My mother had more enthusiasm than skill when it came to crafts. Some might say that runs in the family. *Grin*
Mum told me, with a measure of pride, about the quilt she had made, but I hadn’t seen it until it arrived at my house after she died.
It is truly the most imperfect of objects. Fabric is puckered and there is nary a straight line in sight. The backing is part of an old pre-quilted floral bedspread. There’s no binding, it’s just sewn together and, hell, it’s not even close to actually being a rectangle.
But oh my goodness, it is so beautiful and the moment I saw it, I fell in love with it with my whole heart, not just because it’s a treasured legacy, but simply because it’s a beautiful object. All those imperfections don’t detract at all from that beauty. If anything, they bestow an endearing charm that makes me smile as I think fondly of Mum. I can almost hear her muttering, “Bugger!” under her breathe as that fabric began to pucker.
So I’m grateful that my mum had a go and made her first quilt and that I have it here as an eloquent reminder of the lovely, imperfect person that she was.
Inspired by her quilt, one of my goals this year is to make a most imperfect first quilt of my own. Not mandatory, but desirable would be swearing under my breathe in tribute as my machine meanders drunkenly in raffishly crooked lines.