I remember the first quilt that my mom made that I was able to help with. It was also the last quilt that I remember her making at all. It sounds mean to say it now, but I question whether the baby quilt I have was actually made by her or not. She knew how to sew and knit and crochet but she was a busy and I never remember making her much of anything.
When I left home, I took the quilt. I wore that thing out. Eventually, it wore thin, so I decided to expand the quilt. I did a very shitty job, by the way, with no rhyme or reason, but it still lasted another 10 years.
I wanted to save some of the fabric out of nostalgia. It’s funny how I find myself still grabbing for (literal) scraps of a shitty childhood.
Do you see how that duck patch has a tiny extra seam in it? That’s because I didn’t cut the block right. Ahem.
The original inside of the quilt was an old blanket that was very 70’s. Darker purple on one side and lavender on the other. And silky.
Everything was so old and crappy that saving it was more headache than I was willing to expend. The old fabric was falling apart in my hands and the newer fabric was awful anyway. It doesn’t hurt my feelings that it’s gone. It’s just a blanket, not a horrible metaphor for my family drama. It just means that I need to fill my linen closet with more of my own quilts.