The Adventures of Repairing a Vintage Quilt

My grandmother left me with wonderful memories. She knew what little ones wanted and needed and never held back her love. She made animal pancakes for Sunday breakfast, even though she knew her youngest (me!) would slop syrup on her dress. I frequently walked down to the little church on the corner with a damp-on-one-side washcloth under the top of my dress, keeping the wet washed spot off my skin. She knew that baking pies must include making pie-crust cookies out of the leftover crust. And she knew that little children loved making houses for their dolls, so Ernie made some fences that could be used as walls for the houses and corrals for the livestock.

One of the wonderful things she left me was a beautiful quilt that was made of leftover fabrics from my sister's, cousin's and my prom dresses. Lovely satin fabrics that held our dreams together in those innocent early years of our lives. This gift gave me the start of my love of quilts. I would be heart broken if anything happened to my Gramma Quilt.

So when my friend told me that she had a wonderful soft, comfy quilt that her 97 year old auntie had made for her, I was so happy for her. What a treasure! And then she told me the story of one of their dogs.... She was in a ZOOM meeting when she turned around and saw this naughty pup take a huge bite out of the center of the quilt! Could I repair it? I hoped I could.

Until I saw the quilt, I didn't know what to expect. Had the dog shredded the fabric? Was the bite all the way down to the batting inside? And how on earth was I going to repair this comfy treasured Auntie quilt?

Boy howdy! It was a through-and-through! And I really didn't know how on earth I was going to repair this comfy treasured Auntie quilt! So it sat on a guest chair in it's bag for quite a few weeks until I finally asked around, got some advice, thought about it, and eventually jumped right in.

First thing I did was remove all the damaged blocks and some of the undamaged ones in order to square it out. I had to undo some of the hand-quilting in the process. I was cleaning up the lines, in a sense. 

Then I dug through my fabric scraps, looking for fabrics that were more vintage-looking in colors similar to the original quilt's colors. 

Before I started sewing, I had to write out the pattern of colors and whites so when I put the rows in the patch together, I would still get those beautiful "Round the World" lines. When it all seemed to work together, I sewed the rows together and set the patch aside. I had more howthehell work to do.

Okay, now how to repair the batting? After checking out the undamaged batting, I realized it was a different type of batting than I used. It was thinner and squishier and probably a higher polyester content than my cotton. I needed to take a trip to the fabric store to test out the batting available. Once the batting was purchased, I put a piece of paper under the doggy-hole and drew the batting hole. This way I could attach the right size of batting to patch up the hole.  I had to trim up the "dog-food" batting, cleaning up the lines.

Cutting the batting to the right size, a size that could overlap the edges, I hand sewed the batting patch onto the batting. 

Once the batting was completed, I could then applique the pieced patch over the doggy door on the front. I needed to applique the patch onto the front because I could not get a good open lip into the remaining edges. What I mean is, I could only get the patch to lay on top of the quilt rather than in between the edges. The applique went together quite easily. Having the correct sized squares (2.5" squares) helped make it an easy part of the project.

Remember that the puppy didn't stop with just the front and batting. That little imp went all the way through. Now I had to deal with the backing. The vintage fabric was a muslin that had beautifully aged to a soft yellowish-white. I tried to find a fabric that looked similar, but the choices were either too yellow or too white. I selected a muslin as close as I could, knowing it would show up against the original backing. Ya takes what ya gots, right? I also figured the new muslin would age as well.

After cleaning up the edges of the backing, I cut the new fabric larger than the doggy door backing, turned it under one fourth of an inch, and pinned it to the backing. I then appliqued the patch to the back.

Well, then I needed to quilt the repaired area. If I knew how to hand-quilt, it would have been a perfect skill to use in this situation. Alas, I have never learned. My cousin only quilts by hand. Her advice to me was that "you are the machine and your hand is head that is holding the needle." It sounded rather like a zen moment. But no, I did not become one with the machine. Instead I clumsily machine quilted it all together in a bit of a heavy-handed way. But it looked pretty good. Yay! 

My friend was happy and I learned a great deal. If you don't turn it over and see the not-yet-aged muslin in the back, you can hardly tell there had been a naughty pup in this beautiful quilt's past.

And so it goes
peace~~~

Don't Let the Old Woman Out

 

I recently read an interview with James Brolin. He was the dreamy doctor on Dr. Welby, MD in 1969. He had recently turned 80 and was going strong. He said he looked in the mirror and realized he was older--wrinkles and crinkles and such--but remembered something Clint Eastwood (90) had once said, "Don't let the old man out." And Brolin decided to run with that.

I look in the mirror at age 70 and see the wrinkles and lost lips and crinkly eyes. When COVID hit, the government called my age group "elderly." That label was a shock to me and all in my high school friends! We spent many days on Facebook discussing and disagreeing with that label. My grandmother, when she was in her 80s, was asked over the phone if she was "elderly;" she answered, "Well, I'm not 90 yet."

We know this stuff. We know not to let the old woman out.

 

Today I had a ZOOM get together with my sister and cousin.  We laughed and laughed for over an hour. We were as young as we will ever be again. Laughing and frolicing. I know that I can't get up off the floor easily. I can't walk well nor fast because of some balance issues. I can't imagine hang gliding nor bungee jumping, like some of my older friends can.  But hey!

I can bake a great pie, make a terrific dinner, enjoy the snow falling around my house (I love snow, as a concept). I can happily sing with good volume, write an essay, make a quilt. I can do stuff that younger women can't because I don't care if I'm seen as silly or what. 'Cause I ain't gunna let the old woman out! While I can, I'm going to laugh and bring others giggles and snorts and be silly and act the fool--no differently than when I was 16 or 32 or 45. I'm going to try to live a happy long life. 

Years ago--when we were in our late 20s--a friend and I, while visiting his grandmother at a nursing home, heard over the loud speaker, " Mabel has escaped again. Please find her and bring her back to her room." We pictured Mabel racing out the open gate in her wheelchair, romping through the gated yards, and gleefully cherishing freedom with the wind flying through her hair. And right then and there, we decided that we were going to be the ones they will need to call for help to bring back. Frolicing through the hallways is always an option. I noticed that the people who smiled and connected with others in the nursing home where my mother lived her final four years of life seemed so much more satisfied with their lives than others. They weren't letting the old person out.  

 

So let's make a vow. Raise your right hand and repeat after me. "I will continue to play and frolic and laugh and laugh and laugh for as long as I am able."

We will not let the old woman out. 

And so it goes
peace~~~

Throwback Thursday: Thanksgiving

As hard as it might seem to believe, I was a shy little kid. Looking at pictures of holidays and family celebrations, I was the little wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights one sitting with the cousins. See, we didn't get together with cousins and aunts and uncles often--mostly just holidays--and I didn't know them well. I knew and loved our grandmothers, but the rest were just not part of our every day life. Plus, I was the youngest in my mother's family with the oldest about the same age as my mother. I was the second youngest in my father's family. Everyone seemed older than me.

Thanksgiving was the holiday of food and family. Some years we'd spend Thanksgiving with my father's family; some years with my mother's. And some years one of the grandmothers would eat dinner with the other's family. The meals were usually at a grandmother's house, but every so often we'd have the dinner at an uncle's or an aunt's house. Once in a while at our own.

Both families were so completely different than the other. At our Nanny's house, they would set up the table in the living room--the big wood table over by the door and the kids' table closer to the kitchen. There was always lots of talking and laughter. The picture in my head is of my Aunt Wilma half-standing as she is passing a dish across the table to my uncle, talking to and looking toward another aunt on her right. Then as she sat down, she was licking her fingers from the food she passed. It was lively and happy. 

At our gramma's house, the meal was more interesting. Not in the liveliness of the conversation because I never actually remember hearing them talking. I'm sure they did and had great conversations and laughter, but the little kids' table was outside! It was really cool. Gramma had a wonderful old two-story house with a wrap-around porch. The window from the dining room was facing the porch and that's where we had the kids' table! So the window was open, a food tray was between the inside table (a gorgeous ebony table that had a white plain table cloth with a lacy one over it) and the window and the outside table. I loved it! So we could eat and be silly and no one had to ask us to be quiet-they-can't-hear.

At Nanny's after dinner, the old cousins and the dads would head out to the side yard for a smoke. My sister and I, being some 15-20 years younger than the cousins, didn't join them. They scared me with their white t-shirts and ciggies rolled up in the sleeve, their hair slicked back in ducktails, talkin and laughin. We little ones just stayed away, peeking at them when we could without being seen. 

At Gramma's, the cousins were generally closer to our own age and we would play games. One game was so fun. We would walk out to the end of the porch steps wall and jump as far as we could. Sometimes we would climb up to the porch wall itself and jump over Gramma's hedge. Robert, the youngest (one year younger than me), couldn't always make it over the hedge, but he was always game to try. 

As we grew up and went on our own, we had our own traditions for Thanksgiving. We lived a thousand miles away from my family. My sons had their own tradition--playing Thanksgiving Day Mudball with the neighbor kids out in our rain-filled side yard. Some might call it "football," but it was too muddy and splashy for us to give it that name. My sons sometimes went to their father's for the holiday. I might be invited to a friend's for dinner at those times. If I was dating someone, perhaps we'd join his family. When I started working at the corner store, I would usually work on the holidays. And we'd always celebrate with a fresh-baked pie :)

The shy deer-in-the-headlight girl

And so it goes
peace~~~

Putting Toes to the Test

 

I've been taller than most all my life. I think I was born tall. I always liked being tall, except when kids called me Jolly Green Giant or asked, "Hey! What the weather like up there?" I always wanted to say, "Grow up and find out!" but I was afraid I would hurt their feelings and just said, "No rain yet!" or something similar. So it wasn’t that I was sad or unhappy I was tall; I just didn't want to be teased too much about it. Like I was a freak or something. It was especially hard when in high school, you know like before the boys got their growth. Seemed like they loved to be the protector over a cute tiny girl. Oh well, I eventually dated and life went on.

Having a tall body meant I had large feet. No two ways about it, my feet were big. No one in our town, while my sister and I were in late elementary and junior high school age, sold shoes the size of our feet; we had to ride into Los Angeles to buy our shoes. Buying shoes was a big deal. The shoes cost a bit, so Dad told us to "take big steps." That was so, he said, the shoes would last twice as long. 

Mom loved the look of saddle oxfords. I hated them. Not only that, but she loved the sparkling look of white bobby socks with all-white oxfords. Her taste wasn't very reliable because she also loved the look of our hair in a ponytail--no bangs--pulled tight on our head. I hated that, too, but that's a whole ‘nother story. I hated bobby socks. First, no one was still wearing bobby socks. Secondly, no one was still wearing saddle oxfords. 

The final straw was that the ugly bobby socks with the super ugly all-white saddle oxfords looked like BOATS on our gigantic feet. We couldn't even have two-toned saddle shoes to break up the walking film-screens! Just white. Big ole white boats. See, we were already big girls; now we had to wear these clodhoppers. I was afraid that people would scream as we approached, worried we would stamp down all buildings and trees, people as we stomped our way through town.

1930s saddle shoes

Here's the thing about saddle shoes. They used to be really popular. They got their name from the saddle-like shape of the piece of leather sewn across the waist of the shoe, usually in a contrasting 2-tone color. They debuted as a woman’s fashion in the 1920s. First they were for male golfers—the black and white went with their golf outfits—back in the 1910s. But by 1920s, women really liked this casual wear and took them over as their own. In the 1930s, Spalding—the company that made the shoe—started making the shoe "depression affordable" By changing the composition of the sole—from rubber to cork—and the style continued. 

1950s Bobbysoxers

By the 1950s, the style hit its full peak of popularity. They were so popular and comfortable that housewives wore them to do their chores. School girls wore them day and night. They wore them with their poodle skirts. They wore them with jeans.  They wore them with white bobby socks. Perfect for dancing and playing and sitting in class. 

And then came the 60s and the style tanked. The 1960s was a decade of rebellion. We were eager to forge our own path and balked at the traditions of our parents. The saddle shoe fell victim to this trend. The iconic black and white shoes were now seen as a symbol of the establishment that we '60s teens were rebelling against. The popularity of the saddle shoe dropped drastically.

Unfortunately, Mom didn't understand this. Unfortunately, Mom loved the look of all-white saddle shoes with turned down white bobby socks. Also unfortunately, I hated them. I would take off my socks on the bus to school so I at least didn't have those stupid bobby socks that no one else wore. My sister says, "Yes, two of us would get on the bus wearing socks and only one of us would get off the bus at school wearing socks." When I could buy my own clothes, I bought some flats with pointy toes and tried to wear those. Never again would people scream in fear that their town would be stamped to the ground! Of course, my feet were still too big for those flats, but dangnabbit I was going to look like everyone else!

And then I went farther than most. I tried to go to school barefooted. Yeppers, I had some cooooool barefooted sandals that really fooled them for a couple of days. And then *sigh* I was once again sent home to change my clothes. But if I actually returned to school, I wasn't wearing any stupid saddle shoes!

I still have big feet. I was told that a tall person needs large feet to hold them up. With little feet they would simply fall over. No base...it's all about the base. But also know I still don’t like the looks of a saddle oxford. Boats can sink; bare feet rule.

And so it goes
peace~~~

Weird Portland Wednesday: The Green Green Parks of Home

I love parks with green grass flowing within banks of paths, with trees spreading their umbrellas of shade. Parks with sounds of children laughing, squealing with delight on swings and slides and fun. I love parks with trails that meander throughout the trees and bushes, leaving me thoughtful and content.

Portland has probably the most parks in the lower 48 with at least 279 parks and natural areas. We have one of the largest parks with Forest Park's nearly 7000 acres as well as the smallest park in the world: Mill Ends Park. Rated the smallest park by the Guinness Book of World Records, Mill Ends is about two feet in circumference. Like many of Portland's parks, there are often protests held there. 

One of the most beautiful parks in Portland is also one of my favorites: Cathedral Park. It sits under the enchanting St Johns Bridge, which is a suspension bridge from the Art Deco era. I was married under this bridge, a barefooted bride with daisies in my hair. My fella and sons and Doug's stepson wore Hawaiian shirts. Along with the sprinklers and the train and other chaos-makers during the ceremony, it was a splendid day.

And the park. The park is magnificent. It's not that large, just a bit over 21 acres, but it quietly says, "Peace" at every turn. The opening of the park has some lovely concrete steps out onto a circular platform and the park gently sweeps from there. Standing on the platform (which is where we held our wedding) looking out toward the Willamette River, you have a view of the cathedral pillars holding the bridge.

This park site is quite historical, as well as beautiful.  It is believed to be one of the 14 Lewis and Clark landing sites in the Vancouver-Portland area: William Clark and eight men camped there on April 2, 1806. It has also been a fishing and camping site for local Indian tribes. In 1847 the founder of St. Johns, James John, trapped and hunted on the site and operated a ferry to the fishing town of Linnton across the Willamette River. 

Apparently Cathedral Park is the one number historical landmark of Portland that is most often posted on Instagram.  The TV series, Leverage, was filmed in Portland and would use the park for many outdoor shoots. The television program, The Librarian, used the park as it's headquarters. Their library lair, or annex, was located at the base of the bridge.

The park, which was built in 1980, is home to many festivals and events. The year we were married, the Hood-to-Coast biking event was stopping at the park for a breather that weekend. This is why we were married on Friday rather than the expected Saturday. The Cathedral Park Jazz Festival, which started in 1981, is the oldest and largest free jazz and blues event west of the Mississippi. 

Cathedral Park, sitting beautifully under the St Johns Bridge, is one more way we keep Portland (happily) weird.
peace~~~