Community Quilts -- The Book

Several of you have asked about my previous gig as co-author of quilt books. I mentioned it back in my November 1 post and I've mentioned in my bio on my website but, what the heck, here I go again. (Not that it'll do me any monetary good as the book is out of print and the only copies available are remainders and used copies on Amazon.)

The book was written under my married name, as you can see on the cover. (The suggestion to use my maiden name for the mysteries was my editor's. ("Middle of the shelf. middle of the bookstore," said she.)

But how'd I come to write a quilting book?

Well, when we moved to the mountains and began to make friends with other newly arrived back-to-the-landers, sooner or later we found that we had become a community. When the first wedding was announced, several of us decided to make a quilt for the couple and have a quilting bee because that fit in with our idea of life in the country. We made a gorgeous quilt and from then on we were hooked. There were lots of baby quilts, more wedding quilts, some friendship quilts, and a few going away quilts. The blue and purple beauty below (the pattern is Sister's Choice) was given to John and me for our anniversary.

Years passed-- around twenty of them. Suddenly we had a body of work -- about fifty quilts, ranging from very simple to very ambitious. We were given a show at the Folk Art Center in Asheville and more than one person at that show suggested that a book should be done to document our work.

And so, knowing nothing about writing a book but thinking this might be worth a try, my friend Karol and I gave it a shot. We decided to showcase each quilt and give a brief history of how it came to be made, along with quotes from the recipients and the makers.

We also decided to have a section detailing the process of planning and organizing a community quilt -- something we'd each had a lot of practice in over the years. (It's not easy, working with all levels of skill and dedication.) And there would be a section of the basics of quilt-making, along with some patterns.

Our book proposal was accepted by Lark Press -- a well-known publisher of crafts books --and we had the guidance of an editor as we worked to flesh out our bare-bones synopsis.

I'm very proud of this book -- The quilts are the stars and pretty much speak for themselves but I think we did a good job explaining the process. The layout and the photography (Lark's professional -- not mine) is outstanding. (Many of the 'beauty shots' were done at our farm -- another reason I really like the photos.) The book was distributed through a crafts book club, as well as book stores.

Karol and I went on to do another book for Lark on weekend quilting projects and after that I turned to a life of crime and craziness in (fictional ) Appalachia.

But I probably wouldn't have learned to use a computer had I not been forced to for the quilting books. And I wouldn't have signed up for the "Writing Fiction That Sells" class, out of which came Elizabeth Goodweather, had I not already gotten a taste of the intangible joys of being an author.

It's all connected.


Maybe this would be a good time to do a drawing for a copy of this book. If you'd like in, leave a comment saying so (only one per reader this time). I'll close the contest on April 30 at 9 PM e.s.t. and announce the winner May 1.

Senseless

My sense of smell disappeared completely during the late unpleasantness of a fierce head cold (note 'late' -- it's clearing up nicely and this really will be the last post on the subject.) And along with smell went taste -- completely.

It's a strange feeling to bite into a slice of raw onion and taste exactly nothing. Or to nibble a garlic clove with the same null result.

After a little on line research, I learned that anywhere from 70% to 90% of perceived taste is dependent on smell. The taste buds on our tongues can let us know if a food is bitter, salty, sweet. or sour -- but that's it.

I kept trying food after food: tortilla chips -- crunchy and salty; salad greens with vinaigrette -- sour; coffee -- so godawful bitter that I immediately switched to tea with honey -- sweet.

It seems that with a stopped-up nose, the odor molecules drifting from the food can't reach the olfactory receptor cells farther back in the nasal passage and consequently everything tastes the same -- which is to say, like nothing.

Everything smells the same too. "Clean!" I thought, sniffing a throw pillow that I knew well should smell of dog.

Thursday morning, as I made a cup of chai -- the scent of which is usually Very aggressive -- I sniffed at the mix and thought I caught the merest whisper of cinnamon. Later in the garden, I picked a sprig of thyme and, oh joy, could smell it -- though just barely.

It was like going from total blindness to being able to make out shapes.

As I made dinner, I experimented. Raw red peppers -- deliciously cool and crunchy and I believe I could taste them. Or maybe they were just sweet. Asparagus -- a little bitter. Onion and garlic -- I smelled them but they were pale imitations of the real thing. Very pale. Ditto pesto, shrimp, and shitakes.

When I sauteed the lot together, the rising steam didn't bring to my olfactory receptors the information I needed to season the dish properly so I had to get John to give it a taste.

He pronounced it good, suggested the addition of grated Asiago -- which I could detect -- and we sat down to dinner. He said it was very good -- I enjoyed the textures and colors immensely.

When I was very young, I read a book called Smeller Martin (by Robert Lawson, who also wrote Ben and Me). Smeller was a boy whose sense of smell was similar to that of a bloodhound and he used this super power to solve a mystery, as I recall.

I always thought that an enhanced sense of smell would be a wonderful gift, just as I always envy my hound Maggie when she lifts her nose to the air and takes in far more information than I'll ever have.

Right now though, I'll settle for getting my lost senses back.



Here's another little web album with pictures from yesterday -- and nothing at all about my cold.

Cold Reading

One thing about having a cold, it means I can sit (or lie) and read to my heart's content. So on Monday afternoon, after the worst of the cleanup was over, I curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and lemon and honey and leapt into Notes from No Man's Land. a collection of American essays by Eula Biss.

Since I still have a cold (she whined), I'll quote a bit from the back cover, rather than force my brain into originality:

"Eula Biss is the author of The Balloonists. She teaches nonfiction writing at Northwestern University . . . Her essays have appeared in the Believer and Harper's."

"Like Blake, that other mystic poet, Biss sees the world in a grain of sand. Without missing a beat, she looks at a telephone pole as a symbol of our universal connection, the intrusion of technology, an instrument of lynch mobs, a reminder of her grandfather's death, and a symbol of life sprouting new leaves even after it is strung with wires."

This is some beautiful, mind-stretching writing. I've followed Eula's career with some interest as I first met her years ago when she was still a baby. Eula is the niece of one of my very dear friends who handed me a copy of this book at the Easter party. I had devoured Eula's first book, in awe of her way with a word and her truly original turns of thought, so I was eager to see what awaited me in No Man's Land.

No disappointment here. I highly recommend this collection of quirky, iconoclastic, idiosyncratic thoughts from the heartland.

But that was Monday. On Tuesday I re-entered the seamy underside of modern day London which Elizabeth George, like some Dickens of today, lays out in heartbreaking detail. What Came Before He Shot Her traces the events that led to the murder of one of George's most beloved characters. It's testimony to George's power as a writer that I found myself deeply engaged with most of the characters and eager to follow their stories even though the setting is a far cry from the idyllic English countryside.

And when I finished this one (I read really, really fast -- knowing that if I like a book, I'll re-read it eventually), the next in the series awaited me. While WCBHSH, is almost a standalone (no Thomas Lynley or Barbara Havers), Careless in Red returns the faithful reader to the familiar characters. Here the setting is Cornwall -- not Daphne DuMaurier's romantic Cornwall of smugglers and Cavaliers but the modern tourist-infested Cornwall where surfing looms large as a way of life. And here again, George drew me in as I followed the heartsore Lynley through the investigation of a murder and wondered . . . but I don't want to spoil anything for those of you who might be tempted to read this latest one. I will say, I'm eager for the next but will wait patiently because I know how long it takes.

I Hab a Very Bad Code in the Head

. . . and my head feels stuffed with some wool-like substance. I spent Tuesday reading and sleeping and drinking liquids and sniffling and snarfling and coughing and hacking. I cannot taste anything, even leftover pizza.

A sad state of affairs -- I hope to be back tomorrow to tell you about my reading.

The picture is a yellow trillium -- they grow wild here in abundance. They're not as pretty or showy as some of the others but, in their understated way, they seem to me the essence of Spring.

Breaking Up Easter

Like Cinderella after midnight, the workshop has been stripped of its finery: quilts taken down, pastel-dyed sheets removed to our basement to await a wash, crepe paper streamers tossed into the garbage along with the detritus of a huge potluck -- even the balloons have been disposed of, lovingly popped by our two year old grand-nephew Jack who came (with his parents) to aid in the Monday morning clean up.

Well, really he came so he could ride on the Kubota but balloon popping proved to be a job at which he excelled












The outdoor furniture was loaded up to be returned to our porch and deck --

And our house guests packed the car for their own return to Virginia.

It was a great weekend -- made possible by the many willing helpers and by the kindness of Mother Nature who provided a beautiful Easter Sunday before returning to chilly damp on Monday.

Easter Party 2009

The day dawned foggy but soon the sky was blue, providing a perfect day to celebrate Spring.

There was food and drink in plenty, dogs and a friendly heifer to pat, and, of course, there were eggs to hunt and parents and grandparents to take pictures.

The party began at 1 -- though folks started arriving at noon -- and went on till eight-ish at which time those of us who were left adjourned to our house for barbecue sandwiches.

There will be cleanup on Monday. And there are more pictures HERE.

The Pre-Party

Saturday was chilly and rainy but, undeterred, we prepared for the Easter Party, draping the workshops with quilts and dyed sheets to make ready for the Sunday festivities.

And there was time for food and fun with all those who come for this annual reunion, from as far away as Nicaragua and San Francisco.

Click HERE for more pictures from Saturday.

Young America Speaks

During my recent bookshelf cleaning and reorganization, I happened on this bit of history -- dating from, I think, my junior year in high school -- and that would have been 1958-59. As far as I can recall, we were assigned a subject to write on and the "best" essays were chosen for inclusion in this modest little book.

There are essays from all the states and the titles include such winners as 'Honour,' 'Youth,' Courage or Cowardice,' 'Preparing for a Formal,' 'What Democracy Means to Me,' and 'Opportunities of the American Youth of Today.'

In Mrs. Opal Dudney's class, an earnest teenager named Vicki Lane chose to write about two things that were important to her. Her punctuation and expression are dreadful (she needed an editor very badly) but I find that, even after all these years, I pretty much agree with her sentiments.

Two Important Things

These two things I am about to write on, individuality and love of life, are perhaps not as important as some of the rights and freedoms we in a free country take for granted; but without them, I could not be happy.

Freedom to be an individual belongs to everyone, but relatively few people exercise it. Our society is one in which a person who does not conform, is an outcast. All people are not cast in the same mold, for which I am thankful. What a dull world it would be if each person were a replica of his fellow man! "Know thyself and be thyself!"

By love of life I mean the capacity to be able to look forward to each day, eager for what it may bring.

These abstract qualities are those most important to me. To another they may seem trivial but to me they are essential.

What Is It?

These pretty pink blossoms are on the flowering quince down at Justin's house. The snow and cold of a few days ago seem not to have damaged the bloom, thank goodness.

And this big bird is a wild turkey hen who's become a daily visitor to our bird feeder. She's a little shy -- when she catches sight of me she doesn't panic and fly off but she's still a bit uneasy and begins to move away.

But this box-like thing below . . . this has me baffled. This is cropped from the picture in yesterday's post -- and it wasn't really there.

I took the picture of the room at night, did the post, and then noticed the . . . object. What's this, then? I wondered and trundled back upstairs to see what it could be.

And there was NOTHING there.

A hazy, wispy shape suggesting a woman with flowing draperies would be one thing but the ghost of a box? And it casting a shadow?

I don't know; this has got me puzzled.

Books and More Books

With company coming to stay this weekend, I at last tackled the long-overdue task of cleaning our upstairs guest room. This one doesn't get a lot of use as we have another, more convenient spare room downstairs. This one, originally a loft over the living room, tends to collect junk, waiting to be disposed of. It also collects dust, cat hair, and dead lady bugs. So it was a real pleasure to put it to rights, including taking all the books off the shelves, dusting shelves and books, and re-organizing.

The shelves to the left hold the books of my childhood and teen years. I was a great reader of science fiction in the Fifties and, now that I've handled some of these old friends, I have a feeling I'm going to have to reacquaint myself with this old passion.

Before sci-fi, I was a faithful reader of the Oz books; some of these are mine and some belong to my older son ( who left them to me as he acquired nicer hardback reproductions.)

To the right of the door are mostly gardening books and photo albums --each one a temptation to sit down and wander through -- one reason the cleanup took so long.

But what a pleasure, now that it's done -- floors mopped, shelves wiped with lemon wax, the bedding washed and (mostly) free of cat hair.

All the time I was struggling to finish Miss Birdie, I was actually looking forward to some really satisfying house cleaning -- and this was just the beginning.

Paint . . . I'm ready to paint some walls now. And reorganize the pantry and finish cleaning my workroom and . . .

Spring always does that to me -- the desire for a clean sweep, a new start.

Everything seems possible.

Really . . .!

"Must really say damn . . . "

I'm quoting, of course. Those are the words of the Dowager Duchess of Denver in the opening pages of Dorothy L. Sayers' immortal Busman's Honeymoon. They sprang to mind when I looked outside yesterday morning at the crab apple, rosy beneath the snow.

I had picked a bit of lilac for the kitchen window -- and beyond it I can see the parent bush with its heavy frosting. (Can anyone guess why an ex-English major would have planted a lilac by her front steps?)

In the afternoon the sun came out; the sky was blue; and the snow began to melt . . .

And then it began again. It was still snowing at 10 pm.

But I cheered myself up by rereading the email I had from Liz whose friends, recently returned from France, told her they saw my own La Montagne des Secrets (the French translation of Signs in the Blood) on sale in the grocery store.

I find that kinda cool. Unlike the weather, except in the literal sense.

Marigold at Home

Marigold is at the farm now, settling in nicely and winning hearts everywhere. She's as friendly as a puppy, running to meet you if you come near her little enclosure, and eager for pats (and sweet feed.)

Jerseys really are some of the prettiest of cows . . . dainty and almost deer-like . . . if not always lady-like.

And in other news . . . the bad weather report . . .

The front that we saw moving in yesterday morning did, indeed, bring snow.

This is what we had by 10 pm.