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