Reflections on the Fifth Week of Spring – Three Men and a Quilter

 

Quilting Cross in a Cross Pattern

    Thursday afternoon, when Spence and I walked on grass finally bare after constant April snow showers, he popped a question. “I’m thinking of inviting Tim and his fishing buddy to dinner tomorrow.” He pointed to the bottom of Porter’s driveway where lanky Tim and his jockey-sized friend emerged from the trees. “Is that okay with you? I’ll make meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

    Sheesh. The Country Charms Quilt Show is in two weeks. I still had to machine quilt and attach the border, hand sew the border to the back, and bind the edges on the Mansfield Park quilt. Could I afford the time? And I didn’t clean house Wednesday so I could quilt all day.

    Mary Ann’s house was a dark, dusty jumble. She invited Tim every time he came from Michigan.

    Mary Ann, without a driver’s license and so blind she couldn’t tell who you were from two feet away, lost her reasoning last month, drove her car into a ditch along Route 173, and landed in a Pittsburgh nursing home. She couldn’t invite Tim for dinner this time.

    Are you going to deny Spence a little male company?

    Last week at Allegheny College in Lisa D’Amour’s play Detroit, a couple invited their neighbors to dinner, and the neighbor’s burned down the couple’s house.

    Don’t be silly. Be kind.

    “Fine, Spence.” I held out my hand. “Give me your pocket knife so I can harvest daffodils while you invite the fellas.”

    Friday dawned busy. After a six month check up with my physician assistant Cynthia at the health care center and washing three loads of laundry, I peeled, sliced, and measured organic Gala Apples for a pie. Sticking a crisp quarter apple into my mouth, I fetched whole wheat flour and olive oil for the crust. Images of the flaming couple’s house on the Allegheny theater stage swirled through my mind while I sifted and measured.

    With a fork I whisked the flour and oil. Visions of the fire quenched in the bowl’s soupy mixture. I picked up the measuring cup and squinted at the label stamped into the handle. One half. Sheesh. I’d added two half cups rather than two thirds. Waste the ingredients and start again? I sifted more flour. The dough got too dry. I added oil and cold water then rolled the bottom crust. It looked right. Was it? I nibbled a crumb. Bitter. Maybe it would cook right.

    I stuck the pie in the oven. By the time juice bubbled through the slits in the crust, I’d washed dishes, picked up the great room, and swept the floor. I set the pie in the center of the table between two bouquets of daffodils and tore off my apron. I had a half hour to quilt before the men arrived.

    In the loft, I guided the quilting paper’s cross in a cross design under the sewing machine needle.

    A phoebe sang on the telephone wire outside my window.

    Mourning doves cooed under the eaves.

    When I quilted the fourth cross, a huge white pickup drove past the window and turned into our driveway. Company. I shut the machine off and hustled downstairs.

    Tim walked in carrying a half case of Yuengling Light.

    The jockey-sized fisherman followed, doffed his camouflage baseball cap, and smiled broadly. “Hi. I’m Bill. Thanks for inviting us.”

    Spence took the beer, and the fellas moved toward chairs in the great room.

    “Oh, gosh.” Tim hit his forehead with his fist. “I started a pot of coffee and forgot it. It’s still on the fire.”

    Visions of flames jumping from tree to tree between Tim’s hunting cabin and our log house ignited in my head.

    Bill put on his cap. “I’ll drive up and turn it off.” He left.

    To calm myself, I grabbed silverware and napkins.

    Spence played host. “Did you catch any fish in our creek?”

    “No. Deer Creek’s running too fast.” Tim sat rested his hands on his knees. “But there’s a calm spot up behind the Milledgeville Cemetery. We caught three there yesterday.”

    I set the table.

    The fellas chatted about the children’s fishing hole down the road. “They had a great turn out.” Spence chuckled. “Kathy said she served a hundred hot dogs to the baby fishermen.”

    They both chuckled.

    Spence said, “Why don’t you show Tim your quilt, Janet.”

    Show a fella my quilt? When men attend the quilt show, they glance at the displays on their way to the homemade pies. “Do you want to see the quilt?”

    “Sure.” Tim patted his knee, and Bill walked inside.

    He hung his jacket and cap on the coat tree. “The coffee was done. I turned it off.”

    Taking a calming breath, I walked to the stairs.

    Tim called after me. “Should we follow you upstairs to see the quilt?”

    With my sports bra and pantyhose hanging on the drying rack in the loft? “No. I’ll bring it down.”

    I fetched the quilt, hustled back, and handed a corner to Spence. “Hold this.”

    We stretched the quilt between us. I grabbed the middle of my side and lifted so the quilt didn’t drag on the floor. “Keep it off the floor.”

    “This is as high as I go.” Spence stretched his arm full length above his head.

    The browns, reds, and leaf prints of the quilt blended between the gold diamond the cross in a cross and four square by two blocks made.

    “Oh. It’s beautiful.” Tim stood to get a better view.

    Bill stroked his goatee. “Lovely. At my church, they sew prayer quilts.” His eyes drifted toward the rafters. “They made one for a hunter. It didn’t have a moose on it . . . but it was amazing.”

    After I folded my quilt and took it back to the loft, we settled at the table.

    The meatloaf and Wells Wood vegetables―green beans and mashed potatoes―disappeared while we chatted about the Vietnam War draft, families, and our latest old age ailments.

    I cleared the plates. “Do you want a sixth or an eighth of the pie?”

    Bill stared at the golden crust. “That pie’s been sitting there since we came.” He pursed his lips. “A sixth.” He turned to Tim. “You were hoping there’d be pie.”

    I hoped the crust baked right. I served slices, handed the fellas dessert forks, and took a bite. The crust tasted normal, and the apples crunched. Phew.

    The pie baked company-tasty, the house didn’t burn, and the guests, “clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation,” were Jane Austen delightful.

    And I have almost two weeks to finish my quilt.

Apple Pie