Stitches in time

I once attended a writing workshop where we were asked to complete a familiar phrase with a new twist. Mine was "A stitch in time," which usually wraps up with "saves nine." My version was "as stitch in time mends the rip in the universe." I was heavily into science fiction and fantasy at the time, so that was no surprise.

Although I still love a good sci-fi or fantasy book, bouncing through the stars in imaginary spaceships is a far cry from quilting, where stitches in time conjure up scenarios of women gathered around a colorful expanse of cloth stretched out on a wooden frame, their heads bent over their work. Needles flash in and out of the cloth, catching the lamplight like dolphins leaping out of the ocean and diving back in. All very "Little House on the Prairie," not very "Star Trek" at all, although in terms of creativity, both take you where no one has gone before -- or at least in my case, a leap into a universe where stars are born of cloth and imagination.

My mother-in-law Betty once showed me how to quilt together the triple layers of top, batting and backing, but applique was something new to me. Now I was faced with finishing a garden of irises using that art form. So I did two things.

First I examined the tiny stitches Betty used, then, because the weather had taken a nasty, icy turn and I didn't want to drive to Betty's house for a in-person lesson, I decided to check out a few books on the subject before picking up my own needle.

I chose Martha Stewart's "Encyclopedia of Sewing and Fabric Crafts." I figured if anyone could explain the process on paper, it was Martha. She thinks the whole technique may have started when some clever woman had to patch holes in her family's clothing, but then she went on to say it's a great way to enhance material. A good way to utilize "small patches of material in new ways."

The term applique is French, but I knew that from dredging up memories of high school French class, where my sharpest recall of the language was a recitation of how to make crepes. Thank you Mrs. Kellogg and Mr. Baker.

So, with Martha's book propped open with illustrations at the ready, and the real McCoy example of Betty's handiwork to study draped across my lap, I began.