Patchwork

Here's my four-mode writing on my quilt.

Patchwork

A quilt is a type of bed cover usually featuring three layers: a pieced top, batting, and a solid piece of backing fabric. These layers are combined using a method called quilting. Quilting refers to the technique of joining the fabric using stitches or ties. Mine has alternating squares of denim and cotton fabric tied together with red yarn. It is edged in red trim. The backing is the same cotton material from the front: a whimsical farm scene with reds, blues and pale yellows. It is heavy enough to banish winter’s chill but with cool fabric that soothes me to sleep even on warm evenings. It is extremely soft, having been used and washed and used and washed so many times as to have a buttery feel to it. The denim comes from our family’s old jeans. Straight out of the dryer, it smells “April fresh”.

            Quilting has been in my family for generations. My father told stories of hiding, as a boy, under his grandmother’s quilt, set up on the frame, to listen to gossip. As the women gathered around the frame to quilt, they shared news unfit for a boy’s ears. It has been said that the quilting business is recession-proof. People always need blankets to keep warm and a quilt can be passed down to through generations. Fifty-year-old quilts have covered the sand offering protection to my childish feet on many beach outings. I made my first quilt as an almost-college freshman. My mother felt it was time to pass down the art. We quilted two baby pieces: one from Sunbonnet girl blocks my grandmother had sewn. They became instant heirlooms as well as functional and utilitarian objects that I used to wrap all five of my children.  When I began cutting and piecing my denim quilt, I had no idea how popular this object would be. The quilt is mine but my children fight over it. If I leave my room, the quilt mysteriously finds its way into the living room covering one of my offspring. I have made each of my children a quilt or blanket of some kind. On cold winter evenings we can be found bunched on the couch, under our covers watching movies and bonding. I had my own quilting frames and always intended to share the skill with my daughters. The quilting frames have been lost at least two moves ago so finishing a quilt is now problematic. Nowadays most quilts are sewn together by machine not hand stitched. If money were no object, I would purchase a quilting machine but part of my heritage tells me machine quilting is not REAL quilting. Even though I haven’t shared the art of quilting with my children, they, even the boys, have each made a fleece tie blanket. Again my heritage boasts that a fleece blanket is not the same as a quilt—can there be such a thing as quilt pride?

A quilt is bound together by tiny stitches or yarn ties. As a quilt ages from use and washing, it sometimes comes apart at the seams or on the squares. My family is stitched together in varying degrees. At times the stitches are tight and even; other times they are loose and varied. Through the years our seams have pulled apart in places. The square representing the dad is missing by his choice. His square is no longer recognizable to his children. He has changed and reshaped himself into a new cloth that doesn’t fit with our worn whole. The square representing my oldest son has formed with another to begin a new heirloom, now joined by three small blocks. So far their stitches are neat and even. The other squares of my children are still single: the youngest two still bound to my block. Our edges are frayed and we need repairing at times. I pull out needle and thread to make the necessary repairs. I am determined to keep our patchwork bound together through time and distance.