Reflections on the Ninth Week of Fall - Rainbow Lady

Stained Glass Rainbow Wall Hanging

Wednesday afternoon, I bent over my sewing machine, squinted, and maneuvered a stained-glass rainbow wall hanging under my sewing machine’s walking foot. The machine crept at its lowest speed. The jabbing needle formed a cat outline in black thread. 

Outside the loft window, bare branches scraped the November-gray sky. Below me, sleep breaths resounded from the sofa where, after my husband’s back to back trips to Cleveland, Spence napped with our three kittens. Over the NPR live stream on my computer tablet, Adam Schiff questioned Gordon Sondland’s assertion that “Everyone was in the loop.”

The thread looped forming a cat paw, and I stared at the bright red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple stripes. Despite the disharmony coming through the speaker, I chuckled remembering Rainbow Lady, a nickname given to me the third weekend of October at the Whitehall Camp and Conference Center in Emlenton, Pennsylvania.

Amid the chatter of twenty-three quilters and their twenty-three zinging sewing machines, I had sewed strips of bright colored fabric to form hand-size rainbows—straight not arched—while other quilters created queen-size quilts.

Unfazed by her two hour drive from Pittsburgh, Beth, a guest of the guild, walked between sewing tables in the long, rectangular conference room. Standing taller than the other quilters, she greeted everyone she passed with a never-ending smile that glowed through her cheeks and brightened her eyes. After she plunked her gear three tables over from me she called, “Did you get a seat by a window, Janet?”

I’d only met Beth once, a year ago at a quilting retreat. How she remembered, that I liked sewing by a window to gaze at nature, flabbergasted me. 

  

Throughout the retreat, her sunny disposition constantly shined down on other quilters and me. When she saw my Halloween sweatshirt, Beth cooed, “You look so cute.” When I dashed to the kitchen to fetch paper towels for a quilter who spilled coffee on her rooster material, Beth shouted, “Look at her go! Wonder Woman.” When I wielded my rotary cutter to slice the rainbow strips into blocks, she commented, “How do you get your lines so straight? They’re perfect—not wavy like so many people sew.”

Peering at my project. she dubbed me Rainbow Lady.

Rainbow Blocks

Mid Saturday, I set the rainbows on my sewing table and reached underneath into the Styrofoam box for my pill tin and two cloth napkins. Clutching them, I strode to the kitchen—off the middle of the sewing room—and fetched the slice of chicken pot pie I’d left in the refrigerator. While the pie heated in the microwave, I made a side trip to the ladies room. 

I carried my lunch to Diane’s table to chat with her while I ate. Diane, who had arranged the retreat for guild members and friends, moved patterns and her cutting mat to make space. I spread my napkin, set down the pie, and reached into my pocket for the pill tin. Handkerchief. Phone. No tin. Sheesh. I am the Wonder Woman of losing objects while sitting in place. Where had I lost the pills?

I searched my sewing table, the Styrofoam food box, the kitchen, the bathroom, and my pocket. No pill tin. I returned to my sewing table and searched everywhere two more times.

Beth looked up from her coral colored quilt top. “What are you looking for, Rainbow Lady?”  

“My pills.” I stooped to reexamine the Styrofoam food box.

Beth stood. “What do they look like?”

“They’re in a green tin the size of a needle case. The tin has a cartoon dinosaur on the top.” 

Tammy, the quilter across from Beth and owner of Fox’s quilt store in Meadville, stopped her machine. “Where did you see them last?” 

“In my hand.” I held up my empty hand. Then I reached in both of my pockets again. One empty. One with a handkerchief and phone.

Beth looked under rainbow blocks on my sewing table. 

Leaving her, I trudged back to Diane, crouched to peer under her table. No pills. I lifted my napkin. Still no pills. 

I gave up. 

The tin would turn up sometime. When it did, I could take the pills. I take vitamin D because I don’t eat dairy products. To lower my cholesterol, I take fish oil which my friend Diana, who writes “The Medical Insider," says I don’t need. Nothing necessary. Not life threatening. No worries.

Beth shouted. “Nobody eats until Janet finds her pills!”

Machines stopped zinging.

Quilters walked through the sewing room with heads bent toward the floor.

Double sheesh!  

Swallowing a mouthful of warm pot pie, I jumped out of my chair and thrust my hand into my pocket for the umpteenth time. I pulled out the phone and set it on my napkin. I pulled out the handkerchief. I reached in again, and my fingers touched the tin. I pulled it out and waved the tin over my head. “I found it. Thanks everyone. It was in my pocket.” 

Guffaws erupted in the sewing room.

Face heated from blushing, I sat and took another bite.

Diane looked over from her Halloween cat quilt. “I lose things like that all the time.” 

Machines zinged. Chatter resumed. Beth returned to her quilt.

That had all happened a month ago. 

Back in the loft this past Wednesday afternoon, my mind returned to the skeletal trees outside and quilted cats on the stained glass rainbow hanging.

Thud. An unexpected kitten attack.

Ande, our biggest kitten and the one who chews every wire he finds, scampered between the sewing machine and the thread holder. He opened his mouth wide and bit the dangling thread.

I pulled soggy thread from Ande’s sharp teeth, set him on the floor, and rethreaded the machine with dry thread.

While I quilted another cat outline, Devin Nunes’s voice boomed through the tablet. “Aren’t you just guessing, Mr. Sondland?” 

The House impeachment hearings could use a person like Beth, someone who spreads sunshine wherever she goes—the true Rainbow Lady.

Beth and Janet

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Fall – C-C-Coping with the First Winter Storm

Grasses in Snow

The fall parade of all-black woolly bear caterpillars didn’t prepare me.

The week of ten degree below normal temperatures didn’t prepare me.

Even our kitten’s antics observing their first snowflakes didn’t prepare me. 

A week and a half ago, the kittens stared through the sliding glass door while snowflakes drifted from lumpy gray clouds and colored the deck bright white. Rills pointed his nose toward the offending clouds. Ande flicked his tail. Gilbert chittered and squeaked—his bug hunting vocalizations—then pounced on the glass.

Forecasts flooded the airways last Monday and finally prepared me.

Winter Storm Warning

 Monday 7 p.m. through Wednesday10 p.m.

Hazardous travel conditions.

Neighbors made sure I’d heard.

Kathy’s voice questioned through the phone. “Did ya hear we’re getting five inches?”

Dave sliced meat behind the deli counter at Millers. “We’re in for it. Hopefully it’ll melt, and we won’t see any snow until December.”

Leslie lamented in the Meadville Area Recreation Complex locker room. “My daughter wanted me to babysit tonight so she could go to parent teacher conferences.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves of a pullover sweater. “I hate to be a wuss.”

“Does she live in Meadville?” I pulled long underwear up my legs.

“No. Erie.” Leslie stuck her head into the sweater. “Highway driving after dark in a snowstorm isn’t safe—especially around Edinboro.” Her head popped out, and worry etched her face. “And it’s the first storm of the season. People will still drive summer fast. I’m going to cancel.”

Spence didn’t cancel his trip to volunteer for lead safe homes in Cleveland.

I peered through the sliding glass door at rain washing the deck and hoped he would get back to Wells Wood before freezing rain or snow started.

His 2:08 p.m. text shattered that hope. Cleveland radio predicting 12 inches.

Yikes! My fingers pounded the phone screen. Come home now!

Silence from Cleveland until a few minutes after six. At St. Augustine’s waiting for the block club.

I tempered my plea. Come home as soon as you can.

This time he answered in seconds. OK. No snow here. New forecast is 2 inches overnight. No worries.

Thanks. I feel better about your drive. I hugged all three kittens—one at a time—to celebrate.

Because his meeting ran late, I fell asleep before he got home. 

Tuesday morning, he tossed off three kittens and two afghans. “Snow made the roads slick.” Yawning, he booted his computer. “I drove forty-five miles per hour. At least there wasn’t much traffic.” 

I dreaded him making another slow, slippery trip to and from Cleveland. “Can you cancel today’s trip?”

He squinted at weather maps on his computer screen. “I’ll be driving into the teeth of their storm going to CLASH.” (Cleveland Lead Advocates for Safe Housing)

Gilbert climbed onto Spence’s shoulders.

Gilbert Watching Snow

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Spence petted the kitten. “And I’d be driving into the teeth of our storm coming home.” He set Gilbert on the floor and tapped computer keys. “I’m canceling the trip.”

Wind howled.

Snow piled.

Temperatures dropped to twenty degrees below normal.

I still drove to the rec complex for lap swim. Frozen slush speckled back roads, and an orange tire icon glowed on the dashboard. Low air pressure in the tires from the cold, no doubt. Maybe the twenty-eight-mile round trip would warm the air in the tires and shut off the indicator, I kept driving. The light didn’t turn off Tuesday. Not on Wednesday, and not on Thursday. 

When I told Spence about the indicator, he crouched beside the driver’s side front tire and stuck his air pressure gauge into a tube. Psst. Psst. Tire after tire he measured pressure. “You’re three pounds low in the front. Six pounds in the back.” He tucked the gauge into his padded vest pocket. “Drive me to Matt’s. I’ll put air in your tires.”

Neighbors had the same idea as Spence. Vehicles occupied every parking place at Matt’s auto shop. A sedan and a shiny new pickup parked parallel to Matt’s office door. Sucking in my stomach, I steered around them to the second bay. By the last bay, a cable connected a charger to the battery in a battered pickup with its hood open wide—like a patient ahhing for a doctor to check for a winter flu infection.

I stayed in the heated car while Spence wove through vehicles to find Matt and borrow the air pump. 

A minute later, the bay door opened. Matt strode to my car with coiled tubing in his arms. He crouched by the driver side tire. Psst. “Yeah. We’re busy today.” He moved to another tire. “People need their winter tires. Batteries died. All the things that come with the first deep cold.”

Matt’s words—all the things that come with the first deep cold—triggered images in my mind.

• Grasses and river willow branches bending with the weight of snow.
• A lone chickadee fluttering past the sliding glass door to scout for the bird feeder.
• Cabbage, broccoli, and beets wilting from stress under their cover cloth.

Nature coped with more grace to winter storms than us vehicle-dependent humans. 

The first winter storm ended leaving not five, not twelve, but three inches of snow.

Friday the snow melted and dripped from the roof. 

Gilbert strolled to the sliding glass door, sat on his haunches, and stared.

Handfuls of snow slid off the solar panels and, whoosh-plop, splattered on the deck.  

Ears flattened, Gilbert jumped back. His paws scratched floor tiles, and, lowering himself until his belly scraped the floor, he scampered under the coffee table.

I giggled, reached under the table, and gave him a reassuring pet. I’m prepared for avalanches of snow thundering off the solar panels and crashing onto the deck. 

Given time, Gilbert, a creature of nature—not a vehicle-dependent human, will c-c-cope with grace to the wonders winter storms bring.

Beets

 

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Fall - The Don’t Wait Quilt  Part 2

Ugly Fabric Tote Bag

At dusk, on a warm March evening, I bounced across back roads to Homespun Treasures Quilt Shop and forced myself to look away from the glowing pink sunset. Watching for bounding deer, I estimated days until I finished my son’s attic window wall hanging—six, maybe seven. 

I exhaled. Relief. In a week, I could return to following my late mom’s advice. Do it now. Don’t wait. I could finish the log cabin quilt she’d encouraged me to create in July 2008. [See “The Don’t Wait Quilt” November 5, 2019] 

Optimistic, I opened the squeaky quilt-shop door. Ding-ding-ding. Fabric sizing tickled my nose. While I averted my eyes from tempting materials, I carried the scissors and a yard of ugly fabric from my stash to the back room. 

Among quilts hanging on the wall and sewing-station tables in the middle of the room, Country Charms quilters laughed and chatted. Greta’s melodic voice sounded above the hubbub. “Sit in a circle with your ugly fabrics.” 

Eleven generously-sized women squeezed around two small tables. Everyone sat except Greta. One of our young members who’d just retired from nursing at age sixty-five, she held fabric in front of her chest. “Rip it in half.” Ri-i-ip. She extended her arms separating the sections. “Give half to the person on your right. Keep half in a pile in front of you.”

I snipped the middle of my fabric to start the rip. The women at my end of the circle passed the scissors around to start their rips. Like second graders, we took a while figuring out which way to pass the fabric.

“Rip that half and pass it along.” Greta walked behind the quilters to assist the flow of pieces.

We ripped and passed until everyone had eleven pieces. Stripes, giant flowers, splotches, and tiny prints—in clashing colors.

“Here’s the challenge. Make anything you want using some of each fabric.”

While quilters grumbled, I piled the fabric pieces by size. Making something presentable from the mismatched lot would challenge my imagination. 

 “Bring the finished projects to the birthday meeting in July for our gift exchange.”

Sheesh. Another distraction. If the project were for me, I could put it off until I finished the log cabin quilt. Making something worthy of these master quilters would take months. 

You have four.

I’ll need at least two to create a non-nausea-producing design with that mess.

Applique flowers. They come in all shapes and colors.

But I resolved to finish my log cabin quilt before working on other projects. I can’t finish it and do the ugly fabric challenge in four months.

You already broke your resolution to make the attic window for Charlie.

Six days later, when I finished my son’s wall hanging, I spread the ugly fabrics across the loft bed. Still ugly. To minimize this second delay, I would ruminate on ideas while I sewed decorative blocks for the quilt top design. Squinting to poke the tan thread at the tiny hole in the sewing machine needle again and again, I sewed eight house blocks.

Log Cabin Tree and House Blocks

Design, sew, rip.

Design, sew, rip.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

And eight tree blocks.

Attach green boughs.

Attach brown trunks.

Quick, quick, quick.

That gave me two months to create a tote bag for one of the quilters. Gritting my teeth, I scowled for five minutes while I changed to invisible thread for quilting the ugly fabric project.

Applique loopy petals.

Applique curvy stems.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Though changing the thread back to tan took ten minutes, it sent bubbles of delight through my body.

Greta’s email popped them. 

Wood Barn Quilt Project 

9 to 4 Saturday, June 29 

Scrubgrass Grange, Emlenton, PA.

Double Sheesh. I’d always wanted a wood barn quilt block for our log house. Though I wouldn’t have to struggle with thread changing to paint a quilt design on a block of wood, did I dare delay the log cabin quilt yet again? Maybe a two by two foot block of wood wouldn’t take long to paint. I designed a four color Ohio Star pattern and drove to Emlenton. 

While thunder boomed outside, I painted the first two coats of eight blue triangles. At home, I discovered each three-coat-paint sequence had to be followed by three-coat-touch-ups because masking tape isn’t perfect. The phrase watching paint dry took on new meaning. [See “An Old Man, a Barn Quilt Block, and a Ladder” July 21, 2019]

Tape, paint, rip.

Tape, paint, rip.

Watch. Paint. Dry.

Hoping Greta would run out of ideas and suggest a UFO—unfinished objects—for the next guild Fun Night, I chanted “No more distractions,” crawled across the loft, and spread the eighty blocks on the floor to create my quilt design. 

That intrigued my kittens. I lifted one kitten off the blocks and stacked a row in sewing order. I lifted another kitten off the blocks and stacked a second row. While I sewed, I wished Mom could see my progress.

Sew logs at points.

Sew blocks to blocks.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Now the quilt top needed to be quilted. Usually I quilt each row on my regular sewing machine then attach them. Squeezing the batting and backing with the quilt top to sew a seam would make matching log points too difficult. For the first time, I hired a professional quilter.

Wednesday, August 28, I gathered the quilt top, batting, and the marbled gold backing material. Piling them high in my arms, I bent my neck sideways, peered around the mound, and waddled to the car. After the bumpy drive to the quilt shop, I lugged the mountainous fabric inside. 

Cheryl, behind racks of patterns in the back room, stitched free motion with her long arm quilt machine—thit-thit-thit. She stopped to inspect my quilt. “Ooh! That’s beautiful. Great colors.” She showed me her patterns and jotted down my requests—daisies, leaves, vines, c-hook swirls, and WW for Wells Wood in the center house blocks. 

“There are seven quilts in front of you,” Cheryl said while I signed the contract. “Do you have a deadline?”

“No,” I lied then calculated how long attaching the binding might take, if I paced myself to avoid arthritis flare-ups, and tripled the time—in case of distractions. “I’d like it back before Thanksgiving if possible.”

Cheryl chortled and waved her hand in dismissal. “I’ll have it done before then.”

I walked to the car regretting I hadn’t asked for Halloween.

After supper September 18, I lugged another load to Homespun Treasures—my sewing machine, strips of blue fabric, and ninety-four feet of used clothesline—for Greta’s rope basket project. I plopped my gear onto a sewing table behind Cheryl, who, working late, measured backing material for someone’s quilt. I peered over her shoulder at marbled gold fabric. “THAT’S MY QUILT!”

Cheryl Quilting with the Long Arm

 Cheryl snickered. “I thought I’d surprise you. I wanted to load your quilt before I left tonight.”

She toted the fabric to the long arm quilting machine, and Greta gave directions. “Put a denim or number sixteen needle on your machine. Wrap fabric around the rope, coil it, and fasten the coils with a zigzag stitch.”

Triple sheesh. Changing the needle proved harder than changing thread. “Greta?” She had younger eyes. “Would you please change the needle for me?” 

While Greta changed my needle, thit-thit-thit floated from the behind the pattern racks—Cheryl basting my backing to the frame’s leader cloth no doubt.

“If the noise is bothering anyone,” Cheryl’s voice called, “I can stop and do this tomorrow.”

I answered before anyone had a chance. “You’re fine. No one’s bothered.”

Cheryl guffawed. “My protector.”

The quilters giggled. 

The long arm’s thit-thit-thit provided a quiet baseline for eight quilters chatting and their sewing machines zinging. Not a distraction. I knew distractions. 

Cheryl had quilted the three layers by the end of the next day. I could change thread and sew the binding.

But, I needed to change the needle for the binding. Though I didn’t want another delay, changing the needle once tested my patience. If I didn’t finish the rope basket first, I’d have to change the needle twice.

Coil, zig, and zag.

Coil, zig, and zag.

Quick, quick, quick.

Weeks Distracted

The end of September, biting my lip, wishing I had the power of Wonder Woman, and sneering at the sewing machine, I changed the needle and thread. Ta-da! Ready for the binding.

Machine sew front.

Hand sew back.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

I just had to pick up the label I ordered from Laurie’s Embroidery in Meadville, border the label with fabric logs, and hand sew it to the back of the quilt. I would be in town Monday, October 28. After I swam laps at the recreation center, I could get the label then drive to my friend Cindy’s for lunch and charity pillowcase sewing. No more distractions.

Over the phone, Cindy’s voice pleaded. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Wait and take me after lunch.” 

The slight change of plan wouldn’t matter.

She buckled her seat belt.

I lowered the visor against the welcome sunshine and eased the car down the hill.

Cindy chatted about her latest adventure buying blinds for her dining room, and I braked for the stop sign.

Quilt Label

Rrra-a-a-a-sp. Scrrri-i-i-tch. Rrra-a-a-sp.

She swiveled in her seat as if checking for the sound behind me. “What’s that?”

“That’s a noise I hear sometimes.” I steered around the corner. “I decide to take the car to Matt, my mechanic, then the noise stops—and I forget.”

The noise stopped. Cindy turned around. We drove past Meadville hospital.

Clink, clank, clink. Ting, ping, ting. 

“What’s that?” Cindy swiveled her head back then front.

“Don’t know. It’s new.” I turned onto North Street. No clinking or tinging. “It sounded like we dragged something—like a tree branch only metallic. I’ll stop at Matt’s on my way home today. He’s only three miles from Wells Wood.”

“Oh, Darling.” Cindy grabbed the sides of her seat. “Do go to Matt’s. That sound isn’t right.”

I accelerated.

Rrra-a-a-a-sp, clink, scrrri-i-i-tch. Clank, clank, clank.

“STOP.” Cindy’s hands flew to the sides of her face. Worry dripping from her voice, she pleaded, “Take me home then go to Matt’s.” 

Another delay for my log cabin quilt? NO. In my reassuring-mother voice, I reasoned. “We’re two blocks from the shop and ten from your house. We’ll be okay.”

The car quieted.

Cindy dropped her hands, and I parked in front of the embroidery shop.

Three hours later, with the label on the passenger seat, the car rasped, clinked, and clanked out of Meadville then purred over country roads to Matt’s. 

Matt, standing beside a pickup on a lift, wiped his hands on an oil stained rag. He furrowed his brow while he listened to my story of the sometimey noise that worsened. “Let me check something.” He stepped into his office, clicked computer keys, and stared at the repair record for my Subaru. Then he grabbed a flashlight and strode to the parking lot. “Do you know which wheel was making the noise?”

Giant stepping to keep up with him, I shook my head. “My friend Cindy thought it came from the driver’s side.”

Matt crouched and shined the flashlight at the back driver’s side wheel. “See that shiny spot when I put the light on it?”

I saw the light from the flashlight. Nothing more. “Yeah?”

“Something’s rubbing there.” He shifted his cap and stood to face me. “I’m busy this week, but I’ll squeeze you in tomorrow.”

“Spence isn’t home to pick me up.”

“You can drive home safely.” He stared with listen-to-me eyes. “But no more trips to Meadville. And bring the car back tomorrow morning.”

Finally. No more distractions. Restraining myself from hugging Matt for giving me a reason to stay home and sew, I boogied to the car. 

Tuesday I attached logs around the label. Wednesday I hand sewed the label to the back of the quilt. 

After eleven years, three months, and one day, I finished my log cabin quilt. DONE! DONE! DONE!

Mom would be proud.   

Log Cabin Quilt in Bedroom