Heartening

Heartening

72'' by 72''

A few weeks ago my sister turned 40! To mark the occasion my sister-in-law and I (she's also a quilter) decided to make her a quilt. Everyone deserves a quilt on such a momentous birthday. This is the result of some late nights filled with cider and crass humour. Oh, and some love too.

It was an easy quilt to put together. We used the Chopsticks method. I love taking a pretty modern design idea but using it with unexpected fabrics. The softer quality to these greens and neutrals would usually be seen on a more traditional quilt. With this design, though, they are totally different. We chose the colours to coordinate with my sister's house.

The quilting was done entirely with a walking foot. Yes, a walking foot made all those curves. They are such gradual curves that you can easily do it without dropping the feed dogs. I really wanted some curves to contrast the sharp lines of the quilt top. And even though I confident with my free motion work, I needed something that I knew wouldn't provide me with a single challenge considering the timing of when I was quilting this. One little tension issue and I would have lost it.

The back was pieced from fabrics I had in my stash. A few yard cuts and some fat quarters. Fabric I bought and loved but still hadn't used. The pops of blue work because a few of the greens on the front have some bluer tones. Besides, all those neutrals were getting to me, I wanted to more colour!

Here is my brother putting on the label. He hates this picture because he says his hands look old. I hate to point it out to him that he is.. ahem, older than my sister. I love it because here are the surgeon's hands sewing. Meticulous and caring, perfect for a surgeon and an older brother.

Just a simple striped binding. It has all the colours of the quilt. It was a lucky find as I was picking up the batting I saw it by the till. I didn't actually have the quilt with me, but I was pretty sure it would work. It was perfect - the right colours but soft enough not to overpower the quilt itself.

We gave it to my sister the weekend we were cutting down a pile of trees at my Mom's house. I couldn't help but snap a photo with some wood. Aside from the trees there is a lot of wood that my Dad gathered over the years. It comes with the territory when you work in construction.

And here is my sister celebrating with her quilt. I hope it is giving her plenty of comfort. I bet she and her son are already spending some good time snuggling.

Happy Birthday Jan!

This quilt is a part of the Bloggers' Quilt Festival.

Yee-Haw

My weekend was a country song. I'm no poet, nor a songwriter, but the events and emotions of the weekend would really make a good country song.

After a stop at a doughnut shop and a ride on the Prairie highway in a 1 ton dually I found out I need surgery. I know that, have known it since I wrecked my knees last year, but the surgeon is finally willing to schedule the first one.

We broke out the chainsaw to remove some trees at my Mom's place. Many have needed to go for years and my Dad was quite hung up on getting it done. So Hubby brought up his chainsaw and the family gathered for a heck of a lot of tree chopping.

My sister turned 40! We celebrated by chopping down trees with a chainsaw. And we gave her the quilt that we worked on in secret (more on that quilt another day).

There is a new baby in the family. A gorgeous, happy little baby boy to cuddle, tease, and laugh with. He is little brother to Hubby's little brother's first son. Cuddling him was about the most perfect thing in the world for me this weekend.

My dog died. Buster aka Bustamonte aka Damn Black Dog never woke up on Saturday morning. The big galoot was happy and playing with the kids on Friday, chillin' at my feet at the end of the night. He was healthy, as far as we knew, and not that old. And Saturday morning he was gone, having died in the night at the foot of the bed where my Dad used to sleep.

We toasted the Damn Black Dog/drowned our sorrows at a bar called The Beer Hunter. 'Nuff said.

Then there was that whole killing the big terrorist thing, but I had nothing to do with that.

Surgeons, chainsaws, births and birthdays, secret US military missions, and a dead dog. Yup, that's a country song for sure.

Routine

When my father-in-law died seven years ago and we used a lot of humor to cope with our grief we would joke that we could say, "My Dad just died," and get what we wanted in any negotiation or to get out of something we didn't want to do. My girls are already picking up on this and when they cry because I won't let them have another Mini Egg they scream, "I'm just sad because Dido died." I can't help but laugh, then still refuse to give them another chocolate. I need to accept their own process of grieving and settling back home, but that includes losing the bad diet of our time away. Besides, Mama needs those Mini Eggs.

My Dad died and we buried him last week. After nearly 2 months of not being at home, of daily trips to the hospital, of more candy that I thought possible, of captured meals, of the chaos of 6 little cousins getting together more than they ever have before, of the comfort of cookie it is time to get back to a routine.

There is a lot to be said for routine and kids.

To be honest, though, I used to scoff at the parenting advice that practically shouted out the value of ROUTINE! for kids. Most kids are resilient and adaptable. Not all, but most. And I certainly didn't want to become a slave to my kids routine. Wake. Eat. Play. Sleep. Repeat.

Right now, though, we're craving routine.

We watch PBS Kids while we eat our bread with butter and honey, as we do every single morning. (Okay, so they did this at my parents' place every morning too.) Now we can stay in our pajamas longer. We can soak in the sun streaming through the windows. We can pet our dogs. We can peek out the front window and spy on the neighbours. We are home.

So long as there is bread, butter, and honey we can eat. We can be boring and routine.

A Pillow

There is no clever way to say this. My Dad died.

On April 12 the cancer finally took him. It was very rough there at the end, with struggles to breathe and maintain dignity, with exhaustion and pain.

We buried him a week ago.

My girls, ever the concrete and literal thinkers, obsess over exactly how one exactly gets buried or why those men are singing songs they can't understand in fancy, embroidered capes or what the spear thing is their cousin is carrying or why the bells have smoke or why they can't pull down Dido's baseball cap collection if he is dead now and doesn't need it.

My family struggles with the conflicting emotions of grief and relief.

There are photos I took of the process of dying and moments in the hospitalization that struck me, but they aren't mine to share yet. It's funny, but I think I've crossed the line into some kind of photographer (albeit very amateur) because there were photos I wanted to make, even at the funeral. Making photos is now an outlet for me.

These two photos are of my Baba's embroidery and what we did with it. While we picked the most simple coffin we could, at my father's request, it still had a bit of a ruffly pillow. So we crafted our own. We took some of my Baba's embroidery and appliqued it to a case we made for the coffin pillow. It might seem morbid to share it here, but I know you will all understand. I needed to share the beauty of my Baba's work, and our desire to bury Dad with the work of two generations.

I stood at the prayer and funeral services and delivered the eulogy. It was a challenge, as my relationship with my father was certainly not perfect and actually far from good at times. But he asked me and I couldn't say no. So I stood and told the story of my father and how his story is also mine, is also the story of everyone who knew him. And now it is yours.

I spoke of the need to get down on the floor and play with the little ones even when the dishes need doing or one more seam needs to be sewn. I spoke of never leaving things let unsaid. I spoke of the need to live your life, to make it through the day taking the time to share your story, to create your story with the people around you.

(Read his obituary here)