Did You Say "Blanket"?

When I started really quilting, as opposed to tying two flat pieces of fabric together, I toyed with the idea of becoming a quilt snob. It wasn't intentional, it just sort of evolved; evolved from one word that, at the time, sent me over the edge – blanket.

My first pieced quilt, the one I made Tad with the 5/8” seams of my garment-making days, was tied. But I called it a quilt. I later learned it is a comforter if it has been tied. For my second pieced quilt, I tutored myself using a teach-yourself-to-quilt book I had picked up in a dime store somewhere. I didn't fully understand the finer points of what they were trying to tell me, but somehow I managed to get the durned thing together. It was a show stopper (at least, I thought so) of unbleached muslin and seven solid color cottons, a la Amish. I'm ashamed to report where I got the fabric. Ick. Let's change the subject.

I named this magnum opus “First Try”, and I took it on tour. It was kept packed in the car, instantly ready for a roadshow Brag and Tell. A phone would ring, and when the person answered, I'd make a little small talk before interrupting them to say, “I made a quilt. Since you're home now, I'll come over and show it to you.” Click. I didn't want to give anyone the chance to decline, so I hung up and ran for the car. This was before common people had cell phones, so I didn't have to worry about getting a cancellation en route. If I got there fast enough, they didn't even have a chance to bolt the door.

My approach was one of childlike sheepishness. My years spent as a counselor honed my relationship skills, and I knew how to turn on the charm when I had to. Normally, I wouldn't have resorted to such unhealthy behaviors, but we're talking quilting here, for crying out loud -- an activity that was fast replacing my need for any human contact at all. Once inside, I would unfurl “First Try” and whisper, with understated, breathless awe, “Look. What. I. Made!” A smart audience would give me a few coos and good-gollies to sate me, and I would dismiss myself in a timely manner. Otherwise, I was bound to stick around for awhile until they caught on. Having just completed a whole quilt, I could be very patient.

I was in public one day, stitching away. Since I quilt on my lap without a hoop or a frame, I drag my gypsy quilts all over kingdom come. A young girl, wet behind the ears and mildly disrespectful of her elders, was trying to get my attention. I hadn't heeded the hails she had extended my way until the upstart said, “Hey, YOU! The lady sewing the blanket!”

Scuh-REEECH!!! The proverbial fingernails went from east to west, the entire length of the proverbial blackboard. I developed a heretofore undetected tic in my left eye. I felt my teeth clench and my jaw quiver; my peripheral vision vanished.

“Did you say, “Blanket?”

Blanket? Blank-ket?

The Peg genes kicked in, thankfully, and the desire to wring her pencil neck passed quickly. “No, dear. This isn't a blanket. We call this a quilt. You see, it has a pieced top, a backing, and a middle layer of.....where are you going? Hey, I'm not done yet. Come back here! I'm telling you about my quilt! It's not a blanket!”

Within a reasonable amount of time I decided to let it go. She was young. What did she know? I doubt she meant it as a personal attack.

At about this time The Barn and The Peg moved. They decided to downsize from a spacious, family-sized home to a nice two-bedroom/two bath apartment, in a retirement community called Pennsylvania Place. As The Barn would say, “We're downsizing, with a capital 'down' and a capital 'sizing'.”

The pleasing part of the process was getting to decorate the new place. They had a ball. They shopped for downsized furniture, so they wouldn't have to drag along an upsized sofa into a downsized living room. And my dad, aka Mr. Project, devised many complex and clever ways to maximize the amount of storage they had in their apartment, and in the “storage bin” (a cage-like closet) each residence was allowed in the common basement. He is brilliant at things like this. He even created a storage unit that fit into the big combination tub/shower unit in the master bath. They didn't want to use the tub, anyway, and made the practical decision to take turns using the shower in the other bath. This further afforded them the ability to adjust to their downsized lives by keeping more of their stuff within arm's reach.

My mom had a window treatment (we don't call them curtains anymore) and a bedspread made for their new bedroom, and they were finally going to put down a hoarded little Persian carpet, acquired on one of their travels abroad. Everything looked so nice together, and The Peg was pleased.

I thought I'd ice that cake and make them a quilt for their new place. A nap quilt for the bedroom, using solids that reflected the colors in the new bedspread and their Persian keepsake. I called to bestow upon them the holy news. The Peg wasn't home, so I told The Barn of my plans, of the need for a swatch of the leftover fabric for reference, of the perfect size and design to compliment the swirly rose patterned bedspread. When I finished my homily, The Barn paused politely and said:

“Well, we already have quite a few blankets.”

Excuse me? Did you say, “Blanket?”

What I wanted to say, and I'm not proud of this, was, “Well, far be it from me to junk up your place with too many blankets!” I don't really know what I said, since I couldn't hear myself over the fingernails screeching again across the blackboard of my mind, but I don't think I flamed him too badly.

I showed him, though. I made the greatest quilted blanket my little brain could come up with. It is a very plain Squares in Bars Amish pattern. It holds a collection of the colors found elsewhere in the room, and its graphic angles are a good foil for the florals in the spread and the pattern of the woven rug. As you may know by now, I often quilt in solids because I love to stitch, and the solids are a good canvas for the patterns I create.

When I was young, The Peg told me that she loved roses, so I tried to give her something rose-y whenever a gift-giving occasion arose. When I was about ten-years-old, I found some lotion at the drugstore that contained rose hips, and that qualified it as a gift for my mom. In this quilt, I gave my mother more roses. In each of the six-inch squares, I quilted a rose. On the bars/sashing, I quilted narrowly-spaced diagonal lines. I love dense quilting, and I really went to town on this one.

And, when I was a young, The Barn made up a little ditty we referred to as “Pat My Head”. We'd drive down the road, singing and making up new verses to “Pat My Head”. When Hubba and I got married, The Barn arranged all the music for our wedding. It was marvelous, aided greatly by the principal violinist of the Cedar Rapids Symphony, who happened to be a close family friend. In fact, his daughters were also performing that day -- as our flower girls. Many remarked afterwards that it was too bad we had to interrupt such a fine concert for a wedding. As he played, I heard a complete unaccompanied verse of “Pat My Head”, a surprise gift from The Barn. You guessed it. In this quilt, I gave my dad his music. The borders held a musical staff, and the notes to “Pat My Head”. Of course, I didn't tell him beforehand, either, so I could surprise him back. When I gave them the quilt, he noticed the notes in the border. I said, “Daddy! What is the tune?”

“Hmmmm. Let's see.... La-la-laaaaa, la-la-laaaa. Lala, lala, la-la-laaaa. It's 'Pat My Head'! “Oh, Kari! Thank you so much for the quilt!” The back bottom corner held the quilt's name: “She Reposes Among Roses, His Music Surrounds Her”.

I knew I could wait him out. He hasn't ever called it a blanket again.

Thing is, by now I don't care. Somebody called one of my quilts a blanket just today, which brought this story to mind again. I must be growing as a quilter. If someone wants to call it a blanket, it's a blanket. It's a special blanket, inspired by an affectionate desire to delight the recipient, and stitched with great love.

Keep warm, Barn and Peg.


Copyright © 5/28/2005 Kari E.O. Burns