeremy and Lydia wouldn’t get to enjoy it at all.

I didn’t answer her, because the only thing I could think of saying was, “No, I’m saving the quilt, because

1)    I think quilts come before families,

2)    Contests are much more important than my children (no offense meant), and

3)    I couldn’t care less if the stupid quilt gets lost or stolen.

Funny how online folk one has never even met can be uppers – or downers. 

I don’t have to have everyone fall all over me all the time.  But, wow, do they have to be nasty-rude?!

That woman is the same one who took issue with me saying Jeremy’s name first, instead of Lydia’s. 

“Lydia is your daughter!” she reprimanded me, “Jeremy is only your son-in-law.  Did you do that because in your religion the man is more important than the woman?”

I responded, “No; I did that because that’s how they’re listed in the phone book.”  🙄

The old-fashioned roses are still blooming.  When I posted this picture, someone asked, “Do your roses have a sent [sic] if so can you describe it”

So I, probably feeling a little more cantankerous than usual, set out to describe a ‘sent’:

“Yes, they have a delightful scent, with more of an aroma than the hybrid type.  I would say they smell like... um... hmmm... I know, I know! They smell like roses!!! 🤣”

I was inordinately proud of myself for that description.

You know, I see quilts I love... quilts I like... and even quilts I don’t care for quite as much, now and then.  But my Mama taught me to always look for something nice to say.

Plus, I keep this thought firmly in my small brain:  I need not be egotistical about anything, for... there are a whole lot of things I cannot do well at all.  I can’t paint worth a hoot.  I’m a dismal failure at pottery and woodworking.  The list goes on.

I once upon a time decided to make sachets for my little friends; I was about 10 or 11, I suppose.  And decidedly inartistic.

I got little powder puff/sponge thingies from the dime store, tried to stuff them with good smelling something-or-other, and then, for the crowning touch, I scribbled on them with markers, attempting to draw cute faces like the ones shown in a magazine I had.

They were not, uh, good.  Good grief, they looked more like ghouls than cute little girl faces.  And I’d tried so hard.

And then I actually gave them away!!! 

I should never, ever give anyone another sachet in my life, so as not to remind them of those hideous little eyesores.  Or maybe I should give them a new and better one each year, in order to erase the first catastrophe from their memories.

So... keeping just such things as this in mind, one of the many things I see when I look at other people’s work, be it quilting, embroidering, crocheting, woodworking, or whatever, is effort.  A whole lot of time and endeavor goes into such creations, and that means something. 

Therefore, I shall keep my mother’s teaching in mind always:  Look for the kind thing to say – and mean it when you say it. 

Once upon a time my father, upon being asked what to say when one is proudly shown an ugly baby, replied, “Why, you exclaim, ‘Just imagine the potential in this little bundle!’”  😆

Before I draw this communiqué to a close, I shall reveal a fact:  the woman with all the criticisms and disparagements --------- has made... ((drum roll)) one quilt.  One.  And that one quilt was constructed in approximately 1975.

Sunday, the dust cloud from the Sahara made our skies look hazy.  The sunset was strange and dirty-looking.  News agencies were wailing and gnashing their teeth, saying it was going to make COVID-19 worse, or at least make it easier to catch – especially for those with asthma.

“How is that going to happen? 🤔” asked Hannah.

“Well, how should I know?” I retorted.  “I’m no Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosist!”  (I’m pretty sure that’s the right word.)  (Who’s gonna know if it isn’t?)

I was calmly sitting in my recliner reading news and email last night, when something smacked into the closed stairs door, and then commenced to scrabbling on the steps. 

I didn’t have to look to know what that was.

I did what I do best:  I dashed into the bedroom and woke up Larry.  “Come and help me get a bat that’s on the stairs!”

He groggily clambered out of bed, grumbling all the way, and collected a broom, a flashlight, and the tennis racket.  I held the flashlight, and Larry cautiously opened the stairs door.

There was the bat, sprawled on the third step.

Larry swept it onto the racket, held it with the broom, and I opened the front door so he could take it out.  He dumped it unceremoniously onto the porch and then dispatched it with the racket.

And no bleeding hearts are going to make me feel guilty about that.

We have done quite enough catch and release; we’re done now.  If a bat wants to survive, he had jolly well better stay out of my house.

I went to bed happy the studio bat was no more.

Unless there were two of them up there. 

But we won’t think about that now.

The last few days, nearly every time I sit down to play the piano, a brilliant male Northern cardinal lands in the lilac bush just outside the music room window and commences to accompanying me with loud, cheery whistles and warbles.  Now and then a house wren spells him, and it is indeed a toss-up which bird is louder and more melodious.  Truly amazing, what melody can issue forth from the drab but oh-so-lively little wren.

Did you know that the house wren is the most widely distributed bird in the Americas?  It occurs from Canada to southernmost South America.

After searching through photo albums for hours and hours a couple of weeks ago looking for photos to display at my mother-in-law Norma’s funeral, I have renewed my resolve to get my photos scanned.  What an easier time of it we would have had, if I could’ve just plugged her name into a search, copied all found photos into a folder, and then uploaded them to a photography site to be printed.  And now I must return all those pulled photos to their albums.  (Yes, I labeled them with album volume number.)

So... as soon as this sewing machine quilt is done, I plan to spend three or four days each week scanning, scanning, scanning.  I have over 350 large albums to scan.  Siggghhhh...  My family ain’t just a-spoofin’ when they call me ‘snaphappy’. 

That’ll leave me two or three days a week to do such things as ... hmmm... I know, I know:  Quilt!  I’ll try to keep my projects smaller and faster during this time, and save the next Big Quilts for when the scanning is done.  I still need to make a couple of Big, Fancy-Schmancy Quilts.  But I’ll make some simpler ones in the meantime.  I have several drawn up in EQ8... I’ve picked some out of my quilting books... and I can make use of the fabric I have on hand for most of these.

Those are my tentative plans for the next couple of years.  Or decades.

Today I took Loren some pulled pork, 12-grain bread to go with it, corn, applesauce, and a cranberry-orange muffin fresh out of the oven.

On my way back home, I dropped off some things at the Goodwill.  I’m getting a sizeable collection of receipts; that’ll help when it comes time for next year’s tax return.

I stopped at the mailbox – and found a couple of packages, each containing a big, soft Buttercream Frosted Lemon Burst Cookie, each in its own cute little box.  Mmmm, yummy. 

They were from my cousin Ann, who lives in Illinois, where my parents’ families came from.  The cookies are... ahem, were from Cheryl’s Cookies, a company in Westerville, Ohio.

Have you ever noticed how lovely little things like cookies-in-the-mail seem to happen immediately after dumb little things like ‘your-borders-are-ugly-and-you’re-just-showing-off-with-that-quilting’ people pouncing on you?  (I’m pretty sure that sense made sentence.)  Maybe it’s how God ensures we will be properly thankful for the send-sympathy-and-cookies people, and put the quilt-pounce people back into their insignificant corner where they belong.

And with that, off I go to the quilting studio.  Don’t anyone bother me, now.

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