Paducah or Bust
I still maintain that not only is quilting fun, quilters are wild and wacky. The workshops, guild meetings, and shop hops I've participated in are one giant, hairy laugh from beginning to end. Even the most proper stitchers, who manage to get all their points sharp and seams exact, will take the good-natured sneering from the rest of us in stride. So, I don't understand the reactions of my family on this one. They think I'm starved for action, in spite of my obvious zeal for all things fabric. It's stereotyping, I tell you, plain and simple.
Take our daughter. Lovely girl, raised well. You know the drill -- she got her brains and good looks from her father -- I still have mine. I try to have a conversation with her about quilting, but she can't stay on the subject with me. It's always “me, me, me” with her. Could she take a few minutes to look at my new fabrics? No-oo. Will she ride along with me to pick up another hank of batting? No-ooo. It's all Morgan, Morgan, Morgan, and goes something like this:
“I think there's a new Hoffman down at the quilt shop that will be perfect to finish off the border for Aunt Lora's sampler.”
“Why isn't there any food in the house? We're all hungry.”
“Hmmmm? Oh. I'll drop you off at Fareway on my way to the shop.”
“But, Mom. I'm still in the wheelchair after the accident. Remember the accident? We ran into a ditch and hit a tree when you saw those ginkgo leaves, and started gesturing pell-mell and howling, “Motif! Motif!”. Does the term 'Jaws of Life' ring a bell with you?”
“Drama queen. It's not like it's a permanent condition, you know.”
She can be snippy, too. When I have left the house for my guild meetings, I've heard her mutter, “Have fun... something-something...the coven”. The coven? I'm thinking, sense of humor?
Though I expect a bit of resistance from our son, he's not quite as bad as his sister. He was still fairly young when I started quilting, so at least around me he doesn't protest much. I planned his coverlet for hours, running ideas by him and tossing fat quarters across the bed for his approval. When his mind started to wander, I pleaded with him to stay on task. Cute little fella. He finally began to show an interest, though his taste was atrocious, and he pointed excitedly:
“This one, and this one, and this one here! If you make me a quilt out of these, will it keep me warm?”
“Oh, yesss, my darling! It will keep you toasty warm, and you'll sleep better than ever before.”
Tad: (dryly) “Okay, then. Use these.”
I merrily retreated to change the needle on my Viking and sharpen the rotary cutter blade, full of warm fuzzies. It wasn't until an hour or so later that I realized... Wait a minute! What happened? Did he just blow me off?
But, the old Hubster takes the cake. When I told him I was going to Paducah, he visibly blanched. Knowing he doesn't like to be left at home alone without me, I showed him the invitation from the quilt guild and said I could sign him up, too. “We could make it sort of a mini-vacation for the two of us.”
“Kari, you're talking about going to Paducah. Where is Paducah?”
“In Kentucky! Isn't it unbelievable? And our hotel is an hour outside of Paducah, so I'll have a two whole hours of quilting on the bus every day! I think I'll bring along that nosegay appliqué project. It won't be so bulky to carry around the show.”
“Kari, you're talking about going to Paducah -- on a Greyhound bus!”
“I know!!”
“Let me think. Paducah on the Greyhound; Paris on the Concorde. Decisions, decisions.”
“Paducah is a lot cheaper than Paris on the Concorde!”
“Not after you buy fabric, it isn't.”
“Okay, then come for the fun of it! These people are wild! We hardly let up; it's just one thing after another!”
“You go ahead without me. And when you come home, I want to hear all of you wild show-goers say, 'Hey, look a the quilt block I had tattooed on my behind!'”
Only he didn't say "behind", opting instead for a more colorful, three-letter, biker-type term. As you know, Harley-Davidson aficionados are another segment of society that suffers from faulty preconceptions. We feel each others' pain.
So, I got to thinking... This is sort of like a challenge. I like challenges! I've done a few in my guild before, and it's basically what I do whenever I design a new piece. As a starting point, I give myself an outline of what I want included in the quilt, then I design the rest of the quilt around that. Of course, there's no greater challenge than finding a wadded-up UFO stuffed amid scraps in a project box, it's original plan long-forgotten. That just happened this week, so there are border workbooks and art magazines strewn about as I scheme this one out. But I digress...
And that brings us back to the discussion we began last time. Are quilters being stereotyped by the non-threadies of the world? Do the lintless curl their lips in distaste as we dash for the TV when the theme song for Love of Quilting opens? Is there a basis in fact for the standard of stodgy when talking about the American-as-apple-pie quilter? I think not!
A call to arms stands before us. I have ordered quilt block temporary tattoos. And, I have designed a pattern for a quilt-y thong. Ladies, and you adventuresome men quilters, give me a call. We need to be distributing these far and wide! Let 'em laugh at us now! We are QUILTERS, and wildly, wackily proud of it!
Copyright © 5/21/2005 Kari E.O. Burns
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