Iron rich

I've been attending Emerson UU Church for nearly 20 years, which is a pretty good track record for a Jew. Because I married a Congregationalist, when we had children we looked for a denomination and congregation where we could both feel comfortable. I've been a very active member -- taught Sunday School for nine years, served as chair of the Social Action Committee for three, chaired CROP Walk for six or seven years and counting (evidently I'm the Papa Doc of CROP Walk), and I'm currently on the Board of Trustees. My husband has been in the church maybe a dozen times. Apparently our comfort levels are as variable as a Sleep Number bed.

One of the reasons I love Emerson is that it's home to some of the finest women you could ever imagine. Having lost my mother at an early age, I've spent a lot of my life looking for a substitute mom, and at church I've found plenty.

Among them is a peach direct from Georgia. She's the only person I know whose drawl draws out my son's one-syllable name as if it had 12 instead.

This old gal, as she would refer to herself, was determined to get a tattoo when she turned 70. She wanted a gingko leaf, the symbol of memory. The funny thing is, the last time we talked about it, she couldn't remember what the leaf was called.

One time when we were discussing religion, she told me that her concept of G-d is as a large African-American woman who gives you a slap upside your head then draws you to her ample bosom and says, "You'll do better next time, baby." I kind of love that image.

She occasionally holds court at a Wednesday morning sewing group that meets at church, where she keeps us in stitches with her stories. One time, she declared that what bothered her most about today's young girls is that they don't iron. A multitude of sewing sins can be repaired by ironing, she said.

I like to iron. It's soothing to me, Zen-like. I remember having a little non-electic pink toy iron with a pigtail cord and pint-size ironing board that I would set up next to my mom's old, wooden ironing board, and we'd iron together while watching Concentration. I was in charge of the towels, and I'm sure I did a fine job.

Today, I've been ironing a lot, working on the bed sized Kona and batik quilt I've been commissioned to make. Each time I add a strip, I carefully press it. It's the way quilt-sewing should be done, but sometimes I'm in a hurry and don't iron until a block is completed. I can tell already that the precision will pay off. (Ironically, the future quilt owner actually likes a slightly wonky look, which is almost guaranteed to some extent in a handmade item, but my care will restrain that. She's paying for it, she gets my best work.) I took a few sneak peek pictures that I'll post later.

The support for the quilts for Freedom Place continues to overwhelm me. I believe I have seven sponsors, which should translate to more than seven quilts. I met my longarm quilter today as she was finishing up with her sewing group, and several members said they would help with the quilting. I think G-d -- whatever He or She looks like -- is smiling on this project.

Don't go to the danger zone empty-handed

Dieters stay out of cupcake shops. Recovering alcoholics wouldn't set foot in a tavern. Joan Rivers can't go into her attic, lest the sight of her aging portrait frighten her to death.

There's always a place we should avoid because that's where we get into trouble.

You know where I'm going with this, right?

On Friday, I have the great pleasure of fabric shopping with a friend for whom I will be making a queen-size version of the Kona and batik quilt.

So not only will I be exposed to bolts and bolts of fabric, I will get to purchase a quarter-yard of this and a half-yard of that. With someone else's money. It can't possibly get better than that. 

I am trying to steel myself against the excitement, which could otherwise result in a spending frenzy all my own. Like Rocky in training, I've cut out caffeine, loaded up on cough syrup to steady my nerves and am thinking of asking the butcher at Kroger to let me punch a side of beef in the meat locker just to release some of this excess energy (presumably, icy numb knuckles can prevent one from extracting her credit card from her wallet). I plan to head to Quiltworks with my resolve intact.

I don't want to come in empty-handed, however. As I've mentioned before, Quiltworks is the sewing and drop-off location for a number of organizations that accept quilts and spare fabric, including Project Linus. So I sewed two simple baby blankets to bring with me. Each is a manageable 24 X 24, flannel on one side and cotton on the other. I hope they'll comfort the baby and family who get them. If you sew, I encourage you to participate in Project Linus. For just a little bit of fabric and not much time, you get a big reward.

Process vs. project

I had an incident with a cotton boll last summer that changed who I am, if just a little bit.

In the midst of helping her set up her new apartment in Baton Rouge, my daughter and I took a two-day trip to Natchez, Mississippi. This is a quintessential small southern town where the "War of Northern Aggression" is still being fought. It is, of course, historic and also quite beautiful. Because it was high summer and there weren't many other tourists visiting, we were rewarded with a few perks. For example, we paid for a bus tour but were actually squired about town in a limo with only two other passengers. During our stay, we visited antebellum homes, walked the charming downtown area and learned that they mean it when they say the restaurants are closed from 2pm until 5pm. (The entire town actually rolls up its rugs by about 7:45; fortunately, a Dairy Queen on the outskirts was still open at 9pm.)

Not far from Natchez, on the other side of the River, is Frogmore Plantation. Composed of 19 slave dependencies, it is one of the most fascinating glimpses into the 'peculiar institution' that one could imagine. The property also houses a cotton gin that surpassed Eli Whitney's original in technology and power, but isn't that much newer. (Do you know why they call it a "gin?" We asked and were suprised at how simple the answer is.)

I cannot recommend Frogmore enough.

One of the things you get to do when you visit is pick cotton. If you have never held a cotton boll, you might be amazed at what a tenacious grip the tiny, tangled ball of fluff maintains on its seeds. It took me at least 10 minutes to pry one out.

Holding that white wisp made me think about cotton fabric the way I never had before. In my mind, it is generated at the store, where I buy it in obscene quantities. (I went into Quiltworks on Saturday to deliver a Project Linus quilt and some large scraps for Quilts of Valor. And although I fondled several great new prints, I left without a purchase. Proud of me?) Not only have I not spent much time considering what happens in a textile mill (I've never even seen Norma Rae), I had really never thought about the raw material. This stunned me: it is the progenitor of my favorite hobby, which has given so much joy to my life, and somehow it had escaped my notice.

My friend -- she of the giant black garbage bags filled with her unwanted fabric that were stuffed into my car and still stock my closet -- was the first to tell me of the concept of Process versus Project people. Process people like the doing, regardless of whether they ever finish. I'm clearly a Project person. I like to get something done, then move onto the next challenge.

But holding that cotton boll made me think that I should slow down and enjoy the journey a little more.

Which I have been doing on the batik and Kona quilt. In fact, I thought I was done with the main blocks, but decided to make more -- I'm not making the overall quilt larger, so I'll pick and choose -- because I was having so much fun combining fabrics and cutting as carefully as I could.

I made a bit of progress over the weekend. What do you think?