I do not for the most part name my quilts. There is a snails's trail made with browns, that I call Chocolate. And the one with foundation pieced characters from Peanuts is called The Charlie Brown Christmas. But largely they go by their pattern names, like Dresden Plate and Pineapple.
Except for the one I made last night. I had ordered templates for the Storm at Sea pattern, that I figured would make that process simpler, and even more accurate. But I did not look closely enough at the size and it turns out that the 12" section I expected to be the main block is the measurement for a set of nine blocks. This means that each piece is considerably smaller, such that there are 345 pieces in a top that is only 31 inches square. That is a lot of cutting.
I started off energetically enough, using bits of batik in a range of soft colors. The girls were headed out to see a show an hour away, and I waved through the window as they left the driveway. I am always a tad nervous when they venture that far, and I said a little prayer for the travelers who carry my heart with them.
Some of the swaths of fabric were plentiful, and would allow me to cut more later if I chose to. But a few just barely had enough for my needs. That was not a problem. I would keep track of them.
I waited for the text that said the girls had arrived safely. Instead there was a phone call. To John.
"We are fine." John nodded to me. Exhale. But the conversation didn't end there. I held my breath. They had locked the keys in the car and wondered what to do.
John is often the hero, and has on many occasions jumped to rescue his children in calamities. But perhaps there was another way. Thus began the process of google searches, phone calls, texts, more calls, more searches, waiting, more texts, more waiting.
To distract myself I kept working on the quilt. The pieces were little and sometimes fell off my cutting surface. I kept checking in with John.
"The lock smith down the street can't come. There is another who is thirty minutes away who said he would."
Sigh.
My daughter was missing chunks of the show as she waited for calls, and stood by the car. I resisted the urge to text things I was thinking.
"Are you kidnapped?"
I resorted to red hearts. When she sent one back I knew she was alive.
I was working on the last of seven rows when I realized that one block was missing. I pawed around in the piles on the table, and the floor. I pulled out the table in case it had fallen near the window. But it didn't show up. I laid the rest of the top in front of me and wondered what to do. Keep looking? Wait until morning? Cut more?
As chance would have it the center square was one of those barely enough fabrics and I had to find a substitute. I have a generous stash of cloth, but nothing was exactly perfect. I was not in the mood for perfect, so I pieced three strips of a similar blue and plunked it in. The casual observer would never know.
The girls texted that it was intermission and the guy said he was almost there. I prayed again. Then as I finished up that last row the words came flying through the air to my waiting phone.
"He got it!"
I started to cry.
Ben is always concerned when anyone cries, and John promised him that they were tears of joy. He went back to his own puzzle.
I decided on a name for the small quilt that was created that night.
Lost and Found.
If it happens that the missing piece shows up, I will sew it to the back as a label. So I won't forget. By the way, this one is for sale. For the price of a lock smith.
