So about the sewing....

Nine patch blocks pre-slicing, those missing squares, and bonus rectangles!

As I walked through the office/sewing room last night on my way to bed, I grinned at the spoils of yesterday's fabric play scattered on my work table. I found lost eight and a half inch squares (YAY!), indulged in slicing, then machine stitching, nine patch squares (coolio), then gathered a bunch of four and a half inch squares to make more nine patch blocks. Then I ironed fabric to add to that array of squares, wanting to make more disappearing nine patch excitement, but I won't cut these on the diagonal, going the traditional route instead.

I also made six placemat tops from the diagonally cut nine patch blocks, put those big squares with the rest, as I knew I had more 8.5" squares but COULD NOT FIND THEM, ahem. I gave thanks for Past Me's hard work to sew together those leftover small squares, and for Future Me's patience in when I might get around to them. And I was immediately grateful for such a pastime that has been keeping me very happy for the last ten years. A decade I have been sewing, and here's a long post about why.

Unlike the writing, I never dreamed about making quilts. Don't ask me to choose between them, because fabric would lose, but only by the slimmest margin, which might make the writing cross, but it is what it is. Sewing is a pleasure that isn't silent, isn't isolated, isn't as cerebral as noveling, lol. Yeah there's quilt math and futzy patterns, but the sewing I enjoy is mostly easy, very colorful, occasionally big, often small, at times seated in front of my machine, more likely sitting on the sofa doing it by hand, and more than I ever considered standing at the ironing board, removing wrinkles or pressing seams.

Sewing is far more about ironing than I ever could have imagined.

Sewing is...something that sneaked up on my before the grandkids were even in utero, but the timing worked out well as I fashioned heaps of baby blankets, decorated burp cloths, even flannel wipes for my youngest who went into cloth diapering with such gusto that for a while she eschewed disposable wipes. I've made pot holders, a twin duvet cover, cloth napkins, placemats and coasters GALORE, and quilts. Lots of quilts. Small, medium, and even a few whoppers. I don't sew clothes, but I repair blown-out knees and uncomplicated rips, often with EPP. I transferred my fondness for cross stitching to English paper piecing four years into my stitching journey, and since 2018 have grown to love that manner of crafting, my hands not too balky, although my right shoulder gives me trouble on occasion.

Sewing took over in February of 2014 as my father started chemotherapy. My time to work on The Hawk declined while I made Dad's health my priority. That coincided with both of my daughters becoming pregnant, pushing the writing further into the background. (Not that The Hawk disappeared, mind you, it just wound its way into me differently, stretching its tenure a few years down the line....) Sewing was easy to pick up, then put down, and that was well before I knew about EPP. Fabrics didn't shout when I stepped away from home, patiently waiting in stacks and on the design wall until I returned from my role as a daughter, as a mum. Fabrics and simple patchwork quilts provided solace as Dad's health didn't improve as we'd hoped, fabrics acted as translators for the joy impending grandbabies stirred. Fabrics were new to me, proffering a previously unconsidered but necessary outlet as I unwittingly altered from a woman in her late forties with both parents still living to a grandmother in her early to mid-fifties with both parents dead but four grandkids taking center stage. In short, sewing became the bridge from my younger years to where I am right now, weeks from turning fifty-eight, which is two years from sixty.

Dude, that's quite a journey!

Sewing balances the writing by allowing me to showcase a talent that is wholly tangible. From ironing said fabrics to running them under a presser foot or wrapping them around paper shapes, touch is essential, whereas in writing, so much of the story(ies) dwell in my head and heart, my hands only employed on plastic keys or gripping a pen to paper. Everything about sewing is tactile, big or small projects. Okay, I do think about it, more than I want sometimes, like last night as I settled into bed, pondering what could be made from a disappearing nine patch pattern. More placemats, an entire quilt maybe.... I have no idea and won't for a good many days, weeks, months.... However long I faff about with this new shiny, while a quilt for my husband waits on the design wall to be basted, but I need the safety pins holding together the Cornflower quilt before I can make another quilt sandwich.... QUILT QUILT QUILT; I truly never ached to sew, not like I itched to write. Sewing sort of fell from heaven with a soft, pleasant PLOP onto my life exactly when I needed gentleness, compassion, joy. It was a sledgehammer that never hurt, only healed.

It's still that way, despite my achy right shoulder. Sewing slots into my life whether I'm home or away, small plastic containers or totes going with me anywhere I travel, thanks to EPP. My first quilt was gifted to Dad, who during chemo needed something to ward off the chills. English paper piecing took hold as Mom was dying; I used some of her thread to baste early hexagons, then inherited her stash, which I still use today to thread-baste all those shapes. Mom wasn't a quilter, she made garments. I can't fathom that intricate manner of construction, better for me to focus on simple projects, or hand-stitching the more elaborate designs.

Wow, this is quite the post! But sewing demanded an homage written, and since I'm not writing anything else right now, lol.... Over the next eleven months I'll slip in a few (or many) of my fave quilts and their histories, in part to enjoy those creations as well as remind myself how precious they were, and still are. Kind of like revising a novel, reveling in the thrill, and the occasional ache stirred by typos and niggly prose. But quilts don't care about missing punctuation or poorly phrased sentences. As long as the stitches hold, all is warm, cozy, and comfortable. And when the stitches lose their strength, a patch can be applied, or a reason to make another quilt. I have sufficient fabric alongside novel plots. Both will keep me busy for a good, long time.