You know, I think we could be better at training our boys, aka, future men, at an earlier age to recognize and appreciate a good woman. It is senseless to wait until adolescence or the college years (pardon the redundancy), or to leave it up to Madison Avenue and Hollywood. I have introduced these qualities to our son, and now I'm sorry I didn't birth a dozen boys to mold. The world would be a better place if all mothers made quilts for their young sons.
The very first quilt I made was for our son. Of my own coltish design, it used three fabrics from a discount house, had 5/8" seams, and was quite a bit smaller when sewn up than what I had planned. Technically a comforter, I tied it with love in my heart. When he opened it that Christmas, the rascal ran upstairs and got the pillow from his bed. Back in the living room, he spread the comforter out on the floor and rested his head on the pillow. From this snug vantage point, he watched the rest of us open our presents, even as his sat undisturbed beneath the tree. He loved his quilt, the one his mother made him. In this unannounced act, he returned to me a dozenfold the love I had put into that gift. Sigh. This is a true story.
I am, however, playing catch-up with Hubba. Case in point: Awhile back he was listening to a friend detail his experience of trimming a tree in his backyard. Big whoop. Apparently, Hubba was attending quite well when it occurred to the man that this was a really boring, one-sided conversation.
"I'm sorry. This must be of no interest to you at all."
"No, no, it's fine," said Hubba. "I've learned to look interested, even as my eyes glaze over, while Kari drones on endlessly about quilting." On second thought, I think I am making headway with him.
One of my early projects was a quilt for Hubba. I selected fabrics that reminded me of the clothes he wears to the office on Saturday mornings, when he dresses more casually. I like the earthy tones and textures of his Saturday wardrobe, and love the funky ties he will choose when he can relax a bit more. I determined with fanfare that the quilt would bear the name, "James Burns, Esq. Saturday Morning." In these early days, I confused love with the size of the pieces of fabric I was willing to cut, then sew back together. I have always suffered from attaching myself to preconceived notions.
A project of these dimensions required a lot of cutting, and once I get cutting I don't like to be interrupted. This is the stage of the project that requires the full frontal lobe. So, when Hubba came home for lunch one day, I selflessly ran upstairs and made him his noonday meal, then returned to my “studio” for more cutting. I loved the feel of the fabrics, and the selections were indeed reminiscent of the quilt's name.
After he had eaten his hastily-prepared lunch, he came downstairs to kiss me good-bye. I swooned. (I admit it, I'm talking about the fabric here.)
"Oh, Honey! I hope you love this quilt as much as I love making it for you! Working on it is a joy; and with the fabrics I chose, it's just like having you here with me."
"Well, I have been here. Upstairs. Alone. Eating my lunch."
I've had to slow down and back up and bit with him. The quilt still isn't done, thanks to the 2000+ little pieces that impressed my beginner's mind, but I am spending more time with Hubba. Given enough time, I think I may be able to bring him on board.
Copyright © 4/30/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Dealing With The Savvy Quilt Spouse
It's all in the psychology one uses.
For instance, I know a woman who will tell her husband outright that she is meeting her lover for a passionate rendezvous, when in reality she is driving seventy miles one-way to buy fabric. This approach won’t fool the seasoned quilt-husband. He knows what her real plan is, and he’s bound to comment on it.
The first thing a Quilt Savvy Souse will do after the car pulls into the garage isn't to look under the seats for suspicious hotel receipts; it's to check the trunk for evidence of lint. He's not the guy from whom you can hide the spoils of a successful shop hop, then casually pull out a significant amount of yardage with an “oh-I've-had-this-for-years” wave of the hand. He's hep to those amateur tactics.
I have come up with a new approach. Let's seminar about that today.
First off, we are all aware that a man can have thousands of tools in his workshop, perhaps even possessing several hundred that he will only use once or twice in his lifetime. He considers them necessary because of the time it saves having them handy when he needs them. You can see the correlation. Having a large stash of green fabric is not a luxury. Vines and leaves are in right now. Green fabric is a necessity, and having plenty on hand - well, you get the picture.
Let's move on to magazines. They not only keep the handyman abreast of all the new tools and techniques, they serve as a source of motivation and inspiration for future projects. These are identified as "Projects I Will Do When I Retire". He claims it only makes sense to get the tool now so he won't have to buy so much when he's retired and on a fixed income. Goose, gander. The same goes for keeping a selection of solids on hand, and adding to it regularly. Someday we plan work on a series of elaborate Amish masterpieces. Furthermore, we keep the magazines hosting the patterns stored in a box with the fabric we’ll use. This puts us one I'm-serious-about-this step ahead of our male counterparts.
My theory continues with notions and gadgets, and scraps and strips of things that we have tried and rejected, but have dared not discard. Chances are, there are similar recitations from the tool man – carefully preserved pieces of dowel, and baby food jars filled with screws and bolts. I'm not telling you anything new. Most of us have pointed out the comparisons I've described here, or transposed them into “hunter” or “golfer” vernacular. They are time-tested and effective. Unfortunately, the strength of our argument wears off between quilt shop visits. We have to go over it again and again with the poor dears. It's hard not to be condescending, but guys can be so myopic about these things.
I have developed one powerful offensive tactic, and I'm willing to share it with you. It's not the usual tit-for-tat tutorial we need to repeat over and over again.
“You know, it’s like the new nine iron you got, because you said it worked better with your new putter.” Or:
“It seems to me we discussed the enhanced value of your new shotgun when you raised the subject of a $500 coon dog.”
No, a good defense is a powerful offense. All you need is a mere sentence, nodding towards the home woodworker’s/golfer’s/hunter’s love of power tools/clubs/guns.. It should be formidable, but delivered in a lighthearted tone. It will end all speculation about the damage that could have been done to the family budget, and will put an entire day's worth of fabric shopping into a more global perspective. It is a statement that may even elicit a sigh of relief.
All I say is, “Hubba, I'm home! I didn't buy a new sewing machine today!”
Hubba immediately glances over at the Viking on the dining room table, and the Featherweight in the corner of the library. He scans the family room for the old treadle machine The Peg gave me, and recalls the leaden Commodore in the basement. I see his shoulders release the tension they’ve held all day, and he seems relieved.
“Well, it sounds like you had a good day. Shall we go out for dinner?”
There. It works like a charm, and you’ll enjoy similar results.
My job here is done. You’re welcome.
© Copyright 4/23/2005 KEOB revised 9/2/2006
For instance, I know a woman who will tell her husband outright that she is meeting her lover for a passionate rendezvous, when in reality she is driving seventy miles one-way to buy fabric. This approach won’t fool the seasoned quilt-husband. He knows what her real plan is, and he’s bound to comment on it.
The first thing a Quilt Savvy Souse will do after the car pulls into the garage isn't to look under the seats for suspicious hotel receipts; it's to check the trunk for evidence of lint. He's not the guy from whom you can hide the spoils of a successful shop hop, then casually pull out a significant amount of yardage with an “oh-I've-had-this-for-years” wave of the hand. He's hep to those amateur tactics.
I have come up with a new approach. Let's seminar about that today.
First off, we are all aware that a man can have thousands of tools in his workshop, perhaps even possessing several hundred that he will only use once or twice in his lifetime. He considers them necessary because of the time it saves having them handy when he needs them. You can see the correlation. Having a large stash of green fabric is not a luxury. Vines and leaves are in right now. Green fabric is a necessity, and having plenty on hand - well, you get the picture.
Let's move on to magazines. They not only keep the handyman abreast of all the new tools and techniques, they serve as a source of motivation and inspiration for future projects. These are identified as "Projects I Will Do When I Retire". He claims it only makes sense to get the tool now so he won't have to buy so much when he's retired and on a fixed income. Goose, gander. The same goes for keeping a selection of solids on hand, and adding to it regularly. Someday we plan work on a series of elaborate Amish masterpieces. Furthermore, we keep the magazines hosting the patterns stored in a box with the fabric we’ll use. This puts us one I'm-serious-about-this step ahead of our male counterparts.
My theory continues with notions and gadgets, and scraps and strips of things that we have tried and rejected, but have dared not discard. Chances are, there are similar recitations from the tool man – carefully preserved pieces of dowel, and baby food jars filled with screws and bolts. I'm not telling you anything new. Most of us have pointed out the comparisons I've described here, or transposed them into “hunter” or “golfer” vernacular. They are time-tested and effective. Unfortunately, the strength of our argument wears off between quilt shop visits. We have to go over it again and again with the poor dears. It's hard not to be condescending, but guys can be so myopic about these things.
I have developed one powerful offensive tactic, and I'm willing to share it with you. It's not the usual tit-for-tat tutorial we need to repeat over and over again.
“You know, it’s like the new nine iron you got, because you said it worked better with your new putter.” Or:
“It seems to me we discussed the enhanced value of your new shotgun when you raised the subject of a $500 coon dog.”
No, a good defense is a powerful offense. All you need is a mere sentence, nodding towards the home woodworker’s/golfer’s/hunter’s love of power tools/clubs/guns.. It should be formidable, but delivered in a lighthearted tone. It will end all speculation about the damage that could have been done to the family budget, and will put an entire day's worth of fabric shopping into a more global perspective. It is a statement that may even elicit a sigh of relief.
All I say is, “Hubba, I'm home! I didn't buy a new sewing machine today!”
Hubba immediately glances over at the Viking on the dining room table, and the Featherweight in the corner of the library. He scans the family room for the old treadle machine The Peg gave me, and recalls the leaden Commodore in the basement. I see his shoulders release the tension they’ve held all day, and he seems relieved.
“Well, it sounds like you had a good day. Shall we go out for dinner?”
There. It works like a charm, and you’ll enjoy similar results.
My job here is done. You’re welcome.
© Copyright 4/23/2005 KEOB revised 9/2/2006
Danger: Quilter at Work
Okay, I'm not here to alarm anyone, but I once stuck myself in the face with a between when I was quilting, and it drew blood. Naysayers be darned, quilting is indeed adventuresome, high risk, and downright dangerous.
Klutziness has provided my entrée to the family list of legends. I once loved to play outside, but the emergency room trips were beginning to strain the budget. I made the decision to be sports-dumb, which meant I would have to accept the ridicule of those who could maintain their balance on, say, the porch swing. There was no more pretending. When it got to the point that my athletic ability consisted of being able to get into and out of the hot tub without injury, I figured the health club membership wasn't really paying for itself anymore.
On the day I stabbed myself, I went downstairs with the blood draining from my left cheek to show my daughter and to tell her the story. She and I share the same gallows-type humor, and I knew this one would be a knee-slapper. We were howling! Who sticks herself in the FACE, for crying out loud? Flat out hilarious.
A friend was at the house that day, a clean-cut, perfectly normal Eagle Scout guy. He was aghast at our ability to stare Death in the face and laugh. He kept making these noises...."oh, no...oh, my...are you okay?.....oh, no..." It was silly. I mean, what could he do, anyway? Through tears of laughter, I could imagine his dilemma. The only tourniquet that would staunch the flow would probably need to be applied to my neck, and that would surely do me in. He must have felt completely helpless. Obviously the womenfolk were hysterical and unable to deal with the crisis at hand.
Quilt-capades are good stuff! We quilters flaunt our injuries with honor. We know funny when we see it, and we know real danger. We opt for unreal danger, like jabbing ourselves repeatedly on the underneath hand, rather than dislocating body parts by doing something pointless, like power lifting or yoga. A little bitty hole from a quilting between is the kind of life-threatening injury that makes sense to us.
I once spent 6 weeks in physical therapy after a self-imposed quilting marathon. True story. I love hand stitching. In fact, when talking about hand stitching, I pronounce the word “love” as “luhhh-vve”. It's more than the written word can accommodate.
When I plunk down to start stitching, it is tough getting me up again.
Addressing housework: “What dust bunnies?”
To the 5-year-old: “There's bologna in the fridge. Make yourself a sandwich – you won't starve. And stop being such a baby.”
Regarding natural disasters: “Big deal. They blow those sirens all the time...”
The physical therapy did me in. My perspective changed. I work out regularly now, and promote wellness among my fellow threadies. I'm thinking about producing the video Pilates Plus for Quilters, making me the Denise Austin of the patchwork set, but for now I'm spreading the fitness word instead of spreading the dimension of my silhouette. Keeping fit improves my creativity, my stamina, and prevents further quilting injuries. I will most likely live longer, enabling me to make more quilts. That's the bottom line.
Sticking myself in the face is still a stitch-and-a-half, though.
Copyright © 4/16/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Klutziness has provided my entrée to the family list of legends. I once loved to play outside, but the emergency room trips were beginning to strain the budget. I made the decision to be sports-dumb, which meant I would have to accept the ridicule of those who could maintain their balance on, say, the porch swing. There was no more pretending. When it got to the point that my athletic ability consisted of being able to get into and out of the hot tub without injury, I figured the health club membership wasn't really paying for itself anymore.
On the day I stabbed myself, I went downstairs with the blood draining from my left cheek to show my daughter and to tell her the story. She and I share the same gallows-type humor, and I knew this one would be a knee-slapper. We were howling! Who sticks herself in the FACE, for crying out loud? Flat out hilarious.
A friend was at the house that day, a clean-cut, perfectly normal Eagle Scout guy. He was aghast at our ability to stare Death in the face and laugh. He kept making these noises...."oh, no...oh, my...are you okay?.....oh, no..." It was silly. I mean, what could he do, anyway? Through tears of laughter, I could imagine his dilemma. The only tourniquet that would staunch the flow would probably need to be applied to my neck, and that would surely do me in. He must have felt completely helpless. Obviously the womenfolk were hysterical and unable to deal with the crisis at hand.
Quilt-capades are good stuff! We quilters flaunt our injuries with honor. We know funny when we see it, and we know real danger. We opt for unreal danger, like jabbing ourselves repeatedly on the underneath hand, rather than dislocating body parts by doing something pointless, like power lifting or yoga. A little bitty hole from a quilting between is the kind of life-threatening injury that makes sense to us.
I once spent 6 weeks in physical therapy after a self-imposed quilting marathon. True story. I love hand stitching. In fact, when talking about hand stitching, I pronounce the word “love” as “luhhh-vve”. It's more than the written word can accommodate.
When I plunk down to start stitching, it is tough getting me up again.
Addressing housework: “What dust bunnies?”
To the 5-year-old: “There's bologna in the fridge. Make yourself a sandwich – you won't starve. And stop being such a baby.”
Regarding natural disasters: “Big deal. They blow those sirens all the time...”
The physical therapy did me in. My perspective changed. I work out regularly now, and promote wellness among my fellow threadies. I'm thinking about producing the video Pilates Plus for Quilters, making me the Denise Austin of the patchwork set, but for now I'm spreading the fitness word instead of spreading the dimension of my silhouette. Keeping fit improves my creativity, my stamina, and prevents further quilting injuries. I will most likely live longer, enabling me to make more quilts. That's the bottom line.
Sticking myself in the face is still a stitch-and-a-half, though.
Copyright © 4/16/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Lunch
Things have different tags in different regions of the country. In the threadworld, the exact same quilt block could have one name in Kansas and an alias in Maine. I've witnessed arguments, polite though passive-aggressive, over the real title of the Bachelor's Puzzle or Dove in the Window. [Rule of thumb: People who argue over names of blocks are 95% more likely to dither about judges' critiques at quilt shows.] Quilting is a life-long learning process, and no one person will ever be the Lintmaster. Perhaps that is why quilting draws such diverse people – it's an opportunity to learn something new about what you may have already learned before. Fons and Porter* delight in uncovering such regional bywords; they are the seams that connect quilters to one another, worldwide.
An unexpected turn of words befell me when I moved to a rural community. I taught at Turkey Valley Community Schools, which literally sits in the middle of a cornfield. I was out of the loop on the most basic, everyday terms, and some of them confound me even now. I was outnumbered in my slant, thus making me look uninformed. I was fodder in the teacher's lounge, not to mention the classroom.
In southeast Iowa, the land of my birth, there were three meals a day. We started things off with breakfast. At noon, during the week and on Saturdays, we had lunch. In the evening, we had supper. On Sundays at noon, we had dinner, and if it were a Christmas or New Year's meal during the week at noon, it was likewise dinner. If you ate between meals, it was a snack. Somewhere in my junior high school years, the term “brunch” was introduced. We found it very clever, and a way of avoiding all the hoopla involved in grabbing breakfast before church and preparing a big dinner after church.
Not so in the five towns that comprise the Turkey Valley School District. I think we're okay on the breakfast thing, but from there it all unravels. At noon, regardless of the day of the week, it is dinner. We are talking dinner with all the trimmings, just like on Sunday! Meat, potatoes, gravy. Dinner! Then, about 4:30 or 5:00, depending, lunch is served. It's lunch, like we have at noon -- a sandwich, chips, some fruit, a coupla cookies. But we aren't done yet. Somewhere around 8:00 P.M. (at NIGHT!) is supper. I never did get a handle on what was served then, because my mind stopped at trying to understand the concept. I'm not sure about the snack issue, either. I think farmers are just too busy to snack, depending solely on the chance to load up during the four meals they schedule in each day.
When I was teaching full-time and taking graduate classes, my connection with community events was whatever was printed in the twice-weekly Decorah Newspapers. I'd read about this meeting or that gathering. Seems like noon was the most common time to meet, because they always gave credit to whomever served lunch. Sometimes I'd see the names of other working women, and figured they weren't working under a Master Contract like I was, and could get away for a midday meeting. “Lunch was served after the meeting.”
I joined the quilt guild sometime in 1996 or 1997. The earlier months had been a whirl of learning and re-learning the names of quilt blocks, and comparison shopping for the best rulers, rotary cutters, mats, not to mention schmoozing with shop owners. Guild was just another leg of the journey. These women were so welcoming, and the genuine warmth of their goodwill was appreciated. I was new; they were virtuosos. The program chair assigned the meeting I was to serve lunch. I didn't get it – the meetings were always at 7:00 p.m., and we'd all just finished supper.
“Whadaya mean, 'lunch'?”
“When the meeting is over, we have lunch.”
“But it's 8:30 by then. Don't you mean, we have a 'snack'?”
“Oh, it's usually just something sweet. Some of us like fruit, or veggies and dip. Just a little lunch.”
“You mean 'snack', right?”
“No, lunch. Cheese and crackers are a safe choice. (pause) I guess you could call it a snack, but it's lunch.”
This simply did not compute, even in northeast Iowa parlance. Was this the elusive “supper” I'd heard about? If it was, wouldn't she have called it “supper”? It's not that I didn't hear her say “lunch” four times, it's just that it didn't fit. I was offering her my term: snack. She didn't say, “What's that?”, so obviously she had a definition for snack. What she was telling me is the term for a snack after an evening meeting is “lunch”. I have since learned that a snack after an afternoon meeting is “lunch”, too. No wonder there were all those “lunches” written about in the paper.
I have come to accept that “lunch” is sometimes code for “snack”. I don't understand it, but I yield to the wisdom of my community. My duty as a relater of Midwestern quilt lore must include information about the term “lunch”. If you have further questions, don't look at me. I've told you all I know.
*(Marianne)Fons and (Liz)Porter are two of my favorite quilters. In my early quilting days, I wouldn't miss them on IPTV because they are so thorough. One Saturday, Hubba walked by as I was watching Sew Many Quilts, the name of their program in 1996. “Oh, there's my old high school classmate. I'd heard she had a program on IPTV.” Liz Porter graduated from high school with Hubba, and I'd known her folks for years! Talk about humble... not one word of bragging from Ilene and Doc about their successful daughter! That's not why Fons & Porter are my favorites, though. It's their expertly produced how-to/do-it-yourself quilt show on IPTV, now called Fons & Porter's Love of Quilting. Check out their website! http://www.fonsandporter.com/
Copyright © 4/11/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
An unexpected turn of words befell me when I moved to a rural community. I taught at Turkey Valley Community Schools, which literally sits in the middle of a cornfield. I was out of the loop on the most basic, everyday terms, and some of them confound me even now. I was outnumbered in my slant, thus making me look uninformed. I was fodder in the teacher's lounge, not to mention the classroom.
In southeast Iowa, the land of my birth, there were three meals a day. We started things off with breakfast. At noon, during the week and on Saturdays, we had lunch. In the evening, we had supper. On Sundays at noon, we had dinner, and if it were a Christmas or New Year's meal during the week at noon, it was likewise dinner. If you ate between meals, it was a snack. Somewhere in my junior high school years, the term “brunch” was introduced. We found it very clever, and a way of avoiding all the hoopla involved in grabbing breakfast before church and preparing a big dinner after church.
Not so in the five towns that comprise the Turkey Valley School District. I think we're okay on the breakfast thing, but from there it all unravels. At noon, regardless of the day of the week, it is dinner. We are talking dinner with all the trimmings, just like on Sunday! Meat, potatoes, gravy. Dinner! Then, about 4:30 or 5:00, depending, lunch is served. It's lunch, like we have at noon -- a sandwich, chips, some fruit, a coupla cookies. But we aren't done yet. Somewhere around 8:00 P.M. (at NIGHT!) is supper. I never did get a handle on what was served then, because my mind stopped at trying to understand the concept. I'm not sure about the snack issue, either. I think farmers are just too busy to snack, depending solely on the chance to load up during the four meals they schedule in each day.
When I was teaching full-time and taking graduate classes, my connection with community events was whatever was printed in the twice-weekly Decorah Newspapers. I'd read about this meeting or that gathering. Seems like noon was the most common time to meet, because they always gave credit to whomever served lunch. Sometimes I'd see the names of other working women, and figured they weren't working under a Master Contract like I was, and could get away for a midday meeting. “Lunch was served after the meeting.”
I joined the quilt guild sometime in 1996 or 1997. The earlier months had been a whirl of learning and re-learning the names of quilt blocks, and comparison shopping for the best rulers, rotary cutters, mats, not to mention schmoozing with shop owners. Guild was just another leg of the journey. These women were so welcoming, and the genuine warmth of their goodwill was appreciated. I was new; they were virtuosos. The program chair assigned the meeting I was to serve lunch. I didn't get it – the meetings were always at 7:00 p.m., and we'd all just finished supper.
“Whadaya mean, 'lunch'?”
“When the meeting is over, we have lunch.”
“But it's 8:30 by then. Don't you mean, we have a 'snack'?”
“Oh, it's usually just something sweet. Some of us like fruit, or veggies and dip. Just a little lunch.”
“You mean 'snack', right?”
“No, lunch. Cheese and crackers are a safe choice. (pause) I guess you could call it a snack, but it's lunch.”
This simply did not compute, even in northeast Iowa parlance. Was this the elusive “supper” I'd heard about? If it was, wouldn't she have called it “supper”? It's not that I didn't hear her say “lunch” four times, it's just that it didn't fit. I was offering her my term: snack. She didn't say, “What's that?”, so obviously she had a definition for snack. What she was telling me is the term for a snack after an evening meeting is “lunch”. I have since learned that a snack after an afternoon meeting is “lunch”, too. No wonder there were all those “lunches” written about in the paper.
I have come to accept that “lunch” is sometimes code for “snack”. I don't understand it, but I yield to the wisdom of my community. My duty as a relater of Midwestern quilt lore must include information about the term “lunch”. If you have further questions, don't look at me. I've told you all I know.
*(Marianne)Fons and (Liz)Porter are two of my favorite quilters. In my early quilting days, I wouldn't miss them on IPTV because they are so thorough. One Saturday, Hubba walked by as I was watching Sew Many Quilts, the name of their program in 1996. “Oh, there's my old high school classmate. I'd heard she had a program on IPTV.” Liz Porter graduated from high school with Hubba, and I'd known her folks for years! Talk about humble... not one word of bragging from Ilene and Doc about their successful daughter! That's not why Fons & Porter are my favorites, though. It's their expertly produced how-to/do-it-yourself quilt show on IPTV, now called Fons & Porter's Love of Quilting. Check out their website! http://www.fonsandporter.com/
Copyright © 4/11/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)