To bee, or not to bee�
9:16 a.m.
I have been a sewer all my life and a hoarder of remnants. From every garment I have ever made, I saved as much of the excess fabric as I could until I had bags and baskets overflowing with all sorts of different stuff, a variety of fabrics and colours, textures and weights, all packaged neatly, awaiting some future craft project. Eventually I did things with some of these leftovers: doll dresses for my daughter�s Barbies, cloth napkins for the supper table, odds and ends to construct Hallowe�en costumes. But the project I always planned and never executed was a quilt.
It seemed so complicated, and the actual process of quilting was tedious and fingertip destroying. There was the need for a frame, and my abode had nowhere I could set something like that up. Also, quilting seemed to be the kind of activity one did in swarms, hence quilting bees, and I knew no likeminded, would-be quilters with whom I wanted to spend that much time.
But then I found in one of the women�s magazines at the checkout counter of the grocery store directions for making a log cabin quilt on the sewing machine. This seemed like the perfect project for my pretty pieces languishing away in their bags and baskets. But the directions remained folded up and tucked away in one of those selfsame baskets until I received the news that my best friend was getting married. That was the motivation I needed.
Now this particular quilt was made in squares, each identical, which were then stitched together with a backing sheet. I purchased the quilt batting and a quantity of dark brown cotton which would serve as the backing. I sorted my remnants so that they were arranged from most to least, and then proceeded to cut them into strips of different lengths. These were machine stitched in the traditional log cabin pattern onto individual squares of batting, right side down and then everted so that there were no unfinished edges showing. The fabrics were all mixed up: dark blue corduroy from a skirt I�d made in junior high, dark green sateen with a floral design from a dress I�d made while in high school, pink silk cr�pe from a blouse for my mother, gold silk from an evening gown when I�d been dating a young man with a penchant for formals, dark purple georgette from a beautiful number I had decorated with lace, and the off-white silk remainder from my own wedding dress.
There were others. But apart from the wedding dress and the gold gown, I no longer own any of the garments for which the fabric had originally been bought. The finished squares were sewn together and backed with the brown cotton, which came up from underneath to create a finished edge. It was a beautiful creation. I could put my finger on each strip and square of fabric and tell you exactly where it had come from.
We tend to give as gifts the kinds of things we ourselves would like to receive, which often gives an indication of the donor�s taste. I wonder what that quilt said about me? Did my friend recognize the hours of labour it represented and the love it entailed, or did she only see the cheap outlay of material? After all, it did cost me next to nothing to make.
I�m put in mind of a quilt, a traditional finger-prick quilt I bought for my daughter�s bed at the annual quilt show when she was quite young. It was rather expensive, too costly to spend its time thrown on her floor with the dust and other detritus that litter her room. But I did not know the quilt maker, nor do I know any of the stories behind the scraps that decorate it. Would my friend have appreciated that more? Twenty-three years later I wonder if she even still has it.
In the meantime, my baskets are once more starting to bulge with bags of neatly folded fabric remnants. Maybe it�s time to make another.
[Note to zitagsd: I know you appreciated it. Please don�t take anything I�ve said here personally. It was, after all, an exercise in creative writing.]
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