Reflections on the Ninth Week of Summer – First Quilt

      “For show and tell, bring the first quilt you made,” Pat said. Conversations in the back room of the quilt shop bubbled over till Pat, the woman in charge of our Country Charms Quilt Guild summer party to celebrate our birthdays, called us back to order.

      Unlike the others, I didn't remember which quilt I'd sewn first. Rather than take a class or buy a kit, I eased into quilting through patchwork. With a ball point pen, I'd traced around cardboard templates then scissor cut squares from remnants or old clothes to sew curtains, place mats, a sewing machine cover, and a seldom-worn skirt. When friends had babies, I bought fabric and sewed crib coverlets and quilts.

      But which came first? Mentally I listed babies and calculated present ages. The oldest was Halle, now twenty-eight and a biotech scientist living in California. Did she still have the quilt? Would she let me borrow it? How could I get in touch with her?

      I emailed her dad Cory with questions so that I could “tell” the story even if I couldn't show the quilt.

      Cory emailed back that he had no idea how to answer my questions, but he'd talked with Halle. The quilt was in Cleveland not California, and Halle said, “The quilt traveled everywhere with us. It might as well travel with Janet too.”

      A week and a half ago on Wednesday morning, Spence and I sat with Cory at his kitchen table. Smiling and sipping beverages, we discussed our daughters' weddings, family updates, jobs, retirement, and politics.

      Two hours later, Cory led us the few steps to the kitchen island. He spread the quilt on the counter, reached for a printed copy of my email, and read the first question on the page. “Is it quilted or tied?”

      I fingered the pink thread cut short so that Halle wouldn't choke on the embroidery floss. “Tied.”

      “Were the squares sewn in a pattern or at random?” he read.

      The quilt had faded almost to white. I stared at the squares and was about to conclude random when I squinted and discerned slightly different shades in the fabric. “Nine patch.” With a finger, I outlined a block. “See the three rows of three squares made in two alternating fabrics?”

      The fellas nodded.

      “It's faded but still in tact,” I whispered. “Not one rip.”

      “We washed it in Downy,” Cory said. “It's so soft and comforting.”

      This Wednesday, after the guild dinner at Old Mill Restaurant in Cochranton, quilters dragged heavy chairs to form a circle and, one by one, shared the first quilts we'd sewn. Several women had made king size samplers that would challenge me today. A couple sewed the Around the World pattern like I'd sewed in 2014 for my nephew's wedding. One even made a complicated LeMoyne star. Most quilts looked brand new as if they'd been stored in museum containers. Only three of us had started with easier nine patch blocks.

      My turn came near the end. “I made this baby quilt for Halle Rose Zucker so I chose rosebud fabrics.” One after another, I held up the pastel blue, pink, and yellow remnants that had been in my scrap box since 1988. “The back and binding are from the same fabric.” I waved a piece of white fabric with red rosebuds then opened the crib quilt for all to see. “Over time the fabrics faded.”

      The circle of women gasped.

      In unison.

      Pat broke the silence. “It's so soft and gently used with love.”