A fellow artisan came up with an idea for those of us who have been plowing full speed ahead on our hobbies during the pandemic. I cannot always explain why I pull out the fabric on a sweltering August afternoon and begin cutting. But I am letting go of the need to justify it. I concur that my children are not currently cold but hey, I need to make a pineapple.
She called it a craft crawl, to describe the format. Vendors around our small town set up their wares on their porches, and masked visitors arrived in cars and on bikes with an awareness of social distancing. It was the friendliest day I have had in five months. I had my hand sewing in my lap for the slow spots, but it turns out there weren't any. Instead I enjoyed chatting with the fifty lovely souls who came out on a Saturday to explore the fruits of eighteen painters,
potters, photographers, sewers, jewelers, and bakers.
I have noticed before that people who thrive on creative juices are not usually also entrepreneurs. John and I have agreed that if we die and our job is composing songs we will be in heaven. If our task is marketing them we are in hell.
Having my expectations be to enjoy the company of a few friends, and invite them to peruse a display of color and texture, the chances for disappointment were low. As it happened, seventeen of the quilts went home with women who loved them. I can think of nothing sweeter.
As chance would have it I got a phone call during the sale from the Bernina store where my darling machine has been for a four weeks. It was time for Bernie's tune up, or rather it was six months and twenty quilts ago. Bernie was ready to be picked up. I have of course missed her, and her capacity to quilt, though my ninety year old Featherweight worked hard in her absence.
First thing on Monday I headed out to the sewing machine store to fetch Bernie, and since it was my birthday I allowed myself the luxury of six gorgeous pieces of batik.
It turns out there is more beauty to be found. Plus there is talk of another crawl in September.
