Quilts, Tacos & Tattoos

Coffee Anyone?

Walking into the store the next morning, I was greeted by the sound of Betsy singing along to Johnny Mathis. Mom had her Christmas plaid apron on and a huge bow with holly in her hair. She was almost skipping as she rushed around sharing all of the holiday projects with the small crowd that had gathered in the classroom. Luanne came out of the classroom with stacks of books in her arms.

Ruthie was on the phone. "Who is this? Well, all right. Just come on down and we will take care of you."

Betsy smiled at me. "Cricket, don't stand there long, Sweetie, unless you want a kiss." I looked around the store to see who could possibly be there to kiss me, and then looked up to see the ball of mistletoe hanging above the doorway where I stood.

Luanne winked at me. "Maybe we could charge for kisses with Cricket."

"Very funny. We are not that desperate to balance the books," Betsy hooted at her own joke.

Ruthie hung up the phone, confused, and asked, "Who's going to kiss a book?"

I laughed. "No one, Miss Ruthie. Besides, I am not allowed to have my first kiss until I am eighteen, according to my mother."

Betsy had put down the books and was neatly arranging them. She looked at me over her glasses and then asked Mom who was several feet away with a group of ladies, "Candy, is she serious? How do you put an age or rule on getting your first kiss?"

Before Mom could answer, I said loudly, "Mother can put a rule on anything," Everyone laughed.

Mom ignored the entire conversation as she walked around with three women showing them all the projects on display in the store and classroom. Her favorite thing to do was walk around the store with customers pointing out each quilt project and describing it in detail: the fabric required, the amount of skill and time it would take, who in the store made it, and suggestions for who might receive the finished project as a gift.

Mom was so proud of all the women who worked for her and quilted for her store. She really did love the art and craft of quilting and the feeling she felt when she sewed for someone. She would sit hunched over a sewing machine in a labor of love, spending hours looking at fabric, finding just the right pattern, cutting, stitching, and quilting it together with batting and a back, and then putting on the final touch in the binding.

There is a rhythm in sewing, of the needles moving up and down. She would say, "Quilting is the real fun part. It's like you create this art and then you write and draw all over it with threads to tell another story - to capture a memory."

I stood there and watched her promenade around the circle with her customers, thinking about the artistic side of her that I loved.

I was at the cutting table all day. Mom had trained me right, and I knew the importance of measuring and cutting fabric the right way - don't give too much away, but never short a customer. It can ruin a project and a customer relationship.

When I was little, I used to cross-stitch all the time. As a young girl, I made a sampler for every baby who was born around me. A sampler is a cross-stitch that has a sweet baby picture and then has the baby's name, birth date and weight. Some mothers had opinions on which sampler I should make for a certain child. When I did not get to choose the project myself, it was a real drag to work on and felt like a chore. If it was a project I wanted, I could not get home soon enough after school, or sew long enough at night.

One year, my Mom's friend, Mrs. Collins, picked out 26 Christmas tree ornaments to give as gifts to all of her family members. Through Mom, she commissioned me to make them for her. All the patterns were different and not fun to make - a snowman, a deer, a Christmas tree, baby Jesus, etc. I did not even know Mrs. Collins. I started with the easiest pattern and made the first one. I then made four of the other patterns and decided I did not like the project at all and wanted to be done with it. I went back to the first easy pattern and completed the remaining ornaments - all reindeers. Mrs. Collins was not very pleased. She had some vision of who was just right for the snowman, the reindeer, the baby Jesus, etc., on her list, and I had ruined her holiday gifts. Mom just sat there and let Mrs. Collins yell at me and then agreed, and since I did not complete the project right, she did not have to pay me for my time. All I could do was sit there, furious with both adults. Luckily, I did not let that experience take away my joy of sewing and making art. The ornaments were not art. They were cheap labor, and I never wanted to be cheap labor again.