Reflections on the Fourth Week of Winter – Haunted Quilters

Pleasantview

When I walked into the sewing room Friday morning at 8:00, quilters, looking comfortable in nightgowns and bathrobes, waved from behind their machines. Pat, the unofficial boss of our Country Charms guild, shouted, “How’s the driving?”

Everyone stopped sewing and looked up.

“Back roads are slippery, but Route 173 is clear.”

They nodded, and the hum of sewing machines resumed.

The quilt retreat at Pleasantview, a former Mennonite nursing home turned into an event center, spanned four and a half days. I could only manage one. I arranged my gear on a twelve by four foot table next to the sewing room door. Against the inside wall, eleven more tables made a line from me to the kitchen at the far end. Across the room, ten tables stood by picture windows that had a great view of the parking lot and a snowy field.

While listening to women gossip about Pat’s sister hoarding material and getting thrown out of a quilt shop for being a nuisance, I attached a light tan strips, the tenth of seventeen pieces in my log cabin blocks. By the time I’d measured, sewn, overcasted, cut threads, and ironed twenty six blocks, I had stiff knees and shoulders. I needed a break.

I pulled three dollars out of my wallet and shoved the wallet back into my purse. Leaving my name tag on my table and the purse on my chair, I turned and stepped on a pile of plastic reward cards that must have slipped out of the wallet. I scooped them up, put them back in the wallet, and shoved the wallet into my purse. Satisfied all were put away, I headed out to study items on the Chinese auction table in the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A pin cushion shaped like a bird, mountains of patterns and quilt books, a cute ceramic bunny . . .

“Janet!”

My eyes jerked from auction items to the door of the sewing room.

A quilter, from the Oil City guild, pointed to the floor by my sewing table. “You dropped your credit cards on the floor.”

“But―”

“You’ll want to put them back in your purse,” she said in a scolding voice as if I’d dragged her quilt through the mud.

“Thanks.” I walked back to the sewing room and picked up the pile of reward cards. Had they fallen out of my wallet when I shoved the others back in? Puzzled, I put the cards away, surveyed the floor, then went back to the auction table. I bought a dozen tickets to benefit Precious Paws Animal Rescue, wrote my name on the back of the tickets, and dropped four into the bag for the ceramic bunny.

“Janet!” Holding the maroon striped pillow case she’d sewn for her granddaughter, Karen stood in the sewing room doorway. “You dropped your credit cards on the floor.” Cards littered the floor by her feet.

My forehead wrinkled, and I rushed back to Karen. “This is the third time!” While I picked up the cards, I explained the first two episodes. “It’s as if a ghost were playing tricks.”

We giggled.

Joy, a quilter as delightful as her name, ambled by balancing with her cane. “Pleasantview has a ghost. My grandmother stayed here when it was a nursing home. One of the residents who died here haunts the building.”

Karen and I stared at each other. Our eyes widened and our mouths tightened.

“This time, I’m going to zip my purse shut.” I put the cards in my wallet, stuffed the wallet into my purse, and zipped it shut. To be extra sure, I set the purse inside a tote bag. After distributing the rest of my tickets in the hall, I tiptoed back. No cards lay on the floor. Zipping worked.

While I sewed a tan strip onto my log cabin blocks, quilters swapped stories about grandchildren.

“I let mine have a Popsicle for breakfast. It’s as nutritious as the juices they have for kids these days.”

“I thought you would have embroidered diapers for your grandbaby by now, Pat―the way you’ve been sewing gifts for her.”

Mixed with the conversation came the sounds of Big Ben chimes. I looked up from my machine. “Is that someone’s cell phone?”

Karen hoisted a pair of scissors overhead toward a clock with Roman numerals on the face. “It’s the clock on the wall.”

Nancy, the guild president, said, “Last night when everyone was in bed, I slept out here.” Waving purple fabric, she motioned to a recliner in the corner. “In the dark, the clock chimed sixteen times.”

“Sixteen o’clock would be four in the afternoon,” I said.

Nancy shook her head. “It was the middle of the night, and I was here all alone.” She put her fabric on the ironing table beside the recliner and picked up the hot iron. “It was real spooky, I can tell you.”

My lower back ached as if someone had slammed it with a dozen cold irons. I stood, stretched in a yoga back bend, and wondered if Nancy had counted the melody notes for the hour. That had sixteen notes, but they sounded like a song, not chimes. Hmmm.

I moseyed over to Pat’s table to ooh and aah at her baby projects―a carrier cover, a wall hanging, a receiving blanket, and burping cloths. All in pink and gray. All with elephants.

Pat threw her arms wide. “Look at all I made, and the baby’s not even born yet.” She belly laughed so hard she dropped her ruler. “The baby’s room will be decorated in pink, gray, and elephants. Can you tell?”

While I attached dark green strips to my log cabin blocks, conversation changed to the anticipated weekend snow.

“Maybe I should leave tonight before the snow starts,” someone a third of the way down the aisle said.

“We might as well stay here and sew while the roads are yucky,” Pat called from her pink, gray, and elephant table. “We can leave Sunday after the storm.”

Sue, the guild member who creates fabric landscapes in her hangings and purses, played the weather forecast on her smart phone. “The forecast hasn’t changed.” She turned the program off. “Hey! My car started in the parking lot!” She slammed her fists onto her hips. “How’d that happen? My keys are in my purse under the sewing table.”

Sitting across from Sue, Karen shrugged her shoulders and packed the maroon pillow case in a tote bag. “Maybe I kicked your purse?”

Sue ducked under the table and got her keys. “Unlikely.”

Pat belly laughed again. “It’s the ghosts. This used to be a nursing home. There must be a gang of ghosts here.”

Sue headed for the door. “As long as the car’s on, I’ll let it run awhile then check the battery.” She left to brush snow off her car.

My bottom had numbed from sitting. For another break, I stood, picked up one of my log cabin blocks, and hunted down Cheryl, a professional quilter. I asked her for advice. “What pattern would you use on log cabin blocks in a finished quilt?”

Cheryl fetched a piece of freezer paper, what quilters use to draw quilt patterns on, then sketched curves and random squiggles. “With the angular pattern of your blocks, you want to complement it with a simple loopy pattern. Several quilters stopped to look while she drew five variations.

Later that evening, I sewed gold fabric strips to my blocks, and the women transitioned from discussing weather to husbands.

“Mine will be outside with his shovel. He has a snow blower, but he says the shovel gets the walks cleaner. Can you imagine?”

“While I’m gone, mine rinses the dishes and puts them on top of the dish washer. Why couldn’t he put the dishes inside?”

“That’s nothing. My friend’s husband is hard of hearing. She told him, ‘I love you, Dan,’ and he answered, ‘What’s wrong with your feet?’”

Led by Pat’s belly laughs, the sewing room erupted with cackles, snickers, and guffaws.

Despite aching shoulders, back, hips, bottom, and hands, I laughed with the women. I’d planned to stay another hour, but I couldn’t imagine sewing another stitch. I wanted to go home to my not-to laugh-about husband, show him the ceramic bunny I won in the auction, and explain the progress I’d made on the log cabin blocks.

With my gear packed, I headed home on slippery roads through the country dark. I’d enjoyed the entertaining day with the quilters. And if a ghost played any more tricks―fine with me. I could hear about it at the next guild meeting.

My Sewing Station