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