Feeling quilty

Three years ago, as we were preparing to move into this house, there was a bubblegum pink and lilac dresser that just had to come with us. That dresser was in my head. The actual piece of furniture was pumpkin orange with black hardware and in no shape whatsoever to reside in my step-daughter's new room.

A trip to the paint department of my local Home Depot convinced me that not only did I need to transform the orange monstrosity, but my step-son's headboard that he had never once complained about needed to undergo the oh-so-dramatic change from black to navy blue.

I was obviously in need of some serious psychiatric help. All I thought I needed was a drop cloth.

Rummaging through the linen closet I happened upon a well worn twin sized quilt that my grandma made for me. I heard her voice, "It's only machine quilted." I pulled it out.

My future husband balked at me. It was a quilt! "It's only machine quilted," I said in the same tone my grandma used so many years ago, "Grandma hand quilted everything."

Now, as I am finishing up my first quilt, all by machine, I realize how ridiculous that was. Quilting is not easy. While I've been at the sewing machine, swearing under my breath at the backing fabric that won't stay put no matter how many safety pins are in it, I have been reflecting on the moment when I decided it was okay to ruin the quilt my grandma made me...and feeling guilty.