quiltersmuse.com Blog

When I was growing up in the city of Manchester, New Hampshire, and was still quite young, my parents would gather the kids into the car and we would ride up a little hill near Derryfield Park. At the top of the incline was a flat area with some black cannons, large enough to sit on. In fact, the family photo album has pictures of various family members doing just that.

The area was secluded, surrounded by trees as I remember, and therefore, it was a good place for vandals to do their mischievous deeds with painted graffiti, leaving broken beer bottles in the wake of their activities.

Soon, the area was cordoned off and no one could trespass beyond the barriers.

View from Derryfield Park, Manchester, NH, photo circa 1954-55. From left: my older sister, my Dad holding me, and my next oldest brother.

I like to recall Manchester when I was young. We would often go to Derryfield Park for picnics, and most especially, for concerts on the 4th of July. Manchester seemed “safe” then. Today, it is not safe and I’ve begun to avoid going there.

In my experience with the city, (having moved away when I was eleven), there were no muggings, stabbings, or shootings. Of course, once in a while one would hear of a wife beater, but I suppose that domestic violence is nothing new under the sun.

I can understand why some people want to study sociology. Sociology, the study of people and how they interact within societies, closely intersects with psychology and with anthropology. All of these specific study disciplines attempt to explain why humans act as they do.

Life is constantly changing but the more we have, the less we possess. If we can’t have peace of mind while walking down the street or visiting a park, even if it is secluded, then some of our freedom has been taken away and in its place, there is a nullifying, stupefying level of fear.

I dream for a more simple time, a time that was not that long ago, a time when one’s hand was automatically raised in greeting to the car passing down the road. In my mind’s eye, I recall our neighbor that lived on our same road in a small town NH community. In the fall, he would bring my mother Chrysanthemums that he had raised; in the summer, he would load up a carton with fresh picked raspberries and vegetables from his garden.

He would bring all of the results of his hard work to her, asking nothing in return, and delivering all, with a smile. My mother, who didn’t drive a car, ever, would receive phone calls – “Betty, I’m going out of town to such and such a store. Can I pick up something for you?” These offers were a blessing when she lived alone, after Dad had passed away.

I know that the friendliness of other people is manifestation of God’s love for us. I’ve seen many examples of kindness, as well as many other instances of selfish manipulations and interior “design-ings.”

I believe that kindness happens, one person at a time. We can all do a little more to nurture others and to encourage them on life’s path. We only go this way once, something that is easy to forget when we get so caught up in all that must be done. In making a living, we sometimes neglect to make a life.

I’m not sure how we can get criminals off the street, or prevent every potentially preventable, senseless act of cruelty from happening. Sometimes, I wonder why I even turn on the news. There are events occurring daily that are completely beyond my ability to logically process the potential reasons “why.”

I like the 1950s and 1960s, mainly because they were a much more innocent time. In saying that, I wonder if our media capabilities of today have simply brought home the idea that humans can be so misdirected in their ways. I dream nostalgically of the past, and of all of the good folks who were a part of my “innocent” youth.

Right and wrong seemed to be more clear cut back then. I was encouraged to study hard and to become a “teacher.” I enjoyed feeling as though I could grow up to make a difference in the lives of others. Time will tell whether any of us ever achieve our full potential. All we can do is to keep our dreams alive. For if we can envision a world of goodness and kindness, maybe we can create it. I hope you are willing to join me in dreaming, and in being willing to try to improve life, one friendly smile at a time.

Patricia Cummings, http://www.quiltersmuse.com

Recently, I was in the mood to buy some reproduction fabrics. I was specifically looking for fabrics that would have been made at about the time my home was built, in 1821.

I was absolutely delighted to see that on the selvages of fabric, manufacturers are now stating when the fabric was first made. The dates of what I bought actually ranged from about 1835-1875. I may not use them in the same quilt, but it’s nice to have them.

With early (reproduction) fabrics, I notice a tendency toward madder prints. The madder root traditionally yielded various colors, depending on the mordant used.

There is something fascinating and charming about old fabrics. I can’t get enough of them. One of the reasons I like seeing more information printed on the edge is that if the strip is saved, along with a swatch of fabric, it will be easier for quilt historians to identify the pieces and match them with an exact date, in the future.

Some people have various ways of saving selvages, including sewing them into a quilt of their own. Others glue swatches into notebooks, particularly books with acid-free paper.

I have not cut into a piece of the fabric yet. I have all the fat quarters rinsed, pressed, and ready to go. Don’t tempt me. I may have to “pet” the fabric a little longer. After all, isn’t that what any self-respecting quilter does?

Patricia Cummings

Yesterday was a glorious sunny day and we decided to head the car in the direction of Keepsake Quilting. Sometimes we feel guilty having the store to ourselves in New Hampshire, but I know that many of you put it on your “destinations” list in better weather, and with good reason.

If I had not had in mind what I actually wanted to buy, I would have felt overwhelmed, as has happened before. There have been times when I have walked out the door empty handed, and only because the selections are so numerous. It’s the same kind of feeling I get when I go to the candy section of the Vermont Country Store. There they have every single kind of chocolate and licorice confection every made. Where else would you still find “Good and Plenty” candies?

Yesterday, gift certificate in hand, I headed for the sections with medleys. I love the look of scrap quilts and so I don’t mind having a fat quarter of this and a fat quarter (yard) of that. Scrap quilts suit my personality perfectly.

So, this morning, my new task was to wash all of the fabrics. I chose the most delicate/hand wash cycle, cold water, no detergent, and threw in a color catcher sheet to pick up loose dyes in the wash. Better there than on a piece of white fabric in the quilt, at a later date.

One hundred dollars later, I felt virtuous in having stimulated the economy. I have great plans for my new quilting fabrics. They are just the impetus I needed to get me out of a period of inactivity when all I’ve wanted to do is to write. I’m almost finished making a counted thread work piece of the Tudor Rose, a pattern which was brought to me from London, from someone dear to my heart.

I feel inexplicably happy. I suppose it’s not good to voice that because it’s sort of like tempting the fates. She’s happy? Can’t have that! Let’s send down a lightening bolt, or have a black cat cross her path. Luckily, superstition is not my thing. I think I’ll just continue being creative and thinking creative thoughts because those activities are truly the root of my happiness.

Happy Quilting!

Patricia Cummings

Here it is, still winter. We are at the point when the season seems endless. Just yesterday, more lovely snowflakes were drifting to earth. A squirrel, determined to have lunch, somehow knocked the birds’ suet feeder to the ground, requiring my trouncing through the snow to retrieve it.

Times like this, I like to think of my favorite season, autumn. In my mind’s eye, I can see the Balsam Fir of the north country and even smell it’s fragrant branches. I can hear the twigs crackle underneath our feet as we walk on a path that many other have walked before. I can see the acorns that lay mashed by other boots that have gone on the same path.

I can smell a crispness in the air and a bit of leaf mold, too. Some of the leaves have already fallen to the ground, and the chickadees are quite intrigued by our entry into their world. They follow us, twitting from branch to branch, high in the forest’s canopy.

The colors of streams are even more intense at this time of year, taking on a dark turquoise hue. The red, yellow, orange, and rust colors of the trees in New England are remarkable. If you’ve never experienced the joy of seeing them, you have not lived!

Yes, in the autumn, there is a certain expectancy of winter coming on again. The thought of Brown Bread baking, along with some baked beans, is something New Englanders anticipate, as well as an apple pie made from just-picked MacIntosh apples.

Jim and Pat enjoying last autumn in our home state of New Hampshire. The poncho is a gift from a dear friend in Argentina and was just the right weight for the weather on that glorious day.

We are blessed with so many things, including good friends, and truth be known, we value all of the good people in our lives, most of all. Material goods are transient, as is good health. We give thanks every day for all of our many gifts and blessings. I, particularly treasure Jim, every day, and my remembrances of our fun trips last fall.

Have a super day!
Patricia Cummings

For a long time now, it seems, I have not felt like holding my tongue. I grew up in a “children should be seen but not heard” atmosphere, of sitting with hands folded in one’s lap while the grown-ups prattled on about seemingly nothing. My oldest brother would take every opportunity to tell me to “pipe down.” He liked to read and somehow, he thought I was too noisy, although I don’t remember being so.

Today, I am more apt than ever to speak out about injustice, about the irresponsibility of others, about politics, and even about religion – subjects about which the thoughts of others turn to mush or they refuse to have an opinion when asked.

I speak out for those who can’t, and for those who won’t … perhaps for fear of jeopardizing their “position” in life, as it were. Truth and justice shall always prevail, and people who are shams will prove themselves to be so, in no short order. The idea kind of reminds me of the TV commercial, “Where’s the Beef?” Some folks are like that. They have no substance.

Well, I’m going to tell you a little story. The parties involved directly are now all deceased. A woman wanted a lobster roll. She talked her husband into driving to the nearest town, as she didn’t drive, to buy one at a local stand. She marched up to the window and ordered one, took her number, and came back to the car to wait. When her number was called she retrieved the lobster roll and the other things her family had ordered.

Taking one look inside the hot dog roll, she announced that it was not a lobster roll after all. It was “a lobster ran through it roll.” She took it with her to the counter and asked the same man, who happened to own the business, if she could please have a little lobster in her roll, and repeated that it was, indeed, simply “a lobster ran through it roll.”

At this, the owner got furious. He took the roll and threw it in the nearby dump can. He said that he was taking down the license plate number of the car and that she was to leave immediately and never, ever come back. She did go on her way, after realizing the extent of the man’s anger and not wanting to be responsible for his heart attack, on top of the cancer he apparently already had.

Sometimes, there is a price to pay for being honest. Most people won’t say anything when confronted with someone who is being totally honest, but many of them are happy that someone had the nerve to mention the truth. And, that, my friend, is the situation I find myself in constantly. At times, I am confrontational because I, too, want to know “where’s the beef?”

I would like to see accountability especially from anyone who would attempt to share history about quilts and embroidery and textiles, and who, sadly enough, has not done sufficient homework. There are a lot of people who pretend to know more than they do. Unfortunately, they have no lobster in their lobster rolls. Just a word to the wise …

Patricia Cummings