Handwork has always been a calming influence in my life. The adults around me had a pact to be encouraging, even when what I was creating was awful. So I continued past should-not-be-worn-in-public to quilts that I dare charge real money for. 

One of the early projects was fake fur vests for my sister and her fiance. I had extra fabric and used it for wallets, glasses cases and a purse. I would not have turned down an Emmy for my efforts, and can still remember the graciousness with which they received them. 

That same summer our family was the lucky recipient of a bolt of bright orange parachute fabric. We made curtains and pillows to brighten up the basement. But there was plenty so I used six yards for billowing pants, to wear when just the right occasion should present itself. Perhaps I might have landed softly myself had I had the notion to leap from a tall building. Instead I wore them to the wedding rehearsal dinner. My mother held her tongue, and my thirteen year old self esteem sailed through the evening unscathed. Only in retrospect do I blush. 

The vests and pants are long gone, as well they should be. But what has endured forty years is the memory. While I might wish that the trajectory from beginner to skilled seamstress goes up as dramatically as the Cliffs of Dover, the reality is that blunders precede beauty and only gradually recede into the background.

Marriage is an arena for its own share of less than well fitting interchanges. But the possibilities for loveliness after forty years make me want to keep trying.