Reflections - God Made It a Janet Quilt

Daisy Patch

Maggie sparkled like a fireworks display. She spoke with an excited lilt. These observations, during a Google Meet on January 24 for a one-on-one writing session, convinced me she had a secret.

Years ago, we’d tweaked her “Cup of Coffee” story about her first date with Adam. Ever since that Christmastime date, I’d followed her tentative steps toward establishing a stronger relationship. “What if I lose my one chance at true happiness?” she’d said, allowing herself cautious joy.

Taking my cue from her face and voice, I set aside the writing task for our screen-meeting and asked, “Do you have news to share?”

“Adam and I are getting married!”

We shrieked.

“Don’t say anything yet.” She blushed. “We want to tell the children when we all get together next month.”

“Will you have a Christmas wedding?” Maggie’s annual Christmas stories immersed me in scenes of her cup of coffee anniversary celebrations with Adam.

“No. Labor Day weekend when everyone can travel.”

My mind launched into planning mode. I would make Maggie a wedding quilt. Since she was half Irish, I chose the double Irish chain pattern, a design I’d set my heart on sewing someday. 

For six weeks, I browsed the internet gazing at quilt photos. Two color chains diagonally crisscrossed white squares in the traditional pattern. Flowers or animal prints filled the plain squares in variations. And during subsequent writing sessions, I checked colors in the room behind Maggie—muted grays and tans.

After their family meeting, Maggie gushed. “Adam’s children and mine are delighted we’re getting married! They’re helping us plan the wedding around a wildflower theme.”

Wildflower fabrics for the chain and a green or tan for the white part would make a lovely quilt. Or I could use wildflowers for the white part with greens and tans for the chain. I sketched and calculated yardage for both designs. The quilt would match Maggie’s wedding theme and the room she sat in for our writing meetings.

Early Friday morning, March 17, Sandi—a neighbor friend, township auditor, and quilter—picked me up for a trip to the Fox’s Sew and Vac spring yard sale. We chatted the whole way to Meadville. There’s never a quiet moment with Sandi.

At the mall a cacophony of voices echoed in the hallway. Amish and English women—middle age and older, who didn’t work on Friday mornings—crowded around tables. Two or three deep, women hunted through piles of fabric remnants. We squeezed in.

Sandi searched for pieces she could add to her grandchildren's quilts—cows, cats, penguins, and horses.

“How about this?” I asked, holding a cute tan kitten?

Sandi frowned. “Wrong color.”

We kept searching, never finding tiny flowers for the chains. I came across daisies on a gold background and fell in love. Daisies are my favorite flower, and the remnant had just enough fabric for the white squares if I framed them in the dark green we found on another table. 

Inside Fox’s store, Sandi helped me choose light green and tan fabrics to make the chains. We sat at the instruction table to rest our feet and make final calculations of how much yardage to buy. As we had during auditing, Sandi with her calculator and me with mine, we checked each other’s figures. More than once our numbers differed—usually Sandi had the right yardage.

I found a silver-gray tan material for the backing and calculated yardage while Sandi looked for horse prints—the only fabric she hadn’t found.

Weary but delighted with our treasurers, Sandi and I enjoyed a lunch out.

Fabrics for Maggie's Quilt

Back home by late afternoon, I overcast the cut edges of the new fabric to keep it from unraveling. Overcasting the fabric for the quilt backing, I gasped and reached for the tape measure. I hadn’t bought enough. Tired from shopping, I’d goofed. YIKES! The yard sale continued tomorrow and . . .

Stuffing the fabric in a bag, I hustled down the spiral stairs and yelled to Spence. “I’m going to Fox’s. They close at five.”

“What’s the rush?”

“I didn’t get enough backing.” I grabbed my purse and keys. “I need more material before they sell the rest on the bolt.”

“Okay.” He drew the word out slowly. “If you think it’s important. Be careful.”

I dashed to the garage, drove faster than expected for my age, and arrived at Fox’s in record time.

Tracy and Jackie, employees and the only people in the store, chatted behind the counter. They rewrapped fabric around cardboard bolts.

Jog-wobbling to the counter, I pulled the silver-gray tan fabric out of the bag. “I didn’t get enough backing.” My voice came out in pants. “I need another yard.”

Jackie pivoted from the counter. “I’ll get it off the shelf.”

She returned and set the bolt of fabric—thinner than it had been that morning—beside my piece. “That’s a match.” A satisfied grin lit her face.

Tracy unwrapped the material and stretched it against the yardstick embedded in the table.

“Cut a yard and a quarter.” I bit my thumb nail. “I want a little extra . . . in case.”

Taking calming yoga breaths, I walked out of the store ten minutes before closing.

Having preshrunk the material, I studied directions for the two basic blocks. The Directory of Quilting Techniques book described the assembly of the block composed of 5 two-inch squares by 5 two-inch squares clearly. I could use those directions for my 5 by 5 blocks.

Quilt Book

Directions for Double Irish Chain

The YouTube video seemed easier for the white blocks—my framed daisies. The instructor’s “Make a single seam on the side” stuck in my mind. She’d said, “No need to put in the extra seams.” I could follow her directions for the daisy blocks.

 

I framed the cheerful daisies first. Sewing the top and bottom dark green frame first, let me make only one seam on the side. I cut, sewed, and overcast the raw edges of each seam. The fabric won’t fray when Maggie washes her quilt.

April 19, I had all thirty-one daisy blocks finished and four of the 5 by 5 blocks complete. I sat to answer a letter from Pat, a friend from Cleveland. Though I had described the double Irish chain quilt pattern to her in detail twice, Pat asked,

Is the double Irish chain made with a channel overlaid on the white to separate the segments or are the individually formed white squares affixed to the channels, then secured together into a whole quilt? Guess who has no idea of classic quilting techniques.

Clueless about Pat’s “channels,” I decided not to explain the pattern in words again. Instead, I sketched the two quilt blocks on graph paper. I colored the chain squares tan and green. The other spaces I left white. In the letter, I wrote, “These are the basic blocks for a traditional double Irish chain quilt. I’ve adapted mine. The white part has daisies in the middle. The rest of the white is a dark green for a frame.”

While walking to the mailbox with the letter, my mind imagined the blocks side by side and screamed DUH. Raising the flag on the mailbox for the letter carrier, I trudged back to the loft and pulled out my blocks.

I’d made a fatal error.

By sewing one side seam, I hadn’t inserted the corner tan squares needed for the chain motif. The upbeat YouTube instructor had done that step off screen. I’d remembered her words, not the image. Fixing my problem required ripping out the four corners in all thirty-one blocks. I’d overcast every seam. I couldn’t rip them without destroying some blocks, and I didn’t have enough daisy fabric left to resew ruined blocks.

Disaster!

How could I save my double Irish chain quilt? Panicked, I called Sandi.

Hearing the tremble in my voice, she said, “I’ll come up.”

Standing beside my sewing table, Sandi arranged the blocks in different positions. “It’s not an Irish chain any more.”

I knew that. Hearing Sandi pronounce the fact aloud, my soul dropped into the depths of despair like Anne’s had in Anne of Green Gables. What would I do for Maggie’s present? I wanted to make her a double Irish chain. I didn't have the time or energy to start over.

“The colors are beautiful. Don’t rip the daisy blocks out. Finish the quilt.” Sandi patted my shoulder. “God made it a Janet quilt.”

End of Part 1

 

Graph for Two Double Irish Chain Blocks

 

 

 Reflections - Garage Door Mystery

 

Front of Garage

April first this year, nature didn’t fool around. Wind howled. Rain pelted windows. The midday sky darkened. Our house did too. Electric power winked and cut off. The absence of house motors humming intensified the thrashing of tree branches outside—a cue Spence took to see if Mark, our township supervisor, needed help.

Out of habit, Spence pressed digits on the garage door keypad. The door didn’t open—no electricity. Rather than fiddle with the manual release in the dark interior, he trudged back to the house and grabbed his keys for the old Colorado pickup. “It’s got three hundred nineteen thousand miles.” Spence waggled the ignition key. “The truck needs exercise anyway.”

He didn’t find Mark but met crews who were cutting apart downed trees. Because Spence had left his chainsaw inside the dark garage and the crews cleared the blocked roads, he trundled home.

Leaving for the grocery store the next morning, he discovered the first clue in the mystery.

Flashlight in hand, Spence entered the person-door on the side of the garage, stepped over the mower attachment for an old walk behind Gravely tractor, and edged around his Maverick pickup to the center of the garage. He pulled the garage door release cord. Click. He pushed the panels of the garage door upward.

The door didn’t budge.

Puzzled, Spence repeated his actions with the same results. “Maybe I should call a repairman,” he mumbled, fetching the Colorado keys again.

Penn Power restored electricity before he made the call. The garage door opened and closed like usual. Almost.

We pushed the keypad button. The door rolled up rrr, rrr, rrr and down rrr, clank, rrr.

Spence wrote “Call garage door repairman” on his list of things to do. Someday.

The clanking grew louder in June when the outside keypad grew finicky. I would punch in the four digit code, press enter, press enter, and the door might or might not open.

Spence changed batteries. The pad continued to act with the personality of a two-year-old deciding on a whim not to open some days. I became adept using the person-door, giant-stepping over the mower attachment, and pressing the door release inside.

“All the other openers work.” Spence sputtered in frustration replacing the battery again. He had a point. The car openers and the pad inside the garage commanded the double wide door to roll immediately. He cleaned and adjusted the metal clip holding the battery outside. The erratic behavior stopped. The door rolled up and clanked down. “I’ll call a repairman.” Spence transferred the task to a more current to do list.

On the last Friday in July, I treated myself to a trip to Fox’s Sew and Vac in Meadville. After fingering fabrics and considering color combinations, I walked out carrying two bags of fabric treasures. Listening to Japanese folk music on a koto, I drove home past green fields under an oh-so-blue summer sky. Mellow, I parked the Subaru in the garage beside Spence’s Maverick. Toting bags, I touched the button on the keypad Spence fixed and walked away. Behind me the door did its thing.

 

Maverick and Subaru Side by Side

                                                    You can tell who travels more!

Rrr, rrr, CRASH.

Peeking over my shoulder, I checked for devastation. None. The door appeared to have rolled down its track. Hustling to the log house, I burst in the front door. “Spence, the garage door crashed. Maybe the cables broke?”

“Are you hurt?” Shock drained his face white behind his beard.

“No. Nothing’s hurt. But . . .” I paused, pondering how to explain. “I was walking away and it was grinding, grinding, BANG!”

Without another word, he walked out the door. In minutes he came back and pulled the yellow pages from a kitchen drawer. Dialing a number, he waited. “Yeah. I need someone to fix my garage door . . . I think the cables broke . . . Monday between noon and two? Okay . . . Thanks.”

Monday at 1:15, while I munched leftover pizza and Spence, wearing earphones, stared at a webinar on his laptop screen, a commercial truck motor rumbled to a stop outside. “They’re here,” I shouted.

Spence looked across the great room to the kitchen table. “What?”

I pantomimed pulling earphones off.

He did.

“The repairmen arrived.”

Spence set his earphones on the coffee table and headed out. Within two minutes he returned. “Where are Charlie’s chocolate chips?”

An unlikely tool for fixing a door—my surprise must have shown on my face because Spence said. “The young repairman feels sick. He thinks he needs to eat.”

“We have lots of fruit.” I remembered a friend gobbled raisins at the YMCA pool when her sugar levels dropped.

“No. I offered fruit.” Spence opened cupboards. “He said he wanted sugar.”

Opening the refrigerator, I grabbed our son’s bag of chocolate chips and handed them to Spence.

“Great. Make him a sandwich.” Spence hurried off.

I warmed whole wheat bread and a chicken burger. Not knowing whether to use ketchup or mustard, I set both on a tray.

Spence returned, saw the tray, and said, “Mustard.”

Spreading mustard on the bread, I transferred the sandwich to a paper plate.

Spence snatched it and dashed off.

Finishing lunch, I moseyed outside, and paused to gaze at the mural of a multiple-garage-door fire station painted on the Plyler truck.

Plyler Truck

A muscular, thirty-something man, tools clinking on his belt, met me halfway between the truck and the garage. “Thanks for the food.” Towering a foot over me, he waved his hand in a salute. “It really helped.” A smile lifted the ends of his mustache. “I’ll give you a discount if I can.”

“I understand crashing. You don’t have to.” Duh! A discount would be nice. “What was wrong with the door anyway?”

“Both springs broke.”

“And why doesn’t the manual door release work?”

The young man’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ll check when we finish with the springs.” He fetched a part and entered the garage through the person-door.

Following, I found a shorter, quieter worker and Spence staring at the floor between the vehicles.

“Maybe the socket rolled under the mower. Spence fetched a broom on the wall beside me. “There she is,” he winked and swept under the round, red metal obstacle. Dust and grass came out. No socket.

Not needing a ladder, the tall worker reached to fiddle with the center apparatus at the top of the garage door. Then he pressed the button on the inside keypad.

The door rolled up. He pressed the button again. The door rolled down. No clank.

As if knowing how pleasing the performance had been to my eyes, he repeated the show. “You said the release didn’t work?”

“Yeah.” Spence answered for me. “I pulled the cord. It clicked. The door wouldn’t budge.”

The young man pulled the cord. It clicked. He pushed the door upward with his hands. It rolled up.

I looked at Spence.

He shrugged.

The young man pushed the panel to close the door. He repeated the manual opening the door twice more.

Nudging Spence with my elbow, I asked. “Is that what you did after the storm?”

“Yep.” Spence pursed his lips.

“Why didn’t it work then?” I hate machines not operating like they should.

“One spring must have broken in the storm.” The tall repairman bent to pick up tools. 

Spence bent to look under his Maverick. “Here’s the socket.”

The quiet repairman broke into a grin wider than a happy Halloween jack-o’-lantern. He reached for the socket, nestled it in his hand, and broke his silence. “It’s great you found that! Thanks.” Tucking the socket into a box, he chatted with the fellas all the way to the Plyler truck.

Had he lost the socket? Perhaps he’d been reprimanded for losing tools in the past. The quiet repairman’s motivation over the socket would remain a mystery.

As for the garage door mystery—the temperamental outside keypad had been a red herring. The friendly chocolate-chomping repairman solved the dysfunctional door release, the door opening, and the door clanking. 

 

We’re back to normal—for now.

 

Plyler Truck Inside