Inspiration is everywhere.

Oct 28, 2013

Dear friends,

I mentioned in my last post that I recently made a mini quilt for a swap. Crafters/artists swaps have been around for a long time, but I had never before thought of signing up for a quilt swap until recently when I stumbled across this blog.

I signed up on impulse, right before the deadline, and a week later I received an email with information about my secret swap partner. Since I was supposed to make a mini quilt (no smaller than 6″ X 6″ and no bigger than 24″ X 24″), I realized the petite format was perfect for an appliqued motif I’d been thinking about for weeks.

A few months ago, I tripped across this image of a neon sign on Pinterest:

Source: Roadhouse Relics

My first impulse was to buy this beauty. I was charmed by the design and instantly transported to childhood summer nights spent at my Gram’s house, where my younger cousin and I often caught fireflies in a Mason jar to create an improvised lantern that would extend our under-the-covers playtime long after our grandmother had put us to bed.

Unfortunately, the neon sign was both out of my price range and sold.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the simple joy of a blue jar lit by fireflies, and I vowed to turn the image into a quilt.

I hope my swap partner has as many fond memories of “lightening bugs” as I do, because this is what I made for her:

I’ve been enjoying what I call “free form applique” ever since a Crate and Barrel catalog inspired me to make this table runner.  I’m too impatient for the kind of appliqued images where the edges are perfectly cut and neatly stitched in place. My free form variety is far more rustic and forgiving of mistakes, and my “doodle stitching” in various color threads is more akin to folk art than accomplished needlework.

I hope my style suits my secret swap pal. Thanks to the magic of the internet, the 160 folks participating in this swap have our own Flickr group and Instagram/Twitter hashtags for sharing our work. (Want to see more? Click here.) There are some very talented quilters among the group, which gives me a bit of “swap anxiety.”

I am a definite novice in this bunch, which all things considered, is probably a catbird seat for the Magpie.

With gratitude {for inspiration all around me and the opportunity to play with the big girls},

Joan, who finally “packed away” her quilting studio yesterday in a cleaning frenzy prompted by a much-improved back and a desire to serve an upcoming meal or two on the dining room table

The case of the bad back and the beautiful bag.

Oct 26, 2013

Dear friends,

I’ve been happily sewing along, finishing a new mini-quilt and several zip-bags in the last two weeks. Everything was going fabulously until my back decided to go all wonky.

It happened Friday at work. If you’ve never suffered from back problems, they always seem to appear out of the blue. I was walking down the hall to my office when — snap — the pain hit me instantly and fully. I gasped, I stooped, and then I panted and grimaced my way to my office floor, where I spent the next half hour staring at the ceiling and thinking a neurotic back can sure put a kink in your plans, pun notwithstanding.

I managed to get myself home, but I spent the rest of the day and night on my back in bed, alternating between heat and gentle stretches, which I chased with a stiff drink right before bedtime. Because the pain was in my middle back and radiated to my left underarm (rather than my lower back, which is more typical for me), by evening I was convinced I was either having a heart attack or was about to come down with shingles. (My back might not be the only neurotic part of me.)

Neither happened, of course, and by Saturday morning, I was stiff but mostly pain free. I got up very early and got started on a project I had hoped to complete the night before — a zip bag for an upcoming quilter’s swap.

I hadn’t been up more than an hour when the spasms started again, this time in my lower back. I shuffled my way back to the bed/heating pad, took my daily allowance of Advil, and thought about how mobility is never overrated.

Two hours later, I was up and moving again and managed to finish my bag project.

It’s a surprise for my swap partner so I hope she likes it. (By the way, “moda” is a fabric line beloved by most quilters. I “upcycled” some ribbon from a recent fabric shipment in hopes it would delight a fellow fabric hound.)

I have no idea what’s going on with my back. I logged four runs this week with nary a problem, so who knows? A couple of weeks ago when Mr. Mom was suffering from aches and pains, I called it Old Man Syndrome. Maybe I’ve got Old Woman Syndrome.

With gratitude {for Sewer’s Syndrome, which ultimately prevailed over lesser maladies},

Joan, who — 33 years ago next month — spent a week in traction recovering from the first of her neurotic back episodes

Parkie Park.

Oct 23, 2013

Dear friends,

Today my sweet boy turns 18. I don’t know where the time went but it sure offered lots of surprises, challenges and delights.

No parent wants to admit it, I suppose, but you can’t help but compare one child to another. Once you have two or more children on deck and you get your sea legs, you eventually learn that the inevitable comparison is fine as long as you allow each child to find his or her place in the family without excessive relativity.

Kate has always been calm and composed, bordering on stoic. Two and a half years after Kate’s arrival, Parker blew into our lives like a sudden summer storm. He kicked up all kinds of dust and, by comparison, we found him impulsive, intense, headstrong, and — once we decided to admit it — wildly entertaining.

As a toddler, we nicknamed him Park the Shark because he was always in motion, gliding through our home, watchful for any opportunity to exploit a moment of uncertainty or chaos to his advantage. Kate mothered him from the beginning, which meant Mr. Mom and I often found ourselves in the role of amused observers, wondering how this unique and captivating creature found his way to us.

Over the years, he’s mellowed considerably. But he’s still the family muse, wit, and impossible-to-stay-mad-at moppet, albeit a very large and very hairy moppet. Last weekend, Kate surprised him with an early birthday present and he climbed on her lap (all 6 feet and 7 inches of him) and gave her several exaggerated hugs. He could get away with murder in our family and his three enablers are well aware of their susceptibility to his charm. (Don’t believe me? Talk to his father who purchased the boy a very expensive motor bike for his 18th birthday.)

No matter how much he grows or matures, he’ll always be Parkie Park to his mother, the woman who once wrote that his electric blue eyes are “the lapis pools of my undoing.”  As downfalls go, I’ll take my fetching boy any day.

With gratitude {for the pleasure of the unexpected, the unpredictable, and the thoroughly bewitching power of a son},

Joan, who’s still mourning the loss of her baby’s curls

and who hopes her little daredevil chases all the thrills on his bucket list

Sad. With a side of busy.

Oct 17, 2013

Dear friends,

In every year of my work life, there are two weeks so busy that all others pale in comparison. One is in April and one is this week. It’s one of those weeks where my assistant prepares a two-inch binder with 20 tabs and dozens of sheets filled with details about the meetings, appointments, dinners, and other special events I will either attend or preside over.

Had I not fallen prey to a bug of some sort and stayed home several hours on Monday and Tuesday, this week would have easily topped 70 hours. As it is, I probably won’t surpass 60, which I suppose is a blessing all things considered.

So that — in part — is why you haven’t heard from me for a few days.

I’ve also been sad . . . which combined with busy tends to result in “lights out” on this page.

Saturday is my mother’s birthday. It also happens to be my 22nd anniversary, and when it finally occurred to me a week ago that the date was rapidly approaching, instead of thinking about ways to express my continuing affection to Mr. Mom, I thought about how much I miss my mother. I was trying to prepare for a dinner party, but instead I sat on my bed and cried.

I can’t believe she’s been gone three years. I can’t believe I still cry when the magnitude of her absence hits me at weird moments. I’ve always thought it is important to honor the grief, though, so I took a break from cooking and spent a half hour in solitude thinking, in part, how much Mom would have liked my menu and thought my dinner party kicked butt.

By the way, in case I never told you the story . . . on our wedding day Mr. Mom and I pretended we forgot my mother’s 62nd birthday. We had breakfast with her and she spent most of the day helping me decorate our reception hall, but I never said a word. At the reception — after we cut the cake — I stepped forward to speak, intending to tell everyone it was my mother’s birthday and to deliver a loving tribute. Instead, I dissolved into tears and Mr. Mom had to speak for me. After we sang Happy Birthday to her, I gave her a surprise gift: a mother’s ring made by the same childhood friend who made my wedding band. A few years later Mom told me it was the best birthday of her life.

I remember that on the days I miss her. On the days I think I didn’t bring enough light and love into her life, I remember that day and it helps.

Then on top of my run-of-the-mill sadness, I learned on Monday that one of Kate’s friends from back home died after an extended illness. Ashley was a beautiful and radiant 20-year-old woman and her loss has left my hometown — and my daughter — reeling. The funeral is today and Kate will be there but I won’t (what with all the events in the two-inch binder with 20 tabs).

I know a little something about Ashley’s parents’ pain after watching my mother lose an adult son. Still, in spite of everything I think I know about grief and heartache, I find myself with few words of understanding or comfort because losing a child at the cusp of adulthood seems to me a grievous and unbearable loss.

I know. Losing a child anytime is a grievous and unbearable loss. Maybe this feels especially acute because I have two children who are on the cusp of adulthood. Two children who were friends with the girl who departed her promising and sparkling life so very early and who remind me how precious and fragile every loved one is, whether 18 or 80.

So I’m sad. With a side of busy.

All things considered, I’d rather be sad, because it reminds me to snap out of busy, which is just another way to describe an auto-pilot life where insufficient attention is paid to what are often inconvenient but urgent matters of the heart.

With gratitude {for emotions that remind me I’m human and I’m living a magnificent and messy and beautiful and brutal and ephemeral life},

Joan, who really wishes she could hold Kate’s hand today and will be so very glad to give her a big hug when she arrives home late tonight for Fall Break

Legit.

Oct 8, 2013

Dear friends,

I came home today to the best stack of mail, ever!

First, there was a sweet and thoughtful handwritten letter from my CupKate . . . the kind that makes a mother’s heart melt and that somebody will no doubt find after I die amongst my most treasured keepsakes.

Then, there was a typed form letter from the Missouri Department of Revenue. Magpie Quilts is legit! I have a tax ID number and am finally authorized to do bidness in the Show Me State.

<Picture me here doing a spot-on Steve Martin/Navin Johnson impression after the phone book arrives in The Jerk. “I”m somebody now! Things are going to start happening to me now!”>

As I have a habit of reading the mail over dinner, I very nearly did the happy dance over my plate of Mr. Mom’s homemade spaghetti. For a day of the week that normally produces little to cheer over, this Monday kicked boo-tay.

So here’s the deal: I finished a new quilt last week. And because it doesn’t make sense to mail my quilts one at a time to my cousin in Oklahoma, I’m going to post it for sale here. If none of my 47 faithful and 13 random readers are interested, I’ll ship it off to my bidness partner after I finish two or three more and the shipping cost is worth it. (Yes, I’m going to keep saying bidness through this entire post. I’m sorry. Chalk it up to Government-Stamp-of-Approval giddiness.)

By the way, I’m still thinking about opening an Etsy Shop for Magpie Quilts, as a friend suggested I might develop a Missouri following who will be disappointed that my creations are only available in Oklahoma. (I realize she was probably just being nice, but I’m willing to run with it.) Anyway, it’s going to be a while before I can make that happen for a variety of reasons mostly related to not enough time in the day.

So here it is folks . . . Listen hard and you can hear the drum roll reverberating in my head.

Sunday in the Park (Strawberry Jam, #2 in a series) — $125.

A picnic basket. A shady spot under an oak tree. And a soft and colorful quilt on which to stretch out and spend a lazy afternoon with your sweetheart. These are the elements of a relaxing Sunday in the park, and Magpie Quilts’ latest design creates the perfect landing spot for your next outdoor excursion.

Strawberry Jam is the second in a series of Sunday in the Park quilts. It is made from 100% cotton fabric and features cheery and modern prints, with a touch of old-fashioned gingham. The front is an expanse of whole cloth featuring pink “berries,” punctuated by a column of multi-colored geometric and floral patterns.  The back features four large panels of pink gingham with window-frame sashing made from the primary print. The quilt is entirely hand-made — pieced, quilted and bound by a single artisan in her Missouri studio — and measures 58″ X 60″, making it suitable for covering your lap as well as your picnic spot.

All Magpie Quilts are safe for the washing machine if laundered in cold water with a gentle detergent and dried on a low-to-medium setting. The batting is an 80/20 cotton-polyester blend, which gives the quilt an exceptional drape and a light weight. The quilt was made in a smoke-free environment and has been pre-washed to give it the vintage appearance of well-loved linens.

If you’re interested in Strawberry Jam or have questions about Magpie Quilts, don’t hesitate to leave a comment here or email me at magpiequiltsbyjoan@gmail.com.

With gratitude {for a creative passion that is definitely lighting my fire},

Joan, who wishes to say one more time that Magpie Quilts is the brainchild of a woman who grew up in a heartland town she calls Mayberry, where catching fireflies on summer nights, sleeping under quilts hand-stitched by the local quilting bee, and sharing the bounty of a backyard vegetable patch never went out of vogue. Her quilt designs combine both vintage-inspired and contemporary fabrics in unfussy patterns that evoke a simpler time, a slower pace, and a love for the creature comforts of home.

Working girls.

Oct 7, 2013

Dear friends,

Dolly Parton by Andy Warhol
Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art

Six hundred miles and 36 hours later, I’m home from the third annual Ozarks Rendezvous.

The gathering of five former colleagues — who at one time all toiled under the same roof in Tulsa, Oklahoma — was more fun than I imagined. Filled with award-winning food, fun, art, wine, laughter and a night in an incredibly hipster hotel, the weekend was a tonic for my favorite crew of working girls.

The central activity of the gathering was a visit to the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, AR (the town that Wal-Mart built). Before I tell you what I think about the museum, which opened not quite two years ago, I will offer a disclaimer that our band of five professional, solidly middle-class women understood that our free museum admission was only marginally “compliments of Wal-Mart” (as the greeter informed me). I was acutely aware that it is the legions of uninsured, low-wage workers subject to Wal-Mart’s ignoble labor practices that generated the vast fortune represented by Crystal Bridges.

With that sober acknowledgement (and my longstanding disdain for Wal-Mart) as preface, I can’t help but tell you that the museum is a stunning achievement in architecture, art collecting, and the art and science of making art accessible. Practically every important name in the pantheon of American art is represented at Crystal Bridges, from Norman Rockwell to Mark Rothko, from Frederick Remington to Andy Warhol, from Thomas Moran to Jackson Pollock, from Winslow Homer to Joseph Albers. I alternated between marveling at the art right in front of my nose and marveling at how Alice Walton managed to collect it all and make a tiny town in Northwest Arkansas an art destination. If you ever have an opportunity to drop by Crystal Bridges (or, heck, to travel far out of your way), you should add the museum to your must-visit list.

By the way, don’t let the museum’s odd name discourage you from taking it seriously. After I mused — perhaps a little too loudly — that it sounded like a new-age retreat center, and my friend remarked that it reminded her of a cheesy Country and Western singer, a museum docent quietly and kindly informed us that the museum is built over a body of water known as Crystal Springs.  I felt a little guilty, then, for disparaging the museum’s name, but we still joked that it surely must be a marketing impediment to all those who would lump it in the same class of tourist attractions represented by the Precious Moments Park and Chapel just down the road in Carthage, MO.

After a long and satisfying afternoon at the museum, we spent an even longer and more satiating evening at The Hive, our hipster hotel’s even hipper restaurant. Over cocktails and three courses, we discussed everything from politics, to the state of our respective careers, to religion, to family and children, to feminism, to easy gossip about personalities of mutual interest.  During a particularly amusing conversational diversion regarding technology in the workplace, we laughed so hard I lost my breath and nearly popped my trouser button. It was the perfect ending to a splendid day with friends far and farther, who’ve worked hard to nurture the bonds of friendship stretched by geography but reinforced by abiding affection.

With gratitude {for the restorative power of time spent with girlfriends},

Joan, who met the first of her former colleagues in 1988 when both had Working Girl hair, wardrobes, and career challenges, but nothing close to Harrison-Ford romantic prospects

Space Jam.

Oct 2, 2013

Dear friends,

I’m seriously in need of help.

Organizational . . . financial . . . spatial/dimensional . . . psychological. Yep, maybe all four.

This is my dining room table. My dining room table is not supposed to look this way.

It’s supposed to look this way:

We haven’t eaten a meal at the dining room table in more than a month — ever since I permanently camped out with my sewing machine and fabric. Right now I’ve got several projects going. A gift quilt for a friend. A mini-quilt for an online swap meet. Four new quilts for Magpie Quilts.

I desperately need a studio. A light and bright studio. One with a cutting station, a sewing station, a comfortable spot to bind, a design wall, fabric storage. I swear if Kate were one year farther along in college, I would evict her things from her bedroom and set up shop. Or if I could just sell that ratcha-fratching Oklahoma house, I’d demand to build a studio out back, college funds be damned.

I’m one of those women whose tidiness is well-documented. I can walk into a room and tell instantly if a book or a vase or a candle has been moved. We make our beds every day. Our car keys are hung on a hook by the back door. My throw pillows are plumped and positioned just so. My bathroom counters are pleasingly clear and my kitchen island causes me frustration if so much as the day’s mail clutters it. Heck, even our laundry is put away on a regular basis.

I do not leave piles on the dining room table.

Until now.

All I can say is I must really love quilting to tolerate this mess.

Quilting has even usurped Gunsmoke. I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to concentrate on my nightly television/cocktail ritual with Mr. Mom. Fortunately, he’s tolerant of both the disruption and the mess. (I know because I apologized to him. Yes, I’m the kind of nut who apologizes for leaving a mess on the dining room table because if the tables were turned — no pun intended, I promise — it would really annoy me. Just ask him about his laundry room desk.)

I don’t have a solution to my problem. I guess I’m just venting, which goes against my gratitude grain AND my problem-solver grain. I suppose I’m going to have to embrace the situation or risk rubbing my Buddhist-acceptance grain the wrong way, too.

With gratitude {for grains that mostly keep me in line},

Joan, who won’t be quilting OR watching Gunsmoke this weekend because she’s meeting some Okie friends for an overnight excursion to see the Crystal Bridges museum in Bentonville, AR, and — for once — might have something nice to say about the Walton family fortune