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