The Perfect Patchwork

Turning sixty is not to be taken lightly, especially when it’s done in the middle of a pandemic. Unable to gather with friends and family, I was left with too much time to think about what this milestone meant. It’s an age that inspires you to think about what you’ll leave behind, and this thought was really brought home when my son told me I soon would be a grandmother! I decided it was time to create a family heirloom.

As much of my family’s social life revolves around the kitchen, where I have been recognized for more successes than failures, I decided to create a tablecloth. Not just any tablecloth, of course! I wanted one that people would marvel at! One that people would look forward to each year as they gathered around the holiday table. After flipping through some craft magazines, I came upon a patchwork cloth pattern that seemed to fit the bill. I had just purchased some lovely autumn-inspired fabric, so this would be a Thanksgiving cloth.

Ready, set … wait! One small catch: I have never attempted patchwork, and sewing has never been my strong suit. But like any resilient sixty-year-old, I’ve faced challenges, come up with solutions, and persevered. I mean, it’s just sewing straight lines, right? Carefully using my Fiskars to cut the pieces into the correct sizes, selectively cutting pieces so they’d include the best features of the fabrics’ patterns, and making sure they line up? How hard could that be?

The answer, of course, is plenty! My flying geese looked like they’d gotten into some fermented barley before getting into formation. My hour-glass blocks looked like a pile of broken dishes that had been KrazyGlued together by a toddler, not the perfectly geometric patterns I had seen in the magazine! And of course, as I started to piece the patches together, no one square lined up properly with the other.

Nonetheless, I posted images of my progress on social media, gaining all sorts of approval from friends and family who didn’t know the truth – that my work was rife with flaws. I had fixed a few, but there are many more than under intense scrutiny would have me kicked out of any sewing circle. As I lay awake one night fretting about my disastrous project, I came up with three possible answers to my dilemma:

1. Start over. Pick apart every seam and do better.

I quickly dismissed this thought. I knew that if I tore it all apart, I wouldn’t want to put it all back together again. I’d come too far.

2. Strategically place items on the table to hide the cloth’s flaws.

This plan seemed like it might work, except for one small problem: If I positioned the gravy boat “just so”, what would happen when someone wanted to use it?

3. Just ignore the mistakes and get on with things.

Generally a good plan – don’t sweat the small stuff, right? – but what would this tell future generations about me? This was supposed to be a family heirloom, intended to be used by some people I’ll never get to meet. If they start talking trash about my tablecloth and I’m not there to defend myself, what conclusions will they reach? Do I owe it to my reputation to make this project absolutely flaw-free?

Ultimately, I realized that my project’s imperfections were the perfect way to let my descendants know what life is all about. Hopefully whoever inherits the tablecloth (assuming it doesn’t fall apart after the first washing!) will understand this: That nothing is perfect. That we must learn to live with our mistakes, which are inevitable, but when pieced together with moments of joy, the beauty of our lives is not diminished. That the pursuit of happiness is more valuable than the pursuit of perfection. That when family gathers around a table, they should always focus on the positive and not go looking for what’s wrong. And that when they pass the gravy, they should keep their eyes on their mashed potatoes and nothing else.