Pieces of the Past

I felt so inadequate as I made the first cut. Quilting was not my thing. That precise, intimidating craft belonged to my grandmother. The mysterious quilting frame, strung by its corners just below her living room ceiling, became magical once it was lowered. With thimbled fingers, Grandma patiently stitched row after row, forming rhythmic patterns across colorful scraps. I treasure these keepsakes now, seeing bits of my childhood dresses and pieces of my mother's blouses of years gone by. There is nothing more comforting that snuggling up under these memories.

While I admire the beauty and craftsmanship, the art of quilting has always seemed like too much of a commitment for me. I knew I did not have the patience or the skill for it and had no interest in learning. That is until my daughter was packing for college. She had created a mound of t-shirts purged from her drawers. Softball, basketball, clubs, charity runs. Wonderful memories in each one, my sentimentality would not allow me to throw them out. My daughter, having more faith in me than I had in myself asked, "Can you make one of those t-shirt quilts Mom?"

"Oh, no, I can't do that, but I'll look into having one made." But once I did, I was discouraged not only by the price, but also by the thought of boxing up these irreplaceable mementos and sending them across the country. The shirts were boxed up in my craft room closet as a “someday” project. For years the box taunted me as it was pushed aside while other projects took their place in front of them.

When a cleaning and purging spree came along and forced me to free up the space the box had been consuming, I timidly began watching how-to videos. The more I watched, the more convinced I became that I could do it. I started with rough cutting the shirts, with the sleeves and the collars in a trash bag, I knew there was no going back. But my anxiety increased with each step, as margin for error decreased. When it was time to cut the squares with the template and rotary cutter, my self-doubt had taken over my mind. I had never even used a rotary cutter before, what was I thinking? This was definitely a job for a professional. I am about to ruin all of these shirts; all of these memories. If I slipped, there would be no running to the fabric store for a quick fix. I steadied myself and centered the template. Once I lifted the template from the first perfect square, I was joyous. Quickly my anxiety was replaced with great satisfaction at the sound of the sharp blade piercing the fabric and sizing, slicing down to the mat. It left a crisp, fresh edge where the jagged, curling rough cut had been. The squares stacked up quickly in a neat tower, waiting to be joined. More quickly than I had imagined, I was snipping threads after whirling the pieces through the sewing machine. As each strip of six well-worn memories came together, I was ecstatic with realization that I was actually making a quilt. Soon I had completed a patchwork history of my daughter’s high school years. That satisfaction kept me motivated to endure the next, even more intimidating step of actually quilting. It came together slowly with only minor blood shed (I didn’t think I needed Grandma’s thimble) and a few do-overs. But with a lot of patience and repeated video viewing, I created a soft, comforting blanket of memories that my daughter cherishes. And yes, I've started her college quilt. Only fives years after graduation.