There’s nothing like a week back in my hometown to remind me of the restlessness I was glad to leave four years ago. This week, the solution to my restlessness was in my grandma’s closet. I found a lot of thirty-year-old fabric, scraps left over after Grandma ‘Cille sewed school dresses for her four growing-up girls.
Because quilting isn’t my forte, I didn’t finish without muttering some admittedly unfair things about material and the forty-year-old sewing machine I was using.
I also stabbed the batting with the needle a little more vehemently (and a little more frequently) than it really merited. I might have shed a few drops of blood in the process.
Putting together duct work is a whole lot easier.