When I was ten-years-old, my brother Neil left home for prep school. He was entering his first year at Phillip's Academy, Andover, Massachusetts, before student flights would make the trip eastward convenient. We watched him board a silver zephyr at the depot in downtown Ottumwa, all of about five feet tall and ninety-five pounds. His suitcases contained an odd assortment of school wear. At Phillips, he had to wear a sport coat and tie to class every day, and trousers called “Ivy Leagues”. Our mother, the antithesis of flighty, was fretful that she had allowed herself to be persuaded he go. I heard her talking on the phone to Pauline about that. "He is so small and young." We waited two days for word that he had safely disembarked in Boston.
The situation arose because Neil was really bright. I dutifully stifled my pride when Mr. Snell, Neil's former sixth grade teacher, remarked to our class how smart my brother was. By then, Neil had already been at Phillips for a year. Mr. Snell would recount how my brother was the only student he knew who could sit in math class doing his science homework, lifting his desk top to read from his social studies text, and still be able to answer the math question correctly. People from Ottumwa are prone to telling whoppers, but Mr. Snell gave the story a ring of truth. After all, Neil had won the Phillip's scholarship over hundreds of other applicants, and a New England prep school would certainly be better for him than a public school in Iowa.
The summer before he left, we were running a race in the street in front of our house. Our parents had taken our oldest brother Paul to visit a prospective college campus, and Neil, next in the birth order, had been left in charge. Neil, the fastest runner on Quincy Avenue, gave everyone a generous head start. There were perhaps eight of us in the race altogether. As Neil gained on me, he was crowded by one of the other racers, and he saw that he was about to step on my heel. He told me later he could see what was coming, and he reactively closed his eyes.
I fell, and had quite a nice scrape on my knee, on one elbow, and under my chin. Being ten-years-old, I shrieked in pain and fear, and began to run towards home. Mrs. Tierney, the neighborhood nurse, was briefly involved, but it was Neil who guided me into the house, into the bathroom, and cried openly as he bandaged my wounds. I was distressed, to be sure, but I felt badly for my brother, who didn't mean to hurt me and was taking it so hard. I didn't know what to say to him.
It was worse than just a few scrapes. When my chin hit the pavement, my lower and upper jaws met just right, damaging twelve teeth. The front two took the hardest hit, which was unavoidable because they were chipmunk teeth, and hung about a half inch longer than their gum-mates. In subsequent years I mentally thanked Neil for accomplishing that day what I would have had to wait for years to do at the dentist! Think of the childhood cruelties he spared me – not being called names, like Bucky Beaver or Fang. Neil was simpatico; he had a chipped front tooth, too, courtesy of Little League baseball.
Neil did another memorable thing that summer, when he was present in our daily lives. He planted flowers. Our mom admitted to a purple thumb, and didn't even try. She said our soil was too sandy, and the yard was too small and shady for both kids and flowers. Neil found a sunny spot behind the garage, along the gravel alleyway, away from the kids and the yard. He planted marigolds. I still see them. We had marigolds on the alley side of our garage! It was so remarkable! The accomplishment spoke for itself – we needn't say thing. It was obvious how delightful those little blooms were.
After that last summer, Neil was an important ghost in our home for nine months a year (except at Christmas!). A day seldom passed that someone didn't say something about him. We couldn't afford to call him very often, so that wasn't an option for maintaining contact. I suppose talking about him was our way of keeping him close. Our mother spoke of him most often. She taught home economics at the junior high four blocks from our house, and she had the three of us girls still at home. Still, she set aside time to write him on Sunday, her precious Neil so far away. It was hard for her to let him leave the nest at only fourteen years of age.
I don't remember for sure if Neil planted flowers behind the garage when he was home from Andover for the summers, but the seeds of a gardener were planted in him. He grew bigger and more worldly, yet when it came time to go to college, he chose Grinnell College, back home in Iowa. He went to Iowa Law School, but as fact is stranger than fiction, he now lives in Andover, Massachusetts, with Judith. Hubba and I took our kids there to visit them, about the time our son was the age Neil was when he was drawn to Andover. I understood then how difficult that decision was for our mom.
For years we have gotten updates on Neil's garden in Andover. He takes a week off each spring to get things in order. He is adept and artful, and the whole neighborhood appreciates his skilled expertise. He and Judith have little low chairs they sit in to get “a garden's eye view”, as he puts it. The summer we were there, he had a bed of the most vivid-colored zinnias. I had always thought zinnias were faded rust and gold, like the ones we plant for fall color in Iowa. These were bright pink and red and yellow and orange. Inside, Judith had a variety of curious little vases for single blooms, and a low dish with a tiny frog holding another single stem or two.
It all came rushing back to me. The marigolds. I never thought I had to say anything, that he knew that I knew his flowers were special. I said nothing.
I made a quilt instead. I used all solids: green to represent the plants and brown for the earth, a basic shoo-fly pattern with sashing and cornerstones. However, at random places scattered throughout the quilt are the “zinnias”, bright spots of color that Neil cultivated. The eleven-inch border is densely quilted with round flower petals, so much so that the quilt took an honorable mention at a guild show, due only to the thousands of little stitches that wrapped Neil's garden. I call the quilt “Neil's Garden, Zinnias for Judith”.
As I write about his quilt and what inspired it, I realize I never told Neil how much his boyhood gardening fascinated me. I always thought he knew, like I thought he knew how much we missed him at 415 Quincy Avenue. But how could he? We didn't say anything. So, I'm telling him now.
Copyright © 3/30/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
The Art and Sport of Quilting
Hubba is such a good sport. I remember when our associate pastor remarked on this trait during a hayride with the junior Luther league. Up until then I had taken his good-naturedness for granted, and hadn't really noticed how many times he jumped right into life with both feet, his hair on fire. On the hayride occasion, one of the farmers in our congregation dutifully showed up at the church, as he did on the first Sunday afternoon of every October, with two wire-sided hay wagons hitched to his tractor. I don't remember right now how many adults were chaperoning, but I do remember that I was in hay wagon #1 with the pastor, and Hubba was in hay wagon #2 with his bunch of middle schoolers. There was a vague notion among the occupants of #1 that it was cooler to be in #2. It may have had to do with the fact that the pastor was in #1, but that would employ logic – something not yet developed in the middle school psyche. Had we actually addressed the issue and asked the #1ers why, they would have likely offered their best assessment of the situation. “Just 'cause it's cooler. I don't know why.”
It is likely that it was nerds vs. cools. Though there is an undetectable difference to adults between the two factions at this age, the nuances are blatant among peers. I must have been attracted to the daring and boisterous crowd, even among 12- and 13-year-olds. I certainly and unconsciously picked my poison when I hopped into #1, and most likely Hubba would have not noticed, instead evening out the chaperon count by boarding #2.
We rode along for several miles, and once we were well outside of town traveling down a county road, the #1s began to get restless at the snail's pace of this particular event. No problem with the #2s. Striking poses for one another was as good on a hay wagon (which their parents forced them to do) as it was in the park or at The Whippy Dip. The pastor and I were unable to carry on a conversation due to all the commotion at our post, and Hubba was looking increasingly bored at his, as he tried to initiate conversation with youngsters who didn't think talking to an adult was cool.
That's when the hay fight stared. Some kid in #1 threw a handful at another kid in #1. Laughter, “Hey! Cut it out!”, diving for more hay, and they were on their way. The scene in #2 was pretty much unchanged. I thought I saw a couple of eyes roll heavenward at the banality in #1, but maybe I was making an assumption. As the hay fight escalated in #1, the natural consequence were the unwitting victims in #2. If the hay was thrown high enough into the air, it didn't come down in #1. #1 had advanced forward, and #2 received the benefit. Since stoic good looks only take a person so far in life, the retaliation attempts proceeded. The upshot was that if the #2ers tried to throw hay at the #1ers, they took that hit, too. Double whammies, and the scene became too comical to hold back the laughter. But Hubba, having settled on the if-you-can't-lick'-em-join-'em approach, decided he wasn't going to abandon his suave for a bunch of nerds throwing hay at his homies. He alone stood defiantly and way-cooly, taking hay in the face. He was trying not to smile, and his persistence was most likely aided by the reality that if he did, he'd be picking debris from his teeth for days.
Up in #1, we could smile and laugh. “Jim sure is a good sport,” said Pastor Paul. I have since reflected on his innocent comment, and vowed to myself I'd never take that attribute for granted again.
I make graduation nine-patch quilts for the nieces, nephews, and godchildren. I chose nine-patches because there are limitless design possibilities, and if one recipient tries to compare his/hers to another's, I can say, “Yours is a nine-patch, too.” Of course, not a single one of them has ever commented – other than to report pleasure with their own.
Niece Leslie is the same age as our son Tad and our godson Brandon. I made Brandon's quilt first, and planned Leslie's out as I was stitching his. Brandon's was easy – a manly mix of homespuns in a variation of the road-to-someplace patterns. You've seen them; Road to Oklahoma, Road to California, and so on. Brandon's road was taking him to Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota, and being good Norwegian Lutherans, we were pleased. Miss Leslie, however, was deviating from the ancestral cow path, and going for a bachelor's degree at an art college. Mercy me. If I had only been so bold!
I didn't want to be out-arted by someone from the Class of 2002, so the pressure was on for this particular quilt. It's best for me to stick with solids, and I decided on brights – hot pink, poison green, bold yellow, fuchsia, electric blue, and so forth. Mixed among them were their subdued counterparts – baby pink, mint, butter, lavender, powder blue, and so forth. Each block was a center square, framed by patches in another single solid color. The effect when all squares were joined together was optical. The finished blocks were 6 inches, so it took a few to get to my favorite size of quilt, which we have dubbed “the personal use quilt” or “the nap quilt”. In one offset block, requiring some detective work to locate, I embroidered the outline of a star in gold lame thread. Leslie and I can argue over which one of us the star represents.
It was Good Friday. Hubba agreed to take the day off work and go with me to pick up his sister from Opportunity Village, two hours away. We get Becky for Easter every year, and I've always retrieved her myself, accompanied through the years by our babies, who became toddlers, then children, then pre-teens, then it was just me. For several years I made the trip alone. Hubba and I love road trips, so this year we agreed we'd make it a leisurely morning, stopping for lunch somewhere along the way. I knew of a quilt shop between here and there, and planned in my own mind that we could stop there to get the fabric for Leslie's quilt. Since it was to be artsy, I wanted Hubba's input. I respect his eye, and he's straightforward without being blunt and agreeable without being mealy-mouthed.
Next to the quilt shop is a great tea house. What makes it great is the Italian Cream Cake. Other than that, it's like all the other tea houses – too many spoons close by with which to gag oneself. There are some “gift shops”, as they are called, along this same stretch. (Don't get me any gifts at a “gift shop”, please -- I don't want to have to hunt for the spoon with which to gag myself.) This little town, just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Interstate, discovered they can reel 'em in if they have a tea house, a couple of B & B's, a quilt shop, and “gift shops”. I came to town for the selection of solids and the Italian Cream Cake.
It took over an hour at the quilt shop. We were all over kingdom come in there, upstairs, downstairs, in the 50% off section, and among the current collection, looking for solids. I took the opportunity to introduce Hubba to a few insights into the quilting world. I was hoping to instill in him my own biases about interesting fabrics and patterns, putting him in my choir loft prior to the sermon. He didn't skip a beat, and he seemed interested enough to me. Why wouldn't he be – we were talking quilting, for crying out loud.
When we were done, I told him I'd called ahead that morning, and we luckily got a spot for lunch at about 1:00 at the tea house. We spent the intervening time browsing the “gift shops”, which were a new concept to Hubba. I'm glad to say he had the same reaction as I. Their redemption is that they are in renovated turn-of-the-century houses, so at least we could enjoy architectural detailing while we waited for the appointed hour. We had a nice lunch, sharing a piece of heaven for dessert. Afterwards, we hopped in the car and held hands as we chatted, all the way to get Becky and all the way home again.
Easter weekend was abuzz with the traditions we've created around our time with Becky. Pizza the first night, lunch and shopping for spring clothes at Margaret's on Saturday. (Mugs Walter runs a hip and happening dress shop in Decorah, and we are touched that they have come to look forward to Becky's annual visit. They cater to her every whim.) A home-cooked supper and a movie are on for Saturday night, and an Easter parade of fashion and make-up for Becky take us to church in the morning. We proclaim spring this way every year.
A few days after Easter weekend 2002, we were out and ran into some friends. I was relating to the quilty wife my excitement about Leslie's quilt, already underway, when I heard Hubba take the husband aside and say, “You can't believe how Kari had me spend Good Friday! She dragged me to a quilt shop, a tea house, and worse yet, to some gift houses!”
You know, he was smiling that whole day, and I didn't even notice the lint in his teeth. He's such a good sport.
Copyright © 3/28/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
It is likely that it was nerds vs. cools. Though there is an undetectable difference to adults between the two factions at this age, the nuances are blatant among peers. I must have been attracted to the daring and boisterous crowd, even among 12- and 13-year-olds. I certainly and unconsciously picked my poison when I hopped into #1, and most likely Hubba would have not noticed, instead evening out the chaperon count by boarding #2.
We rode along for several miles, and once we were well outside of town traveling down a county road, the #1s began to get restless at the snail's pace of this particular event. No problem with the #2s. Striking poses for one another was as good on a hay wagon (which their parents forced them to do) as it was in the park or at The Whippy Dip. The pastor and I were unable to carry on a conversation due to all the commotion at our post, and Hubba was looking increasingly bored at his, as he tried to initiate conversation with youngsters who didn't think talking to an adult was cool.
That's when the hay fight stared. Some kid in #1 threw a handful at another kid in #1. Laughter, “Hey! Cut it out!”, diving for more hay, and they were on their way. The scene in #2 was pretty much unchanged. I thought I saw a couple of eyes roll heavenward at the banality in #1, but maybe I was making an assumption. As the hay fight escalated in #1, the natural consequence were the unwitting victims in #2. If the hay was thrown high enough into the air, it didn't come down in #1. #1 had advanced forward, and #2 received the benefit. Since stoic good looks only take a person so far in life, the retaliation attempts proceeded. The upshot was that if the #2ers tried to throw hay at the #1ers, they took that hit, too. Double whammies, and the scene became too comical to hold back the laughter. But Hubba, having settled on the if-you-can't-lick'-em-join-'em approach, decided he wasn't going to abandon his suave for a bunch of nerds throwing hay at his homies. He alone stood defiantly and way-cooly, taking hay in the face. He was trying not to smile, and his persistence was most likely aided by the reality that if he did, he'd be picking debris from his teeth for days.
Up in #1, we could smile and laugh. “Jim sure is a good sport,” said Pastor Paul. I have since reflected on his innocent comment, and vowed to myself I'd never take that attribute for granted again.
I make graduation nine-patch quilts for the nieces, nephews, and godchildren. I chose nine-patches because there are limitless design possibilities, and if one recipient tries to compare his/hers to another's, I can say, “Yours is a nine-patch, too.” Of course, not a single one of them has ever commented – other than to report pleasure with their own.
Niece Leslie is the same age as our son Tad and our godson Brandon. I made Brandon's quilt first, and planned Leslie's out as I was stitching his. Brandon's was easy – a manly mix of homespuns in a variation of the road-to-someplace patterns. You've seen them; Road to Oklahoma, Road to California, and so on. Brandon's road was taking him to Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota, and being good Norwegian Lutherans, we were pleased. Miss Leslie, however, was deviating from the ancestral cow path, and going for a bachelor's degree at an art college. Mercy me. If I had only been so bold!
I didn't want to be out-arted by someone from the Class of 2002, so the pressure was on for this particular quilt. It's best for me to stick with solids, and I decided on brights – hot pink, poison green, bold yellow, fuchsia, electric blue, and so forth. Mixed among them were their subdued counterparts – baby pink, mint, butter, lavender, powder blue, and so forth. Each block was a center square, framed by patches in another single solid color. The effect when all squares were joined together was optical. The finished blocks were 6 inches, so it took a few to get to my favorite size of quilt, which we have dubbed “the personal use quilt” or “the nap quilt”. In one offset block, requiring some detective work to locate, I embroidered the outline of a star in gold lame thread. Leslie and I can argue over which one of us the star represents.
It was Good Friday. Hubba agreed to take the day off work and go with me to pick up his sister from Opportunity Village, two hours away. We get Becky for Easter every year, and I've always retrieved her myself, accompanied through the years by our babies, who became toddlers, then children, then pre-teens, then it was just me. For several years I made the trip alone. Hubba and I love road trips, so this year we agreed we'd make it a leisurely morning, stopping for lunch somewhere along the way. I knew of a quilt shop between here and there, and planned in my own mind that we could stop there to get the fabric for Leslie's quilt. Since it was to be artsy, I wanted Hubba's input. I respect his eye, and he's straightforward without being blunt and agreeable without being mealy-mouthed.
Next to the quilt shop is a great tea house. What makes it great is the Italian Cream Cake. Other than that, it's like all the other tea houses – too many spoons close by with which to gag oneself. There are some “gift shops”, as they are called, along this same stretch. (Don't get me any gifts at a “gift shop”, please -- I don't want to have to hunt for the spoon with which to gag myself.) This little town, just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Interstate, discovered they can reel 'em in if they have a tea house, a couple of B & B's, a quilt shop, and “gift shops”. I came to town for the selection of solids and the Italian Cream Cake.
It took over an hour at the quilt shop. We were all over kingdom come in there, upstairs, downstairs, in the 50% off section, and among the current collection, looking for solids. I took the opportunity to introduce Hubba to a few insights into the quilting world. I was hoping to instill in him my own biases about interesting fabrics and patterns, putting him in my choir loft prior to the sermon. He didn't skip a beat, and he seemed interested enough to me. Why wouldn't he be – we were talking quilting, for crying out loud.
When we were done, I told him I'd called ahead that morning, and we luckily got a spot for lunch at about 1:00 at the tea house. We spent the intervening time browsing the “gift shops”, which were a new concept to Hubba. I'm glad to say he had the same reaction as I. Their redemption is that they are in renovated turn-of-the-century houses, so at least we could enjoy architectural detailing while we waited for the appointed hour. We had a nice lunch, sharing a piece of heaven for dessert. Afterwards, we hopped in the car and held hands as we chatted, all the way to get Becky and all the way home again.
Easter weekend was abuzz with the traditions we've created around our time with Becky. Pizza the first night, lunch and shopping for spring clothes at Margaret's on Saturday. (Mugs Walter runs a hip and happening dress shop in Decorah, and we are touched that they have come to look forward to Becky's annual visit. They cater to her every whim.) A home-cooked supper and a movie are on for Saturday night, and an Easter parade of fashion and make-up for Becky take us to church in the morning. We proclaim spring this way every year.
A few days after Easter weekend 2002, we were out and ran into some friends. I was relating to the quilty wife my excitement about Leslie's quilt, already underway, when I heard Hubba take the husband aside and say, “You can't believe how Kari had me spend Good Friday! She dragged me to a quilt shop, a tea house, and worse yet, to some gift houses!”
You know, he was smiling that whole day, and I didn't even notice the lint in his teeth. He's such a good sport.
Copyright © 3/28/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Quilting Trophy, Part 2 - Quilter Hands
Lloyd's of London announced last June that they will insure men's chest hair for up to $1.8 million if they lose it in an accident. The fine print says a “victim” has to lose 85 percent of his fur, and not as a result of illness or having it just flat fall out. I suppose you can't believe everything you read, but I got this off the UPI website. I was searching for information on who insured Betty Grable's legs (Lloyd's), and was reminded they also hold the policy on Jennifer Lopez's bum. To be a fly on the wall of that underwriter's office.
One of the two sets of body parts I'd insure are my hands. The other are my eyes for quilting purposes, but I consider my hands to be portable trophies. Since smooth hands historically indicated the idle leisure class, I frequently check out a woman's hands when becoming acquainted with her. I try to avoid making judgments about a smoothie, but I have a hard time not stereotyping up all those with evidence of better employed hands. If their hands are interesting, no doubt their conversation is, too. Actually, I work it in the reverse – if I'm talking to someone full of snappy yarns, I check out the hands. They usually match.
One of my very favorite people is Kathy, the woman who does my hair. Every now and then she'll say something about how tough her hands look, but I can't think it's a big thing with her. Probably because of the business she's in, she'll take note of them every now and then, but I seriously doubt she'd swap any choices that produce the comment. She owns and operates her own seven-chair shop, and on her “day off” she coifs at the retirement village. She also gardens, and visibly awakens just before the robins return. I can't be as eloquent as she when talking about organizing dirt into beauty, but she conveys the message well. I made her a quilt with little pieced nosegays on it, along with a few appliquéd rounds of Grandmother's Flower Garden. People who create love to share. We just can't help ourselves. She made me a gorgeous stained glass pane for the front window of my house to pay me back for the quilt. I'm pleased to report I think that exercise probably wrecked her hands a little, too. Nope. No trading in intriguing hands – it may also require trading in an intriguing life.
My very best friend has rheumatoid arthritis, and she quilts up a storm. If she complains at all, which is rare, it is about the pain in her feet. She thinks quilting helps her hands, and I've noticed it helps her heart. She actually hand pieced an entire Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt. She hand stitches her quilts a la Kari,which is on the lap without a hoop or a frame. That means moving around some heavy fabric sandwiches, requiring more joint involvement than her many other artistic pursuits, but her hands are holding up fine. As a result of these circumstances, her quilts are exceptional, including the one she made and delivered to the 9/11 quilt project within months of the national tragedy.
So what do my hands look like? When I'm machine piecing, for the most part they look normal. Midwestern winter months are treacherous for women my age, resulting in cracked skin around the cuticles and nail edge. Eewww. I can hardly think about it – it's a little gross and a lot painful. Sometimes Kathy will insist I do a luxurious paraffin dip at her beauty shop. (Note that she doesn't call it a suh-LAHN, dahling. I love that about her, too.) It is so soothing, and lasts for better than a week if I work it right. Handling all that cotton seems to wick the moisture and oils right out of my hands, and in dry weather the cracked-finger wounds are piercing.
But nothing is more inclined to braggadocio than my quilt callouses. They pretentiously announce to all that I have a quilt on my lap, and I'm laying down stitches. I stab the little between through the layers, and when I feel it poking me just-right underneath, I quickly direct it back up to the quilt top. In doing that enough times, the fingertips revolt and protective helmets form on the tips of my index and middle digits – I switch back and forth, for obvious reasons. At the end of productive sessions, the two fingertips throb and sting, reassuring me that my time was well-spent.
When I work up some good callouses, I advertise them. It only takes a day or two before I can jut them under the nose of another, puffing: “These are my quilt trophies.” The really fascinating people come to life.
“Cool! Look what happened to my thumb when I was acanthus carving!”
Oh, Ll-oyd! Can we talk?
Copyright © 3/25/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
One of the two sets of body parts I'd insure are my hands. The other are my eyes for quilting purposes, but I consider my hands to be portable trophies. Since smooth hands historically indicated the idle leisure class, I frequently check out a woman's hands when becoming acquainted with her. I try to avoid making judgments about a smoothie, but I have a hard time not stereotyping up all those with evidence of better employed hands. If their hands are interesting, no doubt their conversation is, too. Actually, I work it in the reverse – if I'm talking to someone full of snappy yarns, I check out the hands. They usually match.
One of my very favorite people is Kathy, the woman who does my hair. Every now and then she'll say something about how tough her hands look, but I can't think it's a big thing with her. Probably because of the business she's in, she'll take note of them every now and then, but I seriously doubt she'd swap any choices that produce the comment. She owns and operates her own seven-chair shop, and on her “day off” she coifs at the retirement village. She also gardens, and visibly awakens just before the robins return. I can't be as eloquent as she when talking about organizing dirt into beauty, but she conveys the message well. I made her a quilt with little pieced nosegays on it, along with a few appliquéd rounds of Grandmother's Flower Garden. People who create love to share. We just can't help ourselves. She made me a gorgeous stained glass pane for the front window of my house to pay me back for the quilt. I'm pleased to report I think that exercise probably wrecked her hands a little, too. Nope. No trading in intriguing hands – it may also require trading in an intriguing life.
My very best friend has rheumatoid arthritis, and she quilts up a storm. If she complains at all, which is rare, it is about the pain in her feet. She thinks quilting helps her hands, and I've noticed it helps her heart. She actually hand pieced an entire Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt. She hand stitches her quilts a la Kari,which is on the lap without a hoop or a frame. That means moving around some heavy fabric sandwiches, requiring more joint involvement than her many other artistic pursuits, but her hands are holding up fine. As a result of these circumstances, her quilts are exceptional, including the one she made and delivered to the 9/11 quilt project within months of the national tragedy.
So what do my hands look like? When I'm machine piecing, for the most part they look normal. Midwestern winter months are treacherous for women my age, resulting in cracked skin around the cuticles and nail edge. Eewww. I can hardly think about it – it's a little gross and a lot painful. Sometimes Kathy will insist I do a luxurious paraffin dip at her beauty shop. (Note that she doesn't call it a suh-LAHN, dahling. I love that about her, too.) It is so soothing, and lasts for better than a week if I work it right. Handling all that cotton seems to wick the moisture and oils right out of my hands, and in dry weather the cracked-finger wounds are piercing.
But nothing is more inclined to braggadocio than my quilt callouses. They pretentiously announce to all that I have a quilt on my lap, and I'm laying down stitches. I stab the little between through the layers, and when I feel it poking me just-right underneath, I quickly direct it back up to the quilt top. In doing that enough times, the fingertips revolt and protective helmets form on the tips of my index and middle digits – I switch back and forth, for obvious reasons. At the end of productive sessions, the two fingertips throb and sting, reassuring me that my time was well-spent.
When I work up some good callouses, I advertise them. It only takes a day or two before I can jut them under the nose of another, puffing: “These are my quilt trophies.” The really fascinating people come to life.
“Cool! Look what happened to my thumb when I was acanthus carving!”
Oh, Ll-oyd! Can we talk?
Copyright © 3/25/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Quilting Trophy, Part 1 - Pencil Marks
Gone With the Wind dangles on the periphery of my mind. I know (too many) women who want to emulate the diaphanous Miss Scarlett, even if it's just to borrow her as-God-as-my-witness fiestiness. Of course, I came to the woman-awareness stage of life when bras were afire and deodorant commercials advanced the notion that we could "bring home the bacon: fry it up in the pan". I was getting motion sickness during the pendulum swing.
I recall the time our then middle school-aged daughter hung up the phone after calling a male peer, asking him to go somewhere with her. "What?!" she wanted to know as she hung up and saw me motionless, horrified, my lower jaw level with my ribcage.
"No, no. I'm fine, but please be patient with me whilst I try to be hip and casual about girls calling boys."
"Well, what did you do if you wanted to go somewhere with a boy?"
"Easy. I manipulated the situation until he asked me out."
"That's sick."
"I never thought of it that way, but hearing the words coming out my head, I'm thinking, 'That's sick'."
Gone are the days of creamy complexions, withering in the noonday heat, and the I-do-declaring. To think those were the GOOD parts of the era.
But what dangles for me is the perfection. Little stupid things like the importance of having smooth hands and sweet breath, of mastering the needle arts and iced tea. Frankly, I don't give a damn about the big stupid things like an 18-inch waist or how quickly someone else can cater to whims. For me, it's always the little perfections, things that aren't worth obsessing over, but are nice to notice.
Our other mother is Pauline, our other dad was Ralph. The Barn and The Peg encouraged our relationships with all of their most quality friends. We kids adopted Ralph and Pauline into our hearts when we were children, and on each trip home (to Ottumwa, Iowa, not Tara), we'd visit them. Ralph was a woodworking master who had every tool imaginable in his shop. I would spend as much time with him as he could spare, looking at tools and finished products, quizzing him about applications and techniques. Modest and knowledgeable, he indulged me. He passed away last fall, long after he placed his precious tools with a handpicked new owner and mellowed in his memories. I played my flute at his funeral. Our lives are better having known Ralph.
Pauline has her mother's quilts. Since The Peg was always sewing something, I was years into maturity before realizing that not everyone lived with needlework projects spread throughout their days. I'll never forget the time, after I had been quilting myself for about a year, when Pauline had me over to look at Mrs. Clausen's quilts. On this occasion, I knew what I was looking at...perfection. She used pieces of fabric, each cut out separately (what's a rotary cutter?) and pieced by hand with tiny stitches. My very favorite is her butterfly quilt -- it has a few scraps of one of the outfits my mom made me when I was in high school. On the back of her quilts she'd embroider her name and age, and on the butterfly quilt she added "Watergate". According to Pauline, Mrs. Clausen had made the quilt at age 86 while watching the Watergate hearings. Both of us chuckled appreciatively at her recording this on the quilt.
Pauline kept hauling pillowcase-clad quilts out of her linen closet, and I was soaking in as much as I could learn from what Gertrude Clausen had stitched. One of the quilts, I don't remember now which, still had her pencil markings on the top! It took my breath away! Mrs. Clausen was right there with us, saying, "This is how I marked my quilts." My ideal of perfection, snottily acquired through talking with other contemporary quilters, was replaced with true perfection -- the heart and love of the art.
I was changed. On the next quilt I made, a simple Log Cabin for Hubba, were clearly marked pencil lines telling me where to lay down my stitches. It connected me to Mrs. Clausen, and her perfect little stitches, and her impeccable appliqué, and her wisdom of the art. And her own pencil markings.
I joined the quilt guild that fall, introducing myself to another batch of real-people quilters. The ideal of perfection and its importance runs the gamut among them. There's no denying they are a prolific bunch, and they teach each other and themselves to continually improve their skills. The every-other-year quilt show was approaching, and they had secured a judge to critique our efforts. A fabulous way to learn, it isn't deemed a life-or-death event for most of these women. A few, to be sure, but for most, it's a kick. I brought my array of fledgling designs, and won a few blues and an honorable mention for my trouble. The judging is one person's reaction to another's creation, and it certainly isn't the final say-so of what's good and right. I loved reading the critiques and learning what other people think and see when they look at my work. Hubba's Log Cabin brought the comment, "A beautiful quilt, well constructed and finely stitched. Too bad you left your pencil marks in. They all but ruined it."
Not for me. They are my tribute and trophy to the art of quiltmaking a la Gertrude Clausen, and they made the quilt perfect.
Fiddle-dee-dee.
Copyright © 3/23/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
I recall the time our then middle school-aged daughter hung up the phone after calling a male peer, asking him to go somewhere with her. "What?!" she wanted to know as she hung up and saw me motionless, horrified, my lower jaw level with my ribcage.
"No, no. I'm fine, but please be patient with me whilst I try to be hip and casual about girls calling boys."
"Well, what did you do if you wanted to go somewhere with a boy?"
"Easy. I manipulated the situation until he asked me out."
"That's sick."
"I never thought of it that way, but hearing the words coming out my head, I'm thinking, 'That's sick'."
Gone are the days of creamy complexions, withering in the noonday heat, and the I-do-declaring. To think those were the GOOD parts of the era.
But what dangles for me is the perfection. Little stupid things like the importance of having smooth hands and sweet breath, of mastering the needle arts and iced tea. Frankly, I don't give a damn about the big stupid things like an 18-inch waist or how quickly someone else can cater to whims. For me, it's always the little perfections, things that aren't worth obsessing over, but are nice to notice.
Our other mother is Pauline, our other dad was Ralph. The Barn and The Peg encouraged our relationships with all of their most quality friends. We kids adopted Ralph and Pauline into our hearts when we were children, and on each trip home (to Ottumwa, Iowa, not Tara), we'd visit them. Ralph was a woodworking master who had every tool imaginable in his shop. I would spend as much time with him as he could spare, looking at tools and finished products, quizzing him about applications and techniques. Modest and knowledgeable, he indulged me. He passed away last fall, long after he placed his precious tools with a handpicked new owner and mellowed in his memories. I played my flute at his funeral. Our lives are better having known Ralph.
Pauline has her mother's quilts. Since The Peg was always sewing something, I was years into maturity before realizing that not everyone lived with needlework projects spread throughout their days. I'll never forget the time, after I had been quilting myself for about a year, when Pauline had me over to look at Mrs. Clausen's quilts. On this occasion, I knew what I was looking at...perfection. She used pieces of fabric, each cut out separately (what's a rotary cutter?) and pieced by hand with tiny stitches. My very favorite is her butterfly quilt -- it has a few scraps of one of the outfits my mom made me when I was in high school. On the back of her quilts she'd embroider her name and age, and on the butterfly quilt she added "Watergate". According to Pauline, Mrs. Clausen had made the quilt at age 86 while watching the Watergate hearings. Both of us chuckled appreciatively at her recording this on the quilt.
Pauline kept hauling pillowcase-clad quilts out of her linen closet, and I was soaking in as much as I could learn from what Gertrude Clausen had stitched. One of the quilts, I don't remember now which, still had her pencil markings on the top! It took my breath away! Mrs. Clausen was right there with us, saying, "This is how I marked my quilts." My ideal of perfection, snottily acquired through talking with other contemporary quilters, was replaced with true perfection -- the heart and love of the art.
I was changed. On the next quilt I made, a simple Log Cabin for Hubba, were clearly marked pencil lines telling me where to lay down my stitches. It connected me to Mrs. Clausen, and her perfect little stitches, and her impeccable appliqué, and her wisdom of the art. And her own pencil markings.
I joined the quilt guild that fall, introducing myself to another batch of real-people quilters. The ideal of perfection and its importance runs the gamut among them. There's no denying they are a prolific bunch, and they teach each other and themselves to continually improve their skills. The every-other-year quilt show was approaching, and they had secured a judge to critique our efforts. A fabulous way to learn, it isn't deemed a life-or-death event for most of these women. A few, to be sure, but for most, it's a kick. I brought my array of fledgling designs, and won a few blues and an honorable mention for my trouble. The judging is one person's reaction to another's creation, and it certainly isn't the final say-so of what's good and right. I loved reading the critiques and learning what other people think and see when they look at my work. Hubba's Log Cabin brought the comment, "A beautiful quilt, well constructed and finely stitched. Too bad you left your pencil marks in. They all but ruined it."
Not for me. They are my tribute and trophy to the art of quiltmaking a la Gertrude Clausen, and they made the quilt perfect.
Fiddle-dee-dee.
Copyright © 3/23/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Upon Awakening
The dawn. Like an unstitched Amish design awaiting my size 12 between...
See? It starts the moment of awareness, the first thing each day. Criminy! The good news is there are others just like me out there, and we get it -- quilting is who we are.
Are you one of us? If it's an illness, I'm glad I signed up for it. If it's a compulsion, how could I be so blessed to be compulsed thusly? Regardless, come tell me all about how you got so quilty. Share the thoughts, the witicisms, the feeling of being whole by cutting things up and putting them back together again per your own design.
If you wanna brag about your quilts, go right ahead, but include some kind of story or witicism that adds a little zip to your oration. Even I don't care to hear someone drone on and on without something fun to break the monotony. In other words, I quilt AND write. And I think about both of 'em.
Oh, yeah. Ix-nay on saying things like "Hugs from (insert your name)", and other cutie-pie blather. This isn't the spot for sharing info on tea houses, or whether a Stack and Whack pattern would work on the stairway wall. I'm the sort of quilter who gets dizzy from all the preciousness in the typical quilt shop. I understand it, but please, just point me to the solids and let me figure the rest out myself.
Let's use our brains, people, and add a little patchwork to the gray matter. Do you dye it yourself before you cut it up and put it back together? Do you design as you go? Do you prefer traditional quilting methods, and most of all, are you one of the rare modern quilters who does it all yourself from start to finish -- design, construction, and handquilting -- and, you don't send your binding out for someone else to do? I'm big into appliqué, and hand piecing sends me into orbit, even though I rarely do it.
If you blast from your seat with a YES, then come to Mama!!! I mean, there aren't that many of us who make the whole dang thing from start to finish anymore. The challenge goes from the design to the binding -- and it's all mine. Is it all yours? Join me!
Check back. I can be real chatty.
Her Quiltness,
Kari
Copyright © 3/22/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
See? It starts the moment of awareness, the first thing each day. Criminy! The good news is there are others just like me out there, and we get it -- quilting is who we are.
Are you one of us? If it's an illness, I'm glad I signed up for it. If it's a compulsion, how could I be so blessed to be compulsed thusly? Regardless, come tell me all about how you got so quilty. Share the thoughts, the witicisms, the feeling of being whole by cutting things up and putting them back together again per your own design.
If you wanna brag about your quilts, go right ahead, but include some kind of story or witicism that adds a little zip to your oration. Even I don't care to hear someone drone on and on without something fun to break the monotony. In other words, I quilt AND write. And I think about both of 'em.
Oh, yeah. Ix-nay on saying things like "Hugs from (insert your name)", and other cutie-pie blather. This isn't the spot for sharing info on tea houses, or whether a Stack and Whack pattern would work on the stairway wall. I'm the sort of quilter who gets dizzy from all the preciousness in the typical quilt shop. I understand it, but please, just point me to the solids and let me figure the rest out myself.
Let's use our brains, people, and add a little patchwork to the gray matter. Do you dye it yourself before you cut it up and put it back together? Do you design as you go? Do you prefer traditional quilting methods, and most of all, are you one of the rare modern quilters who does it all yourself from start to finish -- design, construction, and handquilting -- and, you don't send your binding out for someone else to do? I'm big into appliqué, and hand piecing sends me into orbit, even though I rarely do it.
If you blast from your seat with a YES, then come to Mama!!! I mean, there aren't that many of us who make the whole dang thing from start to finish anymore. The challenge goes from the design to the binding -- and it's all mine. Is it all yours? Join me!
Check back. I can be real chatty.
Her Quiltness,
Kari
Copyright © 3/22/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Entering Blogville
This whole blogthing is new to me. I've spent the morning scanning bloghelps and blogknowledge, but the way that works best for me is to blogimmerse. I jump right in and let the lint float where it may. Little stitches require that I take a moment every now and then to replenish my concious mind, and this is what I've been looking for. Thinking, followed by talking, followed by tittering and more thinking. I'm up for it. You?
Her Quiltness,
Kari
Her Quiltness,
Kari
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