A different love story or how I started quilting Part One

It all started with a trip to Joann Fabrics.

It was only about getting out of the house with my eldest while our guys installed a new kitchen faucet.

It was a Christmas gift to said offspring, who received a sewing machine from her spouse and a trip from Mum and Dad to Joann for assorted sewing hoo haa. I knew so little about fabrics, other than Boy lots of them were pretty. All my previous visits to Joann were for, um, bra extenders.

Recent rains hampered my attempts at an outside photo shoot.

But on that February day, 2014, something altered. Perhaps it was my smart-phone savvy daughter, finding all kinds of hand-stitched quilt ideas. None of them were related to English paper piecing, merely that not every quilt was made using a machine. As I collected bright fat quarters, she kept scrolling, and we left the store with a heap of supplies for me, not quite as many for her. 

Uncomplicated prints make for a vibrant throw!

Thus began my foray into quilt-making. So unplanned, so unprepared; I didn't have an iron or board, no cutting mat or rotary cutter, few pins. I used the small cardboard inserts within the fat quarters as my cutting guides, not fashioning squares but rectangles, then literally stitching them together with needle and thread. Nights passed and instead of writing, I stitched, finding another pleasure building within my veins, in my heart, into my soul. My heart and soul were in slightly dire straits as my father was beginning chemotherapy for prostate cancer.

This square lost its tie, so I improvised with three small stitches.

Dad was chilled from his initial treatments, a man always living in the hot Sacramento Valley. Dad wasn't a quilt kinda guy, but who is to say what makes a person desire cozy comfort? As I sewed those semi-squares, I kept track of Dad's reaction to chemo, then knew for whom my first quilt would go. It would be for my father, who needed it and wouldn't care if the blocks weren't actual squares or if it wasn't machine quilted but tied to keep it in one piece. It would be a surprise, I decided, ready for his next round of treatment, if I could finish it on time.

I had no idea in the spring of 2014 a year later Dad would be gone. That I'd be a grandmother. No idea I'd still be writing The Hawk; I only knew fiction was taking a sudden backseat to this amazingly satisfying and wholly valuable creative effort that would truly pay off if I could get this first endeavor completed before leaving to spend time with my parents. Thankfully my daughter's modern machine made the difference. I used her Christmas gift to tack an old but well-loved nubby throw blanket to my first quilt top, and voila, a soft cozy was DONE!

This sounds so simple, straightforward, but I recall how difficult it was using that machine. My previous experience with such an item was over thirty years in the past during Home Ec when I was a sophomore in high school. I was driving north the next day, I had to finish this element THAT DAY. And then still wash the blanket that evening. I had already tied it together, spread out over our kitchen table. Now that I think about it, without an iron, how did I make the top smooth? How did I correctly cut straight lines for the sashes? How did I not throw in the proverbial towel, then run right back to my computer, burying myself in prose....

Bright yellow side sash (and some really wonky machine stitching, lol).

How did my first novel get accepted by a publisher? How did I manage to spin multiple yarns? How, why, well.... Why's as deep a subject as well, Dana tells Tia in A Love Story. I coined that twist on an old saying my father often relayed to me. But well is only as deep as one's heart is wide, and the love I held for my dad was expressed in a little blanket he used until summer's heat reached his chilled bones. He opted out of his last chemo session, unable to withstand that potent treatment. By then the news of an impending great-grandchild warmed his aching frame, and a couple of months later that news was doubled when my other daughter announced she too was expecting.

By autumn of 2014, I was up to my armpits in sewing paraphernalia. I had all the tools, plenty of fabric, loads of ideas for baby blankets and burp cloths. I'd made curtains, baby wipes, baby bibs; I was still a noob, but had no fear, loving this new craft with a part of my heart writing couldn't satisfy; tangible, visible output. Nothing is silent about sewing, nothing hidden. My previously tidy office turned into a haven for messy makes, but how good it felt to spread the love with blankets and bits, wondering how this new hobby would mesh with noveling.

From 2014-2018, I wrote one very long book and made a truckload of quilts. I became a grandmother, lost my dad, then my mom, completing The Hawk just weeks before Mum died. Hand-sewing was expressed in bindings and hand-quilting, enough to keep me occupied in the evenings as I altered my work habits; no longer did fiction fill all my spare time. Yet my heart always came back to that first quilt; when Dad died, Mom asked if I wanted it back. I said certainly not, it belonged with her. When she passed, I couldn't take it, giving it to my youngest, who always loved the nubby blanket acting as the back. A couple of months ago, I requested it from her, wishing to inspect it for repairs, wanting to admire it, desiring a small moment to go back in time.

February 2014; the quilty beginning....

Sometimes a trip down memory lane is necessary, especially with bright colours to light the way.