A Bubble Off Plumb

I enjoy sewing. When my children were small, I made virtually all their clothes, in part because they were long and skinny and it was hard to find clothes that fit, and in part because I am cheap.

Now that they are grown and on their own, I have been able to veer off pattern into quilting. I also enjoy that a lot, as frustrating as it can be. However, I truly do not like to cut out the bits and pieces to sew back together. And I’m cheap.

So, I frequently find UFOs at my various haunts, like garage and yard sales and especially thrift stores. UFO, in this instance, stands for un-finished objects. I’ve dragged home numerous bags and sacks of blocks, cut out but unsewn quilts and various other incarnations of quilting such as kits.

Sometimes, it is very clear what the UFO was going to become. For instance, I got a minky quilt recently that was about half done. All I had to do was finish the construction and Viola! Instant Christmas gift.

Other challenges – recently – were a collection of quilt blocks that needed put together to make two twin size tops. I could tell it was supposed to be two because they were slightly different colors, although both blue.

The blocks were lovingly pieced, probably from an old sheet by my best guess. Some were machine made, others were hand pieced. Each was carefully starched to within an inch of its life.

As I worked to put them together, it seemed like I could feel the care with which they had been pieced and starched. Simply running my hands over the bits was relaxing and imbued me with a feeling of peace.

And just like always, as I worked, I wondered who this unknown seamstress was. Mother? Grandmother? Who did she intend these quilts for? Grandchildren or just for the guest bedroom? Did someone give her the fabric, or was it just her way of using up top sheets after the fitted mates had worn out? How old were the blocks? I guessed them as having been made in the late 1940s or early 50s. So, older than me.

Just like always, I felt a sense of honor in being in the right place at the right time for these bits of brightly colored history to come home with me, for me to complete. I’m honored to finish her work.

I wonder what she would think of my work. It isn’t as good as hers, but it seems like sometimes I can almost hear someone coaching me gently, urging me to straighter seams and more even allowances. Reminding me not to push or pull, keeping things even and coming up with ways to convince the blocks to come together neatly when they really don’t want to.

And once the second one is complete, will I still hear that silent coaching as I hand quilt them, making the smallest stitches I can manage until the sandwiches of top, batt and back are done and bound?

When they get sent off to the grandsons, and those little boys snuggle underneath for sleep, will the same quiet presence create in them peace and security as they drift off?

I like to think it will, anyway.