As I said before, my aunt always had quilts on her beds. One particular quilt had a fan design. It had light pink strips in between the multicolored blocks, and each point on the fans was light pink. I remember spending many hours looking over the blocks in an attempt to match the different colors and designs.
Around the age of sixteen, I decided I really wanted that quilt. My Aunt Sis, my father's older sister, was a very generous person, who gave me quite a bit of her possessions through the years. I made every attempt I could to get that quilt. However, no amount of hinting worked. I say hinting, because if I asked for it outright, my mother would have had a major hissy fit. Her hissy fits were so bad, that it was just easier not to do it, whatever it might be. Such was my dilema.
I also knew that my aunt was getting on in years, and being the youngest one in the family, I had a slim to none chance of getting the quilt when she passed on. I have many cousins and a brother who I know had gone through her house and secretly made a mental list of what they would get when she died.
So, again, the only rational solution I could come to was to create my own quilt. One day, when I was alone in the guest bedroom, I cut out a cardboard stencil of the fans. Carefully, I made note of how many blocks there were, and wrote them down for future use.
The day after I made this move, Mother came downstairs and told me that Aunt Sis wanted to give me a quilt. My aunt had to clear it with my mother first. I got really excited. I just knew this was the fan quilt, but alas to my surprise, she offered me a choice of one of two other quilts, Double Wedding Ring, or Gramma's Flower Garden. Mother suggested the Double Wedding Ring one, and I took it. Not exactly the one I wanted, but nonetheless, a beautiful quilt.
I still wanted that fan quilt. So, if I couldn't have that one, I would make one of my own. Consequently, when we returned home to Lawton, Oklahoma, I again got out the material, and set about in our den cutting out fans and hand sewing them together. It took me many months to get them all together. About that time, life interferred, and I put the blocks away. I would not touch them until another fourteen years after I had married, had two children and moved to Henderson, North Carolina.
One day in North Carolina, I happened to open one of the boxes from our move and discovered the material, and that's when I decided that I would quilt it. I took me several months to get it done, but I did finish it. I still remember the day I shared it with my friend, Beverly. She really liked it, and that made me feel great. I still have that quilt, and along with the first one, it holds the history of my family.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Very First Quilt
My mother loved me, but hated sewing, and my home economic teacher loved sewing, but hated me. So much for role models in the area of sewing.
I have always had quilts in my life. I've always loved to look at the different materials and become enchanted with the many patterns they became when they were put together. My aunt had them on her beds, and my first sister-in-law had a beautiful one made for my twin nieces.
During my time in home ec. in middle school, I decided that if I wanted a quilt, I would have to make one. So I took all the old material, shirts my father ruined with his cigar ashes, spare material from whatever was around the house, and began to cut squares. I remember spending several hours in my parents' den tracing around the small book making squares. I thought this was the perfect template for my patchwork masterpiece. Then I sewed them together with needle and thread.
Had no real idea how to use a sewing machine correctly. My mother had a hateful 1930ish Singer that never worked right, and the machines at school postively hated me. They would jam every time I even turned them on. It got so bad that whenever a machine would have trouble, whether it was the one I was working on or not, my teacher would look at me. So, knowing that I had full control over my fingers; I don't have now, I began to laborously sew my squares together after I meticiously placed them in the correct spots. Over a span of a couple of months, in between ballet lessons, I got the top finished. Then came the quilting part. Not having the benefit of a mentor, I improvised the backing; I used a twin sized white sheet. I was under the impression that the backing had to be white. Such was my inexperience. Again I patiently sewed all the quilting by hand.
Several months later, my masterpiece was finished. I showed it to everyone who was around me. Proud of my accomplishment, I even took it on our annual trip to Baltimore to show my aunt. I knew she of all the people around, would appreciate the hard work I put into it. Afterall, she was the person who showed me how to crochet. She made beautiful afgans for everyone in the family except me. She said that I was smart enough to make my own, so she taught me. Kind of a double edged sword. I got a huge compliment from her, but I missed out on owning one of her beautiful afgans. Anyway, she liked the quilt.
I thought I was ready to for my big moment; the moment I would take it to my class and show my home ec. teacher that I could sew. The day before I had planned to bring it in, my teacher stood in front of the class and bragged about how her daughter was making a quilt which had squares that were perfectly straight, right down to the thread. She made the comment, with disdain, mind you, that her daughter, was "not just cutting squares out of material with no regards to perfection." My friend looked at me and laughed. Well. . . so much for impressing my teacher.
Needless to say, I viewed MY quilt in a different light. Gone was the pride that I felt for it. It seemed like a consolation prize. Something less worthy of the time I put into it. Still, I had made it, and I was going to use it. It stayed on my bed until I got married seven years later. I look at it now with mixed feelings. On one hand, it serves as a preservation of my history. I can still tell anyone who will listen the history of the fabrics, and it has lasted 36 years with all its imperfections. On the other hand, I remember how I felt that day in home ec. and how utterly inadequate I felt.
I have always had quilts in my life. I've always loved to look at the different materials and become enchanted with the many patterns they became when they were put together. My aunt had them on her beds, and my first sister-in-law had a beautiful one made for my twin nieces.
During my time in home ec. in middle school, I decided that if I wanted a quilt, I would have to make one. So I took all the old material, shirts my father ruined with his cigar ashes, spare material from whatever was around the house, and began to cut squares. I remember spending several hours in my parents' den tracing around the small book making squares. I thought this was the perfect template for my patchwork masterpiece. Then I sewed them together with needle and thread.
Had no real idea how to use a sewing machine correctly. My mother had a hateful 1930ish Singer that never worked right, and the machines at school postively hated me. They would jam every time I even turned them on. It got so bad that whenever a machine would have trouble, whether it was the one I was working on or not, my teacher would look at me. So, knowing that I had full control over my fingers; I don't have now, I began to laborously sew my squares together after I meticiously placed them in the correct spots. Over a span of a couple of months, in between ballet lessons, I got the top finished. Then came the quilting part. Not having the benefit of a mentor, I improvised the backing; I used a twin sized white sheet. I was under the impression that the backing had to be white. Such was my inexperience. Again I patiently sewed all the quilting by hand.
Several months later, my masterpiece was finished. I showed it to everyone who was around me. Proud of my accomplishment, I even took it on our annual trip to Baltimore to show my aunt. I knew she of all the people around, would appreciate the hard work I put into it. Afterall, she was the person who showed me how to crochet. She made beautiful afgans for everyone in the family except me. She said that I was smart enough to make my own, so she taught me. Kind of a double edged sword. I got a huge compliment from her, but I missed out on owning one of her beautiful afgans. Anyway, she liked the quilt.
I thought I was ready to for my big moment; the moment I would take it to my class and show my home ec. teacher that I could sew. The day before I had planned to bring it in, my teacher stood in front of the class and bragged about how her daughter was making a quilt which had squares that were perfectly straight, right down to the thread. She made the comment, with disdain, mind you, that her daughter, was "not just cutting squares out of material with no regards to perfection." My friend looked at me and laughed. Well. . . so much for impressing my teacher.
Needless to say, I viewed MY quilt in a different light. Gone was the pride that I felt for it. It seemed like a consolation prize. Something less worthy of the time I put into it. Still, I had made it, and I was going to use it. It stayed on my bed until I got married seven years later. I look at it now with mixed feelings. On one hand, it serves as a preservation of my history. I can still tell anyone who will listen the history of the fabrics, and it has lasted 36 years with all its imperfections. On the other hand, I remember how I felt that day in home ec. and how utterly inadequate I felt.
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