Reflections - Quilted Hearts

Gilbert in Hewn Log Chair

 

Warning: This story doesn’t have an ending. If the story did, I morally couldn’t divulge the ending. But you might discover one, two, or even seven. Because, in our world of division and discord, kindness is what’s at stake.

The mini saga began routinely enough in mid-May when I scooped a cat—in this instance Gilbert—out of my hewn log chair. Stepping around a catnip mouse with a gold-colored jingle bell at the end of its tail, I deposited Gilbert in the Adirondack chair across the great room and hurried back to claim my seat before one of his brothers hopped in. Successful, I found an email from my sister Anita.

Saw this and thought of you. It could be a kind gesture with your leftover scraps and something fun to do.

Anita included a photo of a quilted heart cut from an orange log cabin block along with the story of a mother and daughter finding the heart in a California park. 

My sister had me pegged. The photo, quilt, and story hooked me. I enlarged the photo and discovered a label with the phrase, “I Found a Quilted Heart.” While our three tabby cats curled in sleep—two in chairs, one on the sofa, and only Ande snoring—I typed the phrase into the computer. A website popped up. “Wow!”

At my exclamation, the cats’ ears twitched, but the boys didn’t wake.

The website posted photos of hearts and stories from people finding the hearts around the world. Each unique heart—whether striped, patched, or patterned—had been quilted and decorated with buttons, rickrack, or trinkets. All were lovingly created.

Finders expressed gratitude. Some responded with a simple “thanks” or “you made my day.” Others wrote more elaborate messages. One person, walking on the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death, found the heart hanging in a tree they’d passed together many times. She concluded her husband sent the heart as a message of love via the kindness of the quilter. Another story came from a school bus driver on the last day of the year. She’d felt sad about missing her “bus babies” over vacation when she found the heart on a layover between her morning high school and elementary routes. She cried tears of joy thinking the heart would carry her through the summer. The youngsters and she decided to hang the heart in their bus to ride with them in coming years.

By the end of June, I’d visited the website so often that I had the process memorized. Giving must be anonymous. You may acknowledge finding a heart and intending to participate in the program, but a quilter’s name is never mentioned. Create a palm-size heart. Attach the website’s label. Leave the heart in a public, not federal, place for someone to find. 

Accepting the rules, I set myself the goal of creating seven hearts in the seventh month. And I wanted each to be unique and special, making the finder’s eyes widen in delight.

Ande’s eyes widened. Mesmerized, he sat at the corner of the fold-out, four by eight foot sewing table in the loft. 

 

Ande Resting on the Red Fabric Scraps

Like a magician, I pulled scraps of fabric from linen bags in a dark blue storage cube. Reds, oranges, and yellows flowed out of one bag. Greens from another—I sewed many green projects—while blues and purples spilled from a third. When I reached into the cube for more linen bags, Ande pounced and pawed through the reds. Scraps flew into the air. He dug deeper and faster as if a mouse hid underneath. 

Picking him up around his middle, I eased a pink and red heart fabric off his front claw. “Thanks. I can use that one.” I set him on the floor, and, luckily, his brothers made a ruckus in the great room below. He dashed downstairs while I rummaged through what he’d sorted to find the solid red that matched his heart fabric. With the pair, I could create a checkerboard pattern and quilt it in cross hatch stitching. One heart planned.

Three days later, I’d lifted Ande off the table more times than I could count, and our mutual mess made me shudder. But, I had six more designs ready to quilt. Three were already sewn: a length of orange and yellow french braid; a section of rainbow stripes; and an hourglass block in light and dark blues. Each would make the top of a quilted heart. I sewed a blue and purple half square triangle. I stitched three stripes—jade green, a daisy print, and a cheerful yellow—next. Last, because we live in a log house, I created a log cabin block with paw print fabric surrounded by oranges and browns. 

Squinting, I screwed the quilting foot to my Janome sewing machine. I slipped the quilt sandwich under the presser foot and stepped on the control pedal. Stitching a quarter inch from the edge of the heart, I turned the sandwich and kept my fingers away from the jabbing needle. I’m always careful not to pierce my index fingernail—again.

Gilbert wasn’t as careful. He leaped onto the sewing table, pranced behind the sewing machine and swirled his tail catching the orange thread I’d chosen for the french braid. Hearing a pickup outside, he jumped to the window and dragged the thread with him.

I lifted my foot and grabbed Gilbert, who changed his mind and dove for the floor. Hugging the squirming cat to my chest, I snipped orange thread, freeing him and the heart. Unfortunately, I had to rip the quilting stitches and start again. The second time, I kept one eye on the heart and my fingers. The second eye watched for a leaping cat. 

Gilbert managed to snag himself in the white and blue quilting threads I used on subsequent hearts. He skipped the green. Perhaps he napped when I quilted the three-stripe heart. 

Gilbert Behind the Sewing Machine

Rills didn’t care about threads or fabrics. But, with hearts quilted and trimmed, I needed to negotiate with him over one of the decorations. 

Not the gold butterfly pinned to the french braid heart nor the pink butterfly on the blue-purple heart. He didn’t seem to care about the hummingbird button sewed to the three-stripe heart or the horizon brooch on the blue hourglass heart either. The checkerboard heart, with sparkles giving its fabric a shimmery finish, didn’t need to be adorned. And I had a nickel-size bell to sew on the rainbow heart. 

Rills and I had to negotiate the small gold jingle bell attached to the end of his catnip mouse’s tail. I needed the bell for the log cabin heart with the paw prints. To make matters worse, I’d quilted a dog on that heart. I reasoned with Rills. “I have a silver bell. It will ring just as well on your mouse’s tail. I need the gold one to match the browns in the design.” I grabbed his mouse and a pair of scissors.

He scowled. I interpreted that eye-penetrating-stare as she’s lost her mind, but I’ll tolerate her so she doesn’t forget to fill the food bowl. 

I snipped the gold bell off his mouse, sewed a silver bell back on double-quick, and handed the mouse back to him.

He sniffed, glanced at his food bowl, and yawned. 

Absconding with the gold-colored jingle bell, I attached it to the log cabin heart above the paw print fabric. 

Last, I pinned an official “I Found a Quilted Heart” label to each heart and approached Spence after his Friday afternoon nap. “Will you drive me around so I can hang the quilted hearts?”

“Did you print your Get Out of Jail Free card?”

I didn’t laugh. Our son Charlie had visited over the Fourth of July weekend and teased that I would get arrested for littering when I hung the hearts.

“No. I plan to wait until no one’s around. It wouldn’t be anonymous if someone sees me hide the heart.”

He put his arm around my shoulder. “Of course, I’ll drive you.” He slipped into his shoes. “Rills, you’re in charge until we get back.”

Spence stopped the Crosstrek beside a gap in the guardrail that edged a small dog park. “Slip in there. Do your thing. I’ll wait.”

“Oh, no.” I didn’t want to look like a pervert hunting for a spot to perform an evil deed. “Park the car and come with me. We can stroll while I look for a hiding spot.”

He did.

I hung the heart I’d quilted with a dog on a young maple tree across from the stand with bags and a garbage container for pet waste.

The rest of the hearts I chose at random to hang

on rebar sticking out of a pitted concrete slab near French Creek,

on a maple branch at the edge of a small cemetery—despite the constant barking of an unseen dog,

on a bridge along a state park trail just before a biker zoomed past,

on the slat of the wildlife observation platform bench in a marsh,

on the reserved sign at a lake’s picnic pavilion, and

on a nail inside a small town’s gazebo.

The fate of the quilted hearts is unknown. They could stay hidden only to degrade with the passing seasons. An animal might rip them apart to stuff in its nest. And if a person finds a heart, she could toss it in the trash. He might give the heart to someone else without checking online. Or, with luck, they may report the finding.

If the latter, you have the facts to identify the quilted heart at the website for a proper ending. Remember, don’t divulge my name. In these times of natural and man-made disasters, discord and distrust, conspiracies and lies, I hope the person retrieving the quilted heart, and you reading the story, find a little kindness.

 

Rills and the Mouse with a Jingle Bell