What, Oh, What Has Become of Quilting Humor? A Tiny* Rant

You know, when I was starting out in this business, being a quilting humorist meant something. We were part of a long tradition of valiant crafters who stood as the gadflies of a world full of self-important ninnies, and we took pride in our work. And back then you couldn't just wake up one morning and say, "Hey! I think I'll start writing various obscenities scattered among mock tutorials for how to free motion quilt during oral sex." No, we trained. We apprenticed. We put in hours of reading. We lifted weights. We drank ourselves into oblivion fortnightly. We wrestled Mexican bears. We learned Tuvan throat singing. We had affairs with politicians (local, usually). We paid our dues and honed our craft and bribed the appropriate individuals.

And what did we write about? Zombies, mostly, but there was other stuff too. And it was good.

But today? Anybody with an iPad and an account on someecards.com can create so-called "humor" and put it out on Facebook for everybody and their Uncle Ferdinand to share. Do you have any idea how often someone has written "A Fat Quarter Is Not A Body Part" in the last year and thought it was a stone riot? Right now, there is a blogger somewhere typing, "Oh, golly I just have SO much fabric...I can't find any of my children...!! Haha!"and she has 2700 followers and a book deal.

The next time you are shopping for quilting humor, ask yourself: do I want to consume shoddy, tossed-off, mass-produced, my-husband-will-kill-me-if-I-buy-any-more-fabric type humor? Or do I want carefully crafted, professional humor with just the right amount of penis jokes and plenty of zombies?

Please—do your part to support the highly endangered quilting humorist. Rumor has it there is only one left, and she's running out of tequila.




*and totally facetious

I won't be seeing you at Quilt Market. Here's why.

A few weeks ago, I put the last corrections onto the PDFs that I create for the layout of Generation Q and uploaded them to the printer. I then gave the final approval for those pages and got the word from our technical service representative that the magazine was going to plate. I had finished my fifth issue, and it was a good one. It was also my last.

As of now, I am no longer the creative director of GenQ. I made this decision around Christmastime, and gave my official notice at the end of January (though it had been made known to Jake and Melissa in less formal ways a few weeks earlier). I said that I would see them through the next issue and I also agreed to continue writing my column plus two other uncredited pieces that I have been writing for each issue so far, and I agreed to continue maintaining the website.

It is very important for me to emphasize that I am not leaving that role at GenQ because I was unhappy with GenQ, but because I was feeling a desperate need to pursue my own creative goals. Being a part of the creation of GenQ has been an amazing ride, and I have accomplished things I never thought I could do.  I have no formal training in graphic design. I once taught myself just enough Quark Xpress to layout a simple book, and later, as the assistant editor of a very small, local magazine, I learned some InDesign just by putting things into the template our graphic designer (the boss's son) had already set up. I learned just enough to occasionally design some ads, and later designed a logo and more ads for a friend's business. Then I didn't touch it for about three or four years. Taking on the design and layout, with no help, of an entire publication with only that much experience in my pocket was like deciding to ski down the double black diamond trail after having sledded down a backyard hill on a lunch tray a few times. It felt reckless and stupid. But I was all we had.

As a start-up, we simply couldn't afford a real graphic artist, and though nobody knew I had any experience at all when we started and I could have kept my mouth shut, I offered to try my hand at working up a logo. I had it down within just a couple days, and it was so much fun. But I still assumed that somehow they would find a way to bring on a real graphic designer for the first print issue, and I also assumed that the first print issue was a lot farther off that it actually turned out to be. Less than a year after we launched the web site, we were planning the first issue. And, by default, I was going to have to put it together.

This was terrifying. I don't now how many times I sat with my husband, my head in my hands, saying, "I can't do this. They think I can do this but I can't. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm a writer, not an artist. I don't even know how to number the damn pages or make sure the text all lines up at the bottom. They're depending on me and they won't listen when I say I can't do it and now I'm going to have to fail and I hate that." I was so upset and so convinced that I was going to let everybody down.

But I didn't. I did it, and it was good, and then I did it four more times, and I loved doing it; I really did. Every time I finished designing an article, I felt exhilarated, and I still flip through the pages of all the past issues and give myself little secret pats on the back. That why this decision was so incredibly hard for me. I'm not giving up something I hate. I'm giving up something I love so that I can have the freedom to pursue other things that I love even more. Designing GenQ made me realize, as almost nothing has before, that I really can do anything I want, even if I don't already know how, and so I knew I needed to start doing all those things I've been wanting to do, or time would surely run out and I'd regret never having done them.

And yes, I am sure that my brother's illness and death had a lot to do with this decision, though it didn't feel consciously so at the time. It may be a cliche, but you truly never know how much time you have.

As proud as I am of what I have done for GenQ, in my heart I do not feel that magazine graphic design is what I am meant to do. It turned out that I was okay at it (considering my experience) but I knew that I would probably never be great. I also knew that even though I loved the work, there is work I love more, and that is writing. I cannot remember a time when I didn't want to be a writer or when I wasn't writing something, even if it was doggerel. When Quilter's Home died, I took that as my signal to start doing several things that I had wanted to pursue: write a novel, expand the blog, and eventually start teaching and lecturing, all of which went on the back burner when they asked me to join GenQ. Since then, I have discovered even more things I want to do and write and create, and I have learned that the work of designing GenQ takes up so much of my creative energy that I have very little left over for other pursuits.

In other words, I want to make my focus a creative world that is entirely my own. And to do that, to really go for all of that, I need time and freedom. And so for months I cried big, copious tears because I knew in my heart I was going to have to step aside from GenQ.

I will forever be grateful and loyal to Jake and Melissa for all they have done for me. From giving me my first humor column to entrusting me with the look and feel of their new magazine, they have given me some of the most wonderful opportunities of my life. I am forever in their debt and am even more so now as they accepted my decision with such grace and kindness and have allowed me to remain on staff in a much-reduced capacity. I am also grateful to the rest of the GenQ staff: Scott, Vicki, and Tracy for all their understanding and support. If you have become a GenQ reader through me, stick around. My column will continue and, who knows? You may see my by-line on other articles and projects in the future.

I am really looking forward to the next phase of my life, but I'm also completely terrified. The last few weeks have been hard as I've been second guessing my decision and wondering if perhaps my prime has already passed. All I can do is forge ahead, and hope that the chance I've taken is the right one.

Expo-sition

On Saturday, I wheedled and begged and got my husband to drive me into Baltimore so I could attend the Original Sewing and Quilt Expo at the convention center. My youngest daughter wanted to see the U.S.S. Constellation and the U.S.S. Torsk, which are both docked in the harbor there, and my oldest daughter claimed she wanted to come to the quilt show with me. Yeah, right, kid. I believe that. Bet you ten bucks you head off with your dad and your sister at the last minute. No, Mom! I want to see quilts with you!

Easiest ten bucks I ever made.

Part of my wheedling was to get us there as early as possible because I was hoping to avoid standing in line for tickets. So, when I got there I walked right up and got my wrist thingy without waiting, feeling all proud of myself for the result of my superior nagging skills, but then later I realized there just weren't that many people there. I talked to some of the vendors and they all said that every one of these shows they had been to had been successful for them, except this one, and they all seemed to think it was because Baltimore is scary.

Really? Baltimore is scary? I can't remember ever feeling scared in Baltimore. I realize there is some very serious crime in Baltimore, and the politicians are just like evil Disney rodents in suits, but downtown? At the Inner Harbor? It's all Cheesecake Factory and Hard Rock Cafe and Orioles games. It's full of kid stuff: The National Aquarium, The Maryland Science Center, Port Discovery, The Museum of the American Crack Whore. All wholesome, family-oriented stuff. I guess people thought Omar Epps was going to jump out from behind a recycling bin and pop a cap in their ass, like that happens all the time in broad daylight in the most touristy part of town. That's right: Charm City, motherfuckers.

Still, it meant that I didn't have to shove little old ladies out of the way to see anything. I don't know if the show is usually larger in other places, and when it is not so close to Market, but there honestly wasn't much. Maybe I only say that because I'm now used to Market, which is freakishly huge. But at Market, I can't buy anything, which is more frustrating than you can possibly imagine. Here, I could buy stuff, but there just wasn't that much that I wanted. If I wanted novelty fabrics or batiks, well then, SCORE, but not so much for the stuff I like. One vendor did have some bolts of Echino, which I've never had and always wanted, but it was just so expensive, and he looked cranky. I didn't want to bother him. Despite my shyness, I do like chatting with the vendors, and the ones who glare at me just seem like they wouldn't be up for meaningless banter and I can't bring myself to approach them. Yes, I'm insane.

I did get a few things, though.

There were also several quilts on display, and since Harper bailed on me, I had no one who could appreciate that I actually know some of the people whose work was featured there.

There was Lisa:

And Lisa again:

And Ebony Love:

And okay, maybe I don't technically "know" Victoria Findlay Wolfe, because if I saw her I wouldn't go up to her and hug her the way I would with Ebony or tackle her and give her noogies the way I would with Lisa, but I have exchanged business-related emails with her! And she seemed to find me mildly amusing, so I'm sure I'm in her will by now.

And there was one quilt on display (and no, I'm not going to show it, though I did take several pictures) that was just...bad. Badly pieced and badly quilted. And this was not one from a local guild or anything, which I would have forgiven, but one from the Faculty Showcase. I was very surprised to see something so poorly done on display, but I wondered if anyone else was bothered by it, or if I've just become really snotty and picky. Does there come a point where, if you are a famous enough personality, the quality of your work doesn't matter to anyone? I'm all about embracing mistakes, and I have no problem holding up one of my quilts and pointing out its flaws, but I couldn't put that same quilt in a showcase alongside others where people had clearly, you know, tried to make them look good. I have part of a quilt next to me as I'm typing, and it's a quilt that might maybe possibly be shown in a book next year, and I am trying SO HARD to make it good enough to stand alongside quilts from other, less spastic quilters. If I were famous, would I not care so much, because I'd know that people would accept whatever shit I produced just because it had my name on it? Or does there come a point where you get so busy, you can't take the time to produce quality work anymore? Do they have to rely on stunt sewers and just accept whatever they produce, because they're too busy being stalked on Facebook to do all that sewing themselves? This strange world I have found myself in fascinates me.

Having said that, I have made a major change in my place in this strange world and I'll tell you all about that later this week. If I'm not killed and eaten on the mean, mean streets of Baltimore first.

Been there, quilted that

Because we are all so, so jaded, I have a new t-shirt/mug/tote bag design up in my Cafe Press shop (thanks to the reader who suggested it):

 This should make my husband happy, as he is forever telling me I should design more shirts, as though marginally amusing quilt-related t-shirts are the key to our financial success. That, or he just thinks it's cool. I imagine it would be nice to be the mogul of the first marginally amusing quilt-related t-shirt empire. The Martha of marginally amusing quilt-related t-shirts. Or maybe more like the Donald because I have similarly insane hair and have the same basic body shape. You know, I could tolerate being this fat if I at least had a waistline, but I never did have one even when I was skinny, so it's not going to happen without major surgery. I once interviewed a local plastic surgeon for an article and she was so nuts, I just fell in love with her. She kept going on about how she knew when she had a brief job training as a dental assistant that she had "healing hands" and this all worked it's way down in some mystical journey to nose jobs and tummy tucks, and I was all, "If I ever need to have the fat sucked off my gut, I totally want you to do it." I mean, have you ever noticed that general surgeons are all, like, incapable of relating to other human beings and if you try to crack a joke or, I don't know, express your mortal terror, they just either look at you all blank like, "I do not understand your ways, human," or they say something really condescending to let you know that they are going to gut you like a fish so you best remember who here has the medical degree and who is just a freelance writer with a marginally amusing quilt-related t-shirt business on the side? Aaaand we're on-topic again! Sort of.

Anyhoodle, the new shop section is here: http://www.cafepress.com/bitchystitcher/10041844. Tell your friends. Tell your general surgeon. Ask him if he has "healing hands." But wait until after he's done gutting you like a fish.

Originality, Quilting, and Serbian Penis Hats

Some time ago, a reader suggested this as a topic for a post: how do you know if a pattern you create is original? Apparently, she had been working very hard on a pattern and a technique that she had never seen anywhere else, until finally, several Google searches eventually turned up something similar enough that she felt pretty discouraged about the whole thing.

So now here I am, farting around with fabric and wondering: does the stuff I come up with qualify as a "design," something that I could put my name on and submit to a magazine or possibly sell as apattern? My GenQ editors keep telling me I should design something and submit it to our own publication, because they somehow have gotten the idea that I can design things other than magazine layouts and the occasional t-shirt. And I have to say they are probably right, but what keeps me from moving forward is wondering how you know when you've actually designed something?

This answer should be easy. I have next to me a copy of American Patchwork and Quilting and the cover quilt is called Color Me Crochet, and the suggestion is that the pattern makes the quilt look like crocheted granny squares. What it looks like to me is the Scrappy Trip Around the World that everybody and their dead grandmas were doing just a few months ago. That particular craze was started (possibly) by Pink Castle Fabrics  (at least that's where I saw a lot of the inspiration for it being credited), but they got it from Bonnie Hunter, who posted it as a free tutorial back in 1999. Now, the quilt in the magazine uses a slightly different technique to create the blocks that give you this particular effect, but the result is exactly the same.

American Patchwork & Quilting/April 2013

And a Scrappy Trip Around the World made by Julie of Distant Pickles . See the similarities?

Bonnie notes that this pattern uses the Trip Around the World block, which is as old as, well, really old stuff, but is just scrappy. That's it. She took a traditional block and made it scrappy. So did the author of the AP&Q cover quilt. Did she copy Bonnie? No, I don't think so. I don't think it is such a leap of mental prowess to come up with the idea to make a traditional block scrappy that the only possibility is that one is a copy of the other.

Here is a quilt from the book 101 Fabulous Rotary Cut Quilts that dates from 1900. It uses blocks that are larger than the Scrappy Trip Around the World, and it uses the same fabrics in each block to achieve the effect, but I think you can see the similarity:

How often have you opened a quilt magazine and seen a pattern for something that is basically a traditional block? Or a combination of traditional blocks? How many times have you seen a quilt and thought, "Huh. That looks familiar." For another example from the same magazine, as soon as I saw this quilt:

I thought of this book cover:

Are they exactly the same? No, but similar enough to stir something in my grey matter that made me wonder if it was the same designer. (It's not.)

I don't really have an answer here. Is the magazine owl quilt a copy of the second? Is the magazine "crochet" quilt an "original design"?

Right now, laid out on my ironing board, are 8 blocks that I just "made up" a couple days ago and I LOVE them. I think they look sooooo cool and when they are all done, the resulting quilt might be worthy of being called Joe (for my beloved Joe Manganiello, of course). And believe me, I have Googled the ever-loving shit out of it, and though I have seen some things that come dancing close, I have seen nothing yet that is exactly the same. And yet I still hesitate to call this a "design," to think that it's worthy of attaching my name to and putting out into the world in any other fashion than a hey-look-what-I-made-now post on this here blog. Why is that? Why, when I am so ready to smack down others for being too copyright-happy, am I unwilling to claim a design as my own?

I think part of the reason is the fear that if I take the leap to put my work out there, someone will try to call shenanigans on me. They won't have a leg to stand on, and I know it, but I have seen so many "waaaa - you copied me" hissy fits out there—some of which have resulted in actual threats from actual lawyers—that I hesitate to run the risk of the stress and bother (and possible lawyer fees) that such a hissy fit would cause. Also, I'd have to smack a bitch, and no one wants that.

And part of it is that I am kind of freaky about wanting to produce original work, and this may come from being a writer and editor by trade. When I was an editor, I could spot a plagiarized article a mile away (and since the idiots always plagiarized from the internet, I could prove it while hardly lifting a finger) and got into some pretty heated arguments with my bosses about why we weren't firing the writers' asses and telling them why. (They didn't like to "burn bridges." I figure you should dynamite any damn bridge that leads to a plagiarist.)  I work very hard to make sure the words I put on a page are mine, and I get deeply offended by those who think they can get away with copying and pasting and then take money for it. So, when I sit down to think about a quilt, I tend to think about it like a writer, and try to come at it so that the result is a reflection of my style, my brain, my thoughts alone.

Design, like writing, takes practice. When I first started doing the design for GenQ, I looked through a lot of magazines for inspiration and ideas, because I was new and unsure of what I was doing. Now, five issues in, I don't pay much attention to other publications at all. I now have a way of approaching a layout and creating what I need without having to see how others have done something similar, and this is simply because I've now had enough practice at it.

So, I can only assume that designing quilts would be much the same: that with enough practice, I would begin to produce more original work. But I also think that, in quilting—and particularly when we are talking about straight piecing and not applique—it is just inevitable that certain configurations will show up again and again in independently created designs. It is not inconceivable that two people would think, "How can I make an owl out of just squares and rectangles?" And that they would think of that without having seen it somewhere else. Instead of assuming a design has been somehow copied or misappropriated, I almost think we have to assume it wasn't. (Now if the written instructions are copied — that's easier to tell and be concerned about, and that's where copyright law is actually clearer.) And we have to trust ourselves to enjoy and appreciate the work that comes out of our own heads, even if it turns out that somebody else, somewhere, thought of it first.

Remember that design isn't necessarily creating something that no one has ever seen. When I work on magazine design, it's not like no one has ever seen an article on hidden penis motifs in late-twentieth century Serbian quilts before. But it has never been that article with that title and that particular artwork (a banner of flying penises in traditional Serbian hats) placed in exactly that configuration before. Even if someone, somewhere used the same art (because, let's face it, those little penis hats are everywhere), it's still not the same design. Furniture, houses, clothes—nearly everything that has a visual design element has a basis in something that came before it. Just look at all the flower prints in quilt fabric out there. And dots! How do you design dots? By putting down some circles and coloring them in and having the confidence to say, "Here are my dots, made just the way I wanted them." You could do the same with penis hats, too. For my quilt, I should have the confidence to say, "This is my design," knowing that the work did indeed come from my own little noggin, even if someone else eventually says, "Been there; quilted that."

So, how do you know when your design is original? You might not know. It might not be original by your (or someone else's) standard. But the way you put it out into the world—your fabric choices, your block configuration, your method, and your way of writing about that method (i.e., your instructions)—can be very original and very much your own.

Especially if it includes Serbian penis hats.



Read More: Here are some things about originality in design that I have found interesting:

An Essay on Hedi Slimane and the Saint Laurent Paris Fall 2013 Collection: "If you think about it, we’ve seen it all. Fashion is fickle, yes, but is any of it ever actually new? What’s new to me is a designer choosing—in this digital age where we can work from anywhere—to make his work where and when he’s inspired, regardless if it’s a known fashion hub or not. What’s new to me is a designer brazenly choosing to reference not only his own house’s original designer but another designer, too (whether intentional or not). What’s new to me is a designer choosing to celebrate up and coming artists and musicians that aren’t household names."

Originality in Logo Design: "The less intricacies involved in creating your masterpiece, the more likely it is that someone has already created it."

Petrarch's Apes: Originality, Plagiarism and Copyright Principles within Visual Culture: "The artist or designer judges originality on the basis of aesthetic merit -- that is, the particular quality of the idea expressed in a particular way, so that idea and aesthetic are generally approached as though they are inextricably linked, or symbiotically related."

Just a Photoshoppin' fool

The bane of my existence as creative director of GenQ is photography, my own as well as everybody else's. And this is mainly due to the fact that I have absolutely no freaking idea what I am doing. I do have a simpleton's understanding of aperture and shutter speed, but I can never seem to make that "knowledge" work together to produce a decent photograph. And in the magazine business, we often have to use photos taken by even less knowledgeable people, and the assumption is that I, in my infinite  wisdom as a graphic artist whose degree came from the University of Looking It Up In A Book One Time When I Had A Free Minute At Lunch, will be able to "fix" it.

So last night, on a lark, I started looking up Photoshop tutorials on Pinterest. Apparently, I had a free minute, even though it wasn't lunch. I take all tutorials, tips, and instructions found on Pinterest with a grain of salt, because basically you are just looking at someone else's Post-It notes: "Remember to maybe look at this sometime! If I have a free minute during lunch!" But, miraculously, I found a couple things that seemed to actually work. And, boy, is improving photographs addicting:

Not that any of these are perfect, mind you. (Except I really love that birdhouse one.) These go quite a bit beyond my usual boost-the-exposure-and-maybe-the-contrast-or-the-vibrance-or-both-depending-on-my-mood-and-how-bad-I-need-to-pee method.

But so far, none of these experiments has worked on photographs of quilts! Embroidery? Oh, hells, yes:

But the quilt shots I've tried to improve so far have been a big bust. So, this is now my Holy Grail: gorgeous, popping quilt shots.

I'm gonna need a bigger lunch.

The Prime Directive of Quilting

Last year, I showed you some pictures of the first quilt my mom ever made:

I knew my parents were in the process of cleaning out the closets where I found this, and I asked mom if I could take it. The quilt has never been out of a closet for its entire existence, and I was desperately afraid that it would end up in a storage facility somewhere and then lost. Considering how important quilting has become to me and my sister, and that this comes to us directly from our mother, this quilt is an important piece of family history and I knew my sister would feel the same as me: we want to see it preserved and kept in the family. Mom was reluctant to let it go, being concerned that my sister might want it, since mom had never made a quilt for her and had for me. So I waited until she could talk to Kelly about it. She never did, so when Kelly came by for an afternoon during our visit, I dragged her downstairs and showed her the four quilts that were stored there and asked her what she wanted to do with them. She said she had no room, but wanted, like me, to make sure they were not lost, so she asked me to keep them.

As Kelly and I were looking at Mom's quilt, I noticed this on the back:

D.R.S. are my mother's initials. the "m.l." are the initials of the quilt teacher whose classes started mom on her quilt journey. I have one quilt my mom made me that has a label, but none of the others do. All my sister's quilts that she has made for me and my girls (except one) have labels. I have only labeled the quilts that I have made for others, never my own. But looking at this quilt, I get it now. I get why we should label our quilts.

It is so easy to dismiss our own work as unimportant. I think perhaps my mom did this. To her, this wasn't a masterpiece, but just a sampler produced from a class she took when she was first learning. But for me, this is history. This is memory and legacy and when my mother is gone, things like this will keep her alive for me because it wasn't just a thing she owned but a creation that flowed from her hands. Every single thing we make, we put ourselves into, from the first halting and meandering stitches to the sure-fingered masterpieces. Those who love us, and who will live on after we've gone, will hold these things we've made because they can no longer hold us. And later, someone else who will come along long after and who will never have known us, will know something of who we were. And we have the chance to tell them even more.

When my children talk about me in school, to their friends, they talk about me in terms of my quilts. To them, I am the things I make, and they are me. Quilting and sewing are my essential identity to them, and though I know they will eventually see and appreciate more of me (though not until after college, most likely), for now, this is who I am to them. When I am gone, and they are missing me, holding a quilt that I made just for them when they were little girls will give them a way to touch me once again, and to transport themselves back to a time when love was simple and mama cuddled them in pretty blankets. But their children won't have as close a connection and may not see why they should hang on to this ratty old quilt with all the mistakes. Maybe, if the quilt told them why, they would.

When I was at my parents' house, they wanted me to meet a friend of theirs who had recently lost his wife. She was a quilter, among other things, and they thought she had some unusual things I might like to see. As it turned out, what she had made wasn't anything spectacular or unusual, though it was indeed lovely. But what struck me about my visit was how this man so proudly displayed every single thing his wife had ever made. He had found things tucked away and had them finished and framed. He had a quilt top quilted and hung on the wall, and cross-stitch samplers framed and placed in a tableau with some other items she loved. One cross stitch piece was to be Santa and his reindeer, but she never got to the reindeer. Didn't matter to him - he still had it mounted and framed and put on display. Her stained glass work was all over the house as well, and he was so proud to show it all off and obviously took a great deal of comfort from having it all around him. But I wonder if any of those pieces had her name on them. How many generations will it take before no one knows what they are or where they came from? And how many pieces will be tossed aside when that knowledge is lost for good?

I realize this post has gotten rather serious, and I had other stuff to show you, but this has been on my mind a lot since my trip.

I have a lot of things to do this week, and in the weeks to come, but one thing I need to get started on is making labels for everything I have made. If you are not labeling your quilts, if you think they aren't worth it, I hope you'll reconsider.

I'll go ahead and show you the other things I brought home that were in that closet. This was another quilt my mom made:

I believe this is all hand pieced and quilted as well. When I asked mom about it she said, as though she was telling me a naughty secret, that she "copied" it from the front of a book she saw. Meaning, she didn't actually have a log cabin pattern in front of her—she just figured it out. The hand quilting is all in the ditch on this one, so you have to turn it over to really see it. The binding is just the backing pulled around the front and stitched down, which is not a technique anyone ever seems to admit to using anymore. Why is that? Let's blame Ricky Tims. Just because I like saying "Ricky Tims". RickyTimsRickyTimsRickyTims.

This lovely thing I had never seen before I discovered it in that closet. I have no idea where it was the whole time I was growing up:

In the upper right hand corner, a name is embroidered on the border:

All my mom knows about this is that it was given to her own mother when she was in a nursing home near the end of her life. She believes that Ms. Katt was another resident there who liked to make quilts and happened to give one to her mother. It's hand appliqued and quilted:

It doesn't have a binding, though. On the long sides, the edges are folded under and machine sewed together:

But on the short edges, the backing is brought around the front, in direct defiance of the Ricky Tims Directive:

I love this quilt.

Last is a baby quilt that I can remember seeing around the house when I was little:

The appliqued pieces are all embroidered, using a stem stitch for the details and a blanket stitch around the edges. In many cases, the thread blends in with the material so much you can barely see it, but others show up well:

This was made by a lady in Denver who babysat my brother and sister. They started coming to her shortly after my sister was born, so it is most likely she made this quilt for her. Again, this isn't something to keep because it's a masterpiece, but because it's a personal history piece, a connection to someone my family loved and who loved them.

Okay last one, I promise. I had asked my mom to look out for this as they were cleaning out closets.

My mom wasn't just a quilter, but was into all kinds of needlework, especially needlepoint. This was a sampler she made, and I remember her making it as well as seeing it hanging in our kitchen and other places through the years, until it finally ended up in a closet. It's in my kitchen now. The shop on the far left originally said "Shoes" on the pattern, but Mom changed it to "Smith." Whenever she wasn't looking, I would sneak over and touch all the different textures.

I love all these things so much, I can't even tell you.

Labels, people. Consider it the Megan Dougherty Directive.