Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 23

Lucy Boston blocks

Sometimes I forget key moments in my life, like the first book I wrote (and finished) after my brother Joe died, autobiographical in nature. It's tucked away in my computer under the file name enchilada, as in the Whole Enchilada, if you get my drift. I thought about it recently, not sure why other than Joe died when I was thirty-one, which isn't far from when I was twenty-nine, which indeed has been rattling around my gray matter. Maybe if I gather the guts and gumption to read that over that someday, I'll post my thoughts, but that's not what this entry is about. Today I'm rambling about lost EPP blocks, which perhaps subconsciously is connected to someone long gone.

Just a sample of a project from what feels like eons ago....

These Lucy Boston blocks are super scrappy, hardly fussy-cut, and languishing at the bottom of a tote specifically for orphan English paper piecing blocks. I had spare minutes before leaving for the dentist this morning, so first I Googled Lucy Boston images, then I retrieved the blocks, laying some on my work table. I certainly don't have the impetus to go the whole Lucy Boston attaching block route, but I could hook them together with single honeycombs, one-inch squares, and three-inch squares. I hauled out three or four bags of pre-cut fabrics with papers included, then realized I needed to confirm that my dental insurance card was in my wallet. It was, then I departed, returning with a new toothbrush, toothpaste, and appointments for another cleaning in six months as well as a crown, dang! And more musings about the future of Lucy Boston blocks.

Past Me clears her throat. "That was a lot of work stitching all those blocks, you know."

"I know," I say. "Um, thanks."

She smirks, then shrugs. "You've moved way past that pattern. I'm not bothered if you, you know...."

"If I what?"

"If you, well, don't do anything with them."

I sigh, because another option is to machine applique them onto solid squares, then sew those together and here's a finished quilt. Except that the honeycombs are one-inch and OH MY GOODNESS that would be a lot of fits and starts of the presser foot every inch to turn the fabric. Not that hand-stitching papers would be any less of a hassle, as I'd still have to turn the whole thing every inch. But hand-stitching is so much quieter than my machine, and after having just returned from the dentist, my ears are buzzing merely from the patient in the next room having a load of drilling done. Gotta remember my earplugs next time.

So, yeah. Lucy Boston blocks. Maybe if I had used slightly bigger honeycombs, like 1.5 inches, but one-inch papers are futzy. Tedious. They're what a novice might choose, in that they're not big, but now I know what I like with EPP; two-inch papers or bigger, although four inches requires a little dab of glue stick. Still, I don't like leaving projects in a lurch. Or a lurch lasting more than half a decade. These LB blocks have been in my sphere a LONG TIME.

I could try hand-appliqueing them, but that is one type of hand-sewing I'm not keen on; I only do it for hexie shirts and onesies. Still, I could make the attempt to know for certain I don't want to do it. Equally I could machine applique a block, again to cement a yes or no in my head. If I didn't have over half a dozen projects I LOVE, then I would wrap up this quilt. But more intriguing shinies make me squint from their adorable brightness, my heart pounding to complete the Cornflower quilt or work on Ice Cream Soda, or faff around with Lavender, or what about the dang quilt on the wall that needs to be sewn into attached rows so a certain baby quilt can get underway....

Future Me clucks about that, and I nod sheepishly while Past Me bastes honeycombs but doesn't say a word. Then I ponder this notion: Currently I have over a dozen sewing and writing projects in an ongoing manner. What does this say about my present creative mental state? Have I stretched myself too thinly, am I not wishing to actively complete this, that, or three other projects? Or is right now one of the rare times I need a plethora of THINGS TO DO, and if so, why? Twenty-nine times two isn't that big of a deal I shrug, not glancing at Future or Past Me to see if they are rolling their eyes. All these marvelous distractions keep me from boredom. Doesn't Lucy Boston deserve her place in the stitching sun?

Or does she? Time will tell, I guess. Well, I know it will. Future Me nods, then stares ahead, not giving anything away.

Every other day

 

I wash my dishes. We don't have a dishwasher, although we're planning a kitchen remodel, and at this point it is looking to be a 2025 project. Which is fine, because if I'm happy manually washing mugs, silverware, etc, I'm doing pretty well.

Revisions have been my morning focus, as I wash dishes in the afternoon. Every other day I work on Enran Book #2, mixing it up with an older novel that I might or might not publish. I didn't plan to alternate the edits, but in the last several days, that's how it's been going. It's refreshing, both in the switching round and the spontaneous nature of how that evolved. I'm chalking it up to the twenty-nine times two theory, not stressing out about it.

But if I wanted to analyze it, just a little bit.... LOL, that's what this blog is kinda about, looking at my life, from writing to kitchen maintenance, through an altered lens. Or a lens rarely considered while I'm poking at prose or scrubbing teacups. Or coffee mugs, I really don't use my teacups much, preferring a larger serving of some warmish-hot decaffeinated beverage. Kind of how my writing has developed from standalone novels to series stretching from three books to, well, several. The story I'm revising, every other day, could be all by its lonesome, although when I first wrote it, I considered a sequel, haha. But the odds of that being written are pretty low; first I'd need to publish the initial tale now wouldn't I?

Sometimes I wash dishes a couple of days in a row, if there seems to be a plethora of plates or an inordinate amount of large baking sheets or if my husband grilled. But with just two of us in residence, we can squeak by with me filling the sink every other day. I definitely have a system, I'm sort of OCD that way; mugs and plastic cups first, then I wash utensils while those drip in the drainer. Then I dry everything in the drainer, then put the silverware in the basket at the back of the drainer, not having wanted it to drip all over the mugs, etc, drying off in the drainer.... Yes, I am more than a little obsessed with the routine, but routines, I have found just recently, can be altered with little to no abject fallout.

Twenty-nine times two is teaching me to step outside my previous boundaries. To embrace new methods. To.... Edit a couple of books at nearly the same time, not caring if one will have a life outside my computer. Huh. That's pretty fascinating. I'm also realizing, or maybe relearning, to enjoy pastimes merely for the thrill of how much I love them, which might one day lead to a sequel for a novel that might never be published, just because I adore the characters or yearn to finish their tales. Maybe that will happen after I have a dishwasher, which would theoretically allow me more time to spend on hobbies.

Huh. Now that is certainly a dream for Future Me to grasp.

WIP accountability and a new quilt on the wall Part 2

 

Bright pretty quilt-to-be!

Okay, so yes I have a new shiny waiting to be sewn together via my machine, which, ahem, has been under cover since the beginning of March! There has never been a time, when I've been home, that my sewing machine has sat so silently, but at least it's not gathering dust. Not sure when I'll remove the cover, might not be today, although if the Warriors play poorly this afternoon, I'll hide out upstairs while my husband witnesses the carnage.

It's the last day of basketball season, not that we have high hopes for Golden State going far into the playoffs. More is this a time of transition, one sport leading to another as spring drips from the sky in precipitation that is good in the overall sense of rainfall, but WOW we are ready for warm, sunny days. This morning I made a fairly comprehensive list of all my novel WIPs, even a couple that might never be completed. Or started, lol. But they're accounted for, for better or worse. And yeah, it truly helps clear the book-fog to glance at the wall to the right of my desk, finding those titles and their current progress (or lack thereof) in black and white. We printed out this page from the Toolkit without using colored ink because our printer is griping the primary hues are low, whatever.

All kinds of novel ideas, now detailed for instant perusal.

After my conversation with Future Me (and the telling realization that every twenty-nine years I get a little squiffy as a birthday approaches), I gave much consideration to exactly how I'd like the next couple of decades to progress. I slapped a bunch of 4.5 inch squares on the wall, but not in usual neat lines. Instead I staggered the rows, finding in that slight disarray a lovely sense of misaligned peace. HAH! Unsettled calm is kind of my mantra right now, accepting I have little to no control over most things in my life. Like the Warriors, ahem. If they had won two days ago, they'd be in the top bracket of the play-in, but now they're in the nine or ten spot, needing to win two games after today to reach the playoffs proper. But sports aside, I also pondered how in slowing down the writing and sewing, I'm freeing up time for allowing surprises. No thought to that whatsoever other than I never planned to make quilts, and writing also took off far more wildly than I ever anticipated. The unknown isn't something to fear, I believe was Future Me's basic message.

Nothing to fear.... Huh. Like no worries about novels half-finished or not even more than many ideas still floating around in my head. Like not stressing about the center of an EPP quilt that would require SO MUCH WORK to complete, but I have fabric for it, as well as 2" hexagons on order just in case one day I want to tackle the Alexandria project. Like absolute peace about The Enran Chronicles, even if only four books of the, um, projected ten are written, but I published the first one anyway and might not get around to writing any more of them this year! Wow, that's a lotta calm, hmmm, especially for someone in the throes of turning twenty-nine times two.

I'm not saying jack to Past Me about this whole EPP gig; she'd run away screaming.

I look back at Past Me, still tying that quilt. She's a little worried that others won't think it's an actual quilt because it wasn't, well, quilted. But without a machine in house, Past Me did the best she could with cross stitching floss, and later was assuaged by a gal at the quilt shop where a sewing machine was eventually purchased that tying a comforter certainly does count as making a quilt. It's the only tied quilt I've made, although I've been thinking about doing that again, perhaps with what's currently decorating the design wall. Ten years ago I was such a sewing novice, and eighteen years ago I hadn't even written fiction! If I do live another twenty-nine years.... The output won't be what I've managed over the last three decades, but it will be well seasoned, in that at least for writing and sewing, I do know what I'm doing, hehehe. And if something new crops up, that will keep life interesting. I'll just keep printing out pretty To Do pages, ticking things off as they are completed, and updating those projects still stashed in totes or hibernating in my brain. Works in progress include me, myself, and I, past and future and where I currently sit on this damp Sunday, hoping the Warriors conclude their season in whatever manner best befits them. And we'll see where we all land as the days zoom by.

WIP accountability and other amusing conversations Part One

One example of aging; I have to stitch a dark thread on a dark square during the daytime because at night even with extra lighting, it's still not bright enough for me to see what I'm doing.

Recently I had a chat with Future Me about this semi-retired business. She rolled her eyes, smirked, then spoke. "Did you really think you'd remain this ambitious ALL THE REST OF YOUR DAYS?"

I cleared my throat, then shrugged my shoulders. "Well no, but...."

"But you assumed you would. You know what happens when you assume things, right?"

I smirked back. "Yeah, I know."

She grunted, then patted my shoulder. "It's okay, you know, to SLOW DOWN. You're not beholden to anyone to produce anything at this date or on that deadline."

"No one but me, myself, and I," I said under my breath.

Again she grunted. "Look, I don't care how long it takes you to edit a novel or make a quilt or get your backside outside to deal with the garden. And to be perfectly honest, Past Me's too wrapped up in her thing to gripe. I mean, if you're not quite fifty-eight and just hitting this wall, well...."

We both glanced backwards at Past Me, who was tying that initial quilt. She's still in her forties, feeling pretty damn good about herself, I considered.

"She's still in her forties and feeling pretty damn good about herself," Future Me said flatly.

Do you look at me and think the same, I wondered.

"You're fine, you know," Future Me then said softly.

"Am I?"

"Hell yes! You're revising four different books and working on six different paper piecing things and you repotted all those cosmos and marigolds yesterday and...."

She rattled off a few other achievements, but I'd tuned out, considering how I made a written list of the EPP quilts on a WIP Toolkit from Jodi Godfrey that I downloaded recently. My husband printed out the relevant pages, which I filled out yesterday after breakfast, remarking to him today I need another sheet to keep all my novels straight! I have yet to do that, but soon, because I felt so much better after writing down the quilt projects, and I bet I'll feel just as relieved with the novels sorted.

Future Me cleared her throat. "Oh, uh, what?" I replied nervously.

She smiled. "You're thinking about listing all your books on the toolkit paper, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I said sheepishly.

"I remember that time. You'd just gotten back from being with the grandgirls. And, um...." She paused, then giggled. "Lots of people in their forties with kids younger than the grandgirls. Which in the big picture isn't so bad because they'll be a LOT older than you are now when they become grandparents, but...."

"Yeah, that's it."

Future Me cleared her throat. Rare are the moments when I think she'll impart some priceless advice or rarer still, a glimpse into my life where she's at, not that I know exactly how far in the future she's residing but....

"Do you remember," she began, "when you turned thirty-two and couldn't just sleep off a big party or event? Or when you were forty-two and realized your temples were starting to look a little...."

"Old," I smiled.

She nodded. "And now you're approaching fifty-eight." She paused, then rolled her eyes. "Good lord, that's, well...."

"Not for sissies," I smirked.

"Nope, it's sure as hell not. But it's doable without major mid-life crisis calls going out." She folded her arms over her chest, then nodded. "It's not nearly like when you turned twenty-nine."

I nodded too, recalling how crazy I felt back then. Then I stared at her. "That was half my life ago."

"Yup. You got through that to reach thirty. Think about all you've done since then."

I paused. Then I smiled. "Okay, good to know."

"Yes," she grinned wickedly. "Yes it is."

Mocha pie and other distractions

While visiting my daughter, a social media site informed us that back in Humboldt County a respectable pie establishment was featuring several new items for April. I salivated over the mention of mocha pie, and as they were closed on Monday, Tuesday was the first opportunity for me to taste it. And I did.

Delicious!

I told my husband we'd need to get back to A Slice of Humboldt Pie before the end of the month, and he agreed. He had the chocolate silk, it's also marvelous.

Aside from that, cows returned to our homestead this morning; they had traipsed along a pathway that leads to our property last week while I was away, proffering my hubby plenty of photo ops as well as smiles. Their owner herded them home, but apparently today they decided to make another break for freedom. I grew up around Hereford cattle, so it was a sweet memory to find them munching grass as though they had adopted us.

Helping my hubby keep the yard tidy

I proffer these amusements in part that the pie truly was spectacular, and I happened to get a pretty nice shot of it, as well as stories about cows are always intriguing. As a kid, I bottle-fed calves that had been abandoned, mixing a powdered supplement with warm water in very large bottles, maybe sixty-four ounces, and I still recall how hard they tugged on the nipple, which was a pain to get on properly, lol. I used all that knowledge, and prodded my dad for more, when I wrote Alvin's Farm. Hard to get the country out of the girl, you know.

I'm also aware in pondering my current status, I am, well, starting to consider myself...semi-retired. Wow! Huh. Hmmm.... One of my granddaughters asked what I did, when we were talking about how Grandpa is retired. With a smile, I replied that I still write and sew and dabble in the garden. She said, "Huh." I said, "Yup." The conversation rolled onward, probably about art, of which I did a lot of last week. Not that I'm good at drawing, but when in Rome....

Now I'm home. With tourist cows. And exceedingly tasty pie! And cloudy skies and books to revise and basted papers aching for attention, as well as the sense of time cranking to a speed not before realized. Slower than before for what seems to get accomplished, but faster in how quickly the hours pass as though two days are squeezed into one. Perhaps most apparent is that despite time feeling so fluid, my achievements seem rather paltry when compared to what I cranked out a few years ago. I won't go back further because to analyze what I managed in my forties isn't relevant anymore. I won't delve into a Past/Future Me post, not wishing to get those gals involved. It's enough for me to start wrapping my head around, ahem. And probably best mulled over with another scrumptious piece of mocha pie close at hand.

Revisiting my life

 

Creative spoils from last week.

A big LOL needs to be attached to that title. I'm home, glad to be here, but in two and a half weeks my hubby and I are getting away to spend time with friends who graced our lives last December. This is a year for travel, at least for me. My better half isn't overly keen on leaving Humboldt County, but I'll take his vacations days and run with them.

Blocks up close: Ice Cream Soda.

For now I'm ensconced in my residence, maybe even wholly unpacked. Laundry is going, trinkets out and about, including a new (cheap) clock from IKEA that I'll transform into a fabric extravaganza. However, currently I want to extol the virtues of time away from one's routine, EPP blocks sewn in my absence, and how transitory my life feels, not merely because in another two weeks I will again pack a suitcase and kiss my usual existence so long.

Hexie Flower, one-inch pieces.

It's a fairly long-ish, but thankfully once out of the SF Bay Area uneventful, drive home. I left my eldest daughter's house yesterday around eight a.m. and was on the Golden Gate Bridge less than an hour later, Sunday mornings a good time to hit 19th Avenue (also known as Highway 1). I've traveled over that bridge a few times, always impressed by the massive orange towers, but when doing the actual driving, I tend to pay strict attention to the road, staying in the middle lane, not really relaxing until I've reached the Robin Williams Tunnel. After that, even with multiple lanes of freeways until you reach Windsor, Bay Area traffic feels less of a burden, more like a minor irritation. Once I reach Healdsburg, traffic seems to disappear, two lanes each way until Willits, with the exception of Hopland. After Willits, one lane each way intersects with proper freeways amid towering Redwoods and other beautiful landscapes. I love driving, which is fortunate. I certainly prefer traveling by car than plane, perhaps I'll add, and am grateful for the peace which surrounds getting to and from various locations dear to my heart.

Another Ice Cream Soda block.

And then as suddenly as it felt packing to depart, here I am with my husband, in our house, as though that visit was a figment of my imagination. Yet the memories are vivid, English paper pieced blocks gracing my office table.  Ice Cream Soda blocks come together pretty quickly, with three little hexie flowers sewn at the end of my sojourn. All of these are pretty uncomplicated, no fussy cutting. Merely fabrics I like, values alternating, prints as well. My style of sewing, quilting, and EPP'ing isn't fancy, but it makes me happy, and isn't that what life is about?

Hexie Flower!

That's what I pondered on yesterday's drive; how my writing isn't flashy, not the latest genre-craze. It's my life's blood, I will say, or one of the elements. It's never going to be blockbuster-style, but just to write, then release my novels is pretty damn cool, and I'll keep doing it until I run out of plots to enhance.

I'll keep sewing the same dang way.

I don't know how the gardening will evolve this year, although marigolds have sprouted, maybe a few cosmos, as well as carrots, beans, peas and oh my goodness the lettuce seeds went CRAZY! I think we'll put the carrots and lettuce straight into the ground, but the rest will be transferred into small pots. The seeds were all started in peat pellets, so it will be fascinating to observe how the carrots and lettuce acclimate while the rest snooze in safety a little longer.

Ice Cream Soda, with an ode to Van Gogh's "Starry Night" as the main print.

This year isn't about writing, or not yet. It seems to be about dabbling, be it in hobbies or the homes of others. It feels like a transitional set of days, weeks, and months, but I'm not sure to what I am leaving or moving toward. Crafting fiction and quilts isn't being abandoned, yet my grasp of them is, well, not tenuous, but kinda fleeting. Or altering in some way that might be related to edging toward my sixties, although that's still two years away. But in nearing fifty-eight, and spending a copious amount of time recently with those much younger, the notion of getting OLDER is stark, mostly in a grandmotherly manner, but also in a I don't have the same energy levels as my daughter and her friends or the grandgirls, lol. Which invariably translates to: I am perfectly happy writing stories for myself and whoever might find them online as well as making quilts that aren't social media stars but serve their purpose with subtle yet pretty intentions. This springs from what happened last year, losing a beloved far too soon, as well as feeling content in my own life to create without the need to shout all about it other than on this little blog.

A little Anna Maria Horner brightens this Hexie.

Because if I really craved obscurity, I wouldn't be going on about all this stuff on the World Wide Web. Which could be a post of its own, but lunchtime beckons, so I'll end this here, content with my life, a treasure all its own.

Last night away from home

 

Snapped at the park this afternoon while my granddaughters made bark chip ice cream cones.

I head home tomorrow. The week has been filled with great familial joys, Ted Lasso, too much gluten, several edited chapters of The Hawk, plentiful hand-stitching, and mostly warm weather. I don't know when I'll get around to finishing Season One of Ted Lasso, but I will see this section of my family in just a few weeks. In the meantime....

There are books to revise, perhaps a story to craft, a quilt to throw on the design wall, more EPP to stitch, some garden plots to clear, and memories, oh the marvelous memories of the past seven days. Easter thrills, grandgirl giggles, laughter with my daughter, some outstanding NY bagels and babka. I've greatly missed my hubby, planning an early exit from the SF Bay Area as soon as I have the car packed in the morning. While driving I can mull over the excitement enjoyed since last weekend, with maybe a few book ideas spinning in my head.

Stepping out of my realm makes for appreciation of the routine when I return to it. I'm not a big traveler, but am grateful to stretch the sojourning muscles, reconnecting with my kids and grandchildren when schedules mesh appropriately. Every so often I'm introduced to some new viewing fascination; The Planets by NOVA was a big hit last year, Ted Lasso for 2024. I don't mind coming late to a TV party, heck my husband and I are still enthralled with Star Trek: Deep Space 9.

I'll probably not get any written work accomplished until Monday at the earliest, nor am I in a big hurry to cut fabric for a quilt. But I am pondering these pastimes, as well as conversations shared with my beloveds. How blessed is the opportunity to spend time with those so loved, soaking up some warm sunshine, do a wee bit of shopping. I'm bringing home a new mug, some IKEA trinkets, three completed Ice Cream Soda blocks, a couple of 1" hexie flowers, and a little more of myself ingrained within folks close to my heart but usually far from my presence. A week away from home draws near those separated by many miles, then we'll do it again at the end of the month. Sounds like a good plan to me!

Living a different life

 

Meet Oscar, my youngest granddaughter's favourite stuffy. From where I'm currently seated, Oscar is keeping watch of the dining table momentarily transformed into an art station. Coloured pencils rule the area, alongside leftover spoils from Sunday's egg hunt. Nope, I'm not in Humboldt County anymore.

Time away from the North Coast is full of such activities, as well as much warmer temps, lol. Today we'll see a high in the mid to upper seventies, which feels like summer to me now. I haven't needed any over the counter medication for any sort of ache or pain, ha ha, the altered climate quite kind to my aging joints and muscles. Spending time with family is another remedy of sorts, stretching my meager drawing skills to their limits, but thankfully children aren't bothered.

I spent this afternoon working on one chapter of The Hawk, sipping decaf coffee that my daughter fixed, grateful for both the soothing brew and opportunity to dip my toes into slightly familiar waters, mostly in that I've not managed any revisions on this project in nearly a month and I really wanted to get back into it while the grandgirls were in school and my daughter worked in her office a few feet away. One chapter has been edited, woo hoo! I'll get another done tomorrow, maybe two on Thursday. Dribs and drabs will hopefully lead to more once I return home, crossing my fingers that will be the case.

A little sewing has occurred, but mostly time enjoyed with whom I am dwelling has been the biggest thrill. I chatted with the girls' other grandmother on Sunday, neither of us live near our descendants. We both lament the distances, but accept this is how it is, and we do our best to be as much a part of their lives that travel and technology allow. I was heartened for the support, in that for as much as we love our kids, we have our own lives too. Being a faraway grandparent isn't what we envisioned, but thankfully we can remain within their lives to some degree. And we relate our realms to them, which is just as important as sharing in their adventures. Of course I do that better when they visit us, but who I am as a person, not merely an abuela, is transmitted through myriad manners. I'm struck by how accustomed I've become to small town living, being thrust back into a metropolitan situation, another small aspect for me to ponder as the week continues....

Continuing the love story or how English paper piecing took over my life Part two

Buttercup never got far from a quilt, let me tell you....

I'm leaving home today for a week with my daughter and the grandgirls. My son-in-law will be away on business, time for this abuela to lend a hand as well as spend Easter with family. I'll miss my hubby most certainly, but I'm grateful to spend time with other beloveds.

I wasn't sure when I'd write this post, but last night as I was packing, the photo above popped up on the screensaver. A hound peeks out from the bottom of what is my first EPP'ed quilt, Buttercup was her name. Before the grandkids, we had a grandbasset, or a basset-beagle. Buttercup loved my quilts as much as a human, and this post is partially dedicated to her.

So hand-stitching.... Seems it figures pretty heavily in my quilting life. In 2018, I read a few blogs, some of which are now merely markers to my quilt beginnings. I grew especially fond of Jodi Godfrey, an Australian artist who had found her joy in using paper pieces, which she then turned into her own business. I wasn't sure if basting, then sewing shapes was for me, so I initially opted for a pack of 1.5" hexagons purchased at Joann; Dritz made these papers, which were easy to thread-baste for how stiff were the hexies. At the same time my mom wasn't well, so I spent a week helping to care for her, my sisters and I, our brother too, all wholly unaware of exactly how ill she was.

Mom had cancer, dying ten days after it was diagnosed.

What do I recall of those few weeks? Watching a newborn calf being attended by its mother, just outside my parents' front window. The Kentucky Derby, I think, or some other famous horse race on TV. Giving Mom a pedicure, stories shared with two women related to me, laughter and tears alongside. And using Mom's copious thread stash to baste hexies.... Those are odd memories, and more resound, but needless to say I had just finished writing The Hawk, and of course I wonder had I not finished before Mom passed, when might I have closed the chapter on that behemoth.

Jodi's Cherish quilt made for my youngest as a wedding present, November 2019.

Ah, my mom.... Not biologically but in every other manner. She sewed too, but not quilts. Garments were her specialty, so it's fitting my crafty nature reflects something she loved.

After Mom died, my writing world seemed irrelevant. I closed up my WordPress blog and made quilts for her sisters, while stitching by hand hexie flowers. I ended up seeking a therapist, as one does when a whole lotta emotional turmoil flips a person's world inside out; losing both parents in three years does not necessarily a matriarch make. And I kept sewing hexies together, ordering some of Jodi's papers, but my goodness they were thin compared to Dritz, and I wasn't sure if I could accurately baste fabric onto them. (Ends up I LOVE Jodi's papers, along with Paper Pieces out of Kentucky, their paper weight a smidge heavier than Jodi's, but quite serviceable.) All those hexie flowers turned into a quilt for my oldest granddaughter, pictured at the top of this post, and before I could realize it, paper piecing became as intrinsic as breathing.

Jodi's Seedlings quilt for my eldest, incorporating EPP and machine piecing. One of my all times faves!

As I packed yesterday, making sure the hexie tote was amply supplied was just as vital as my suitcase, lol. I spent last night basting hexies in case the grandgirls wanted to stitch some flowers. The Warriors beat the Charlotte Hornets, then the SF Giants overpowered the San Diego Padres (although Houston won as did Dallas, sigh....). Having enough clothes ranks just ahead of plentiful sewing accoutrements, and yes, I have all I need to poke at The Hawk too. My granddaughters will be in school next week, so I can accomplish a little of my own work, funny how The Hawk never seems wholly completed. But paper piecing merely flits from one project to the next, extremely versatile for traveling, and for giving me immense joy. Cross-stitching when I was younger, courtesy of my mom, has evolved into a marvelous manner to create lasting cozies, every simple pass of the needle through thread like a prayer offered up for whoever and whatever situation calls for intercessions. Maybe it's apt to write about this on Easter Saturday, knowing all I do is not of my own making, simply conjured through Love.

Cornflower, again designed by Jodi Godfrey. Currently it's heaped on the sofa, awaiting my hand-quilting attention.

Inheriting Mom's sewing stash, I use her thread for basting paper pieces. How fitting that despite her corporeal absence, she is always with me, and passed along in every hand-made piece that emerges. Crafting is a gift, be it in words or quilts, and I am ever so grateful for the mind, heart, and hands to share these treasures, and hopefully pass along the maker-spirit to the next generation.

A different love story or how I started quilting Part One

It all started with a trip to Joann Fabrics.

It was only about getting out of the house with my eldest while our guys installed a new kitchen faucet.

It was a Christmas gift to said offspring, who received a sewing machine from her spouse and a trip from Mum and Dad to Joann for assorted sewing hoo haa. I knew so little about fabrics, other than Boy lots of them were pretty. All my previous visits to Joann were for, um, bra extenders.

Recent rains hampered my attempts at an outside photo shoot.

But on that February day, 2014, something altered. Perhaps it was my smart-phone savvy daughter, finding all kinds of hand-stitched quilt ideas. None of them were related to English paper piecing, merely that not every quilt was made using a machine. As I collected bright fat quarters, she kept scrolling, and we left the store with a heap of supplies for me, not quite as many for her. 

Uncomplicated prints make for a vibrant throw!

Thus began my foray into quilt-making. So unplanned, so unprepared; I didn't have an iron or board, no cutting mat or rotary cutter, few pins. I used the small cardboard inserts within the fat quarters as my cutting guides, not fashioning squares but rectangles, then literally stitching them together with needle and thread. Nights passed and instead of writing, I stitched, finding another pleasure building within my veins, in my heart, into my soul. My heart and soul were in slightly dire straits as my father was beginning chemotherapy for prostate cancer.

This square lost its tie, so I improvised with three small stitches.

Dad was chilled from his initial treatments, a man always living in the hot Sacramento Valley. Dad wasn't a quilt kinda guy, but who is to say what makes a person desire cozy comfort? As I sewed those semi-squares, I kept track of Dad's reaction to chemo, then knew for whom my first quilt would go. It would be for my father, who needed it and wouldn't care if the blocks weren't actual squares or if it wasn't machine quilted but tied to keep it in one piece. It would be a surprise, I decided, ready for his next round of treatment, if I could finish it on time.

I had no idea in the spring of 2014 a year later Dad would be gone. That I'd be a grandmother. No idea I'd still be writing The Hawk; I only knew fiction was taking a sudden backseat to this amazingly satisfying and wholly valuable creative effort that would truly pay off if I could get this first endeavor completed before leaving to spend time with my parents. Thankfully my daughter's modern machine made the difference. I used her Christmas gift to tack an old but well-loved nubby throw blanket to my first quilt top, and voila, a soft cozy was DONE!

This sounds so simple, straightforward, but I recall how difficult it was using that machine. My previous experience with such an item was over thirty years in the past during Home Ec when I was a sophomore in high school. I was driving north the next day, I had to finish this element THAT DAY. And then still wash the blanket that evening. I had already tied it together, spread out over our kitchen table. Now that I think about it, without an iron, how did I make the top smooth? How did I correctly cut straight lines for the sashes? How did I not throw in the proverbial towel, then run right back to my computer, burying myself in prose....

Bright yellow side sash (and some really wonky machine stitching, lol).

How did my first novel get accepted by a publisher? How did I manage to spin multiple yarns? How, why, well.... Why's as deep a subject as well, Dana tells Tia in A Love Story. I coined that twist on an old saying my father often relayed to me. But well is only as deep as one's heart is wide, and the love I held for my dad was expressed in a little blanket he used until summer's heat reached his chilled bones. He opted out of his last chemo session, unable to withstand that potent treatment. By then the news of an impending great-grandchild warmed his aching frame, and a couple of months later that news was doubled when my other daughter announced she too was expecting.

By autumn of 2014, I was up to my armpits in sewing paraphernalia. I had all the tools, plenty of fabric, loads of ideas for baby blankets and burp cloths. I'd made curtains, baby wipes, baby bibs; I was still a noob, but had no fear, loving this new craft with a part of my heart writing couldn't satisfy; tangible, visible output. Nothing is silent about sewing, nothing hidden. My previously tidy office turned into a haven for messy makes, but how good it felt to spread the love with blankets and bits, wondering how this new hobby would mesh with noveling.

From 2014-2018, I wrote one very long book and made a truckload of quilts. I became a grandmother, lost my dad, then my mom, completing The Hawk just weeks before Mum died. Hand-sewing was expressed in bindings and hand-quilting, enough to keep me occupied in the evenings as I altered my work habits; no longer did fiction fill all my spare time. Yet my heart always came back to that first quilt; when Dad died, Mom asked if I wanted it back. I said certainly not, it belonged with her. When she passed, I couldn't take it, giving it to my youngest, who always loved the nubby blanket acting as the back. A couple of months ago, I requested it from her, wishing to inspect it for repairs, wanting to admire it, desiring a small moment to go back in time.

February 2014; the quilty beginning....

Sometimes a trip down memory lane is necessary, especially with bright colours to light the way.