Picture this. I’m talking to my sister on the phone. She hears me using the sewing machine.
“Are you sewing?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What are making?”
“Guess!?” I am exasperated that she would even ask. My stash pile is LARGE. I think I’m up to 29 blocks. Someday, this will end. When the end of my life is near.
She guesses, “Crazy quilt?”
“Yes! (In my head I continue the thought, “For the rest of my life.)”
“Think of how cool it will be when you’re done.”
Well, I’m really not thinking that right now. Maybe that’s because my medicine isn’t lasting as long as I wish it would and I have headache out to here.
I found more scraps of past quilts, including a block that we created for the coming of Baby Noah (not a baby anymore, by the way). I found scraps from past table runners, the first quilt I made with my oldest, a potholder set that I made for our hosts in the Colorado cabin (I know you moved, so wherever you are now, thank you!), but strangely, not a shred could be found of the fabrics I used for the wall hanging that I made for my grandparents. Odd. Did I not overbuy for once in my life? Maybe not — I think I may have used a pattern for that one. Mark that down as the only time I ever kind of followed directions.