I love to make quilts. But the one under my needle now is not pretty. I took the job without actually seeing the fabrics this woman has been collecting for nineteen years. She brought over two bins packed with baby blankets, maternity dresses, pink tutus, camp t shirts and jeans. The agreement is that I will chop up the contents and turn it into a beautiful memory quilt for her daughter, who is graduating from high school. 

 

But the reality of piecing together orange terry cloth, tie dyed knits, faded denim, thick fleece, a leopard print and sparkly purple nylon is a struggle. My Bernina refused, and came to a screeching halt so I have recruited my Singer Featherweight. She has seen worse. 

 

In the fifties, when Singer cranked out these beauties, many women were buying polyester bends, which were all the rage. But it is 2013 and I love cottons. There is only one pale floral crib sheet in the entire lot of fabric that I like. The Hoffmans and batiks that surround me on the shelves while I sew are indignant. They whisper when I leave the room about what has happened to the neighborhood. 

 

But the memories woven into the team jerseys and Christmas dresses outweigh the visual impact to an outsider like me. The half a grand price tag does sweeten the task. She wants it, so I snip and sew. It is after all not really about me. 

 

I remember the beautiful fabrics a woman in California chose, when she hired me to make her a queen sized quilt. She has a wonderful sense of color, and I still smile at the burgundy and forest green with ivory accents. That one had over a thousand pieces, but sewing it was fun. This quilt, not so much. 

 

Marriage includes tasks that are joyful. Others are just something I slog through. But if the wheat free gluten free dairy free sugar free dessert I bake for John is what he tastes as delicious, even though I think it is cardboard, so be it. 

 

Photo by Joy Feerrar

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