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
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