A few years back, I burned up a sewing machine. I was mostly interested in sewing garments, and made several for Laurel and even a couple for myself. When I purchased a new machine, I went for a nice one. I bought a quilting machine.
I figured I’d learn to quilt. It’s a tradition in my family, I guess you could say.
That, as I said, was a few years ago. I finally decided to take a class this past fall when Ethan went to Kindergarten.
Then the class was canceled.
So I got a couple of books and got my nerve worked up, and began. I didn’t follow a pattern. I saw a windmill quilting block and liked it, so I went through the entire rigmarole of designing the quilt top myself, measuring, figuring how much fabric I needed, the whole nine yards.
And I’m awfully proud because I only messed up once, the result of which was a trip back to the fabric store for more material. It could have been much worse.
Well, I guess I should say I actually messed up twice. When it came time for the actual quilting, I got a little too ambitious in my design and it just was more than my skills can handle right now. So I picked hundreds of stitches out and tried again.
It’s not a great quilt. It’s got errors in the stitching. It’s puckered in a couple of places. But it’s pretty good for a first try.
I learned a lot doing it.
And it’s mine. Even if it is going on Ethan’s bed.