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.