Warning: this vehicle stops at all fabric shops.

Old quilters never die, they just go batty

I’ve spent most of my life making quilts. The rest I’ve just wasted.

ODE TO A QUILTER’S HUSBAND by Cindy Thury Smith 1983

The husband of this quilter is a very special, patient guy—
Who doesn’t complain about how much fabric his wife may buy.
Through the years he’s picked up a lot of quilting lore—
Because on this subject his wife can get to be quite a bore.
He’s learned better than to throw away any old odd shaped scrap—
Because it’s likely that’s the one she’ll need to fill her design gap.
He know if he enters the quilting room his feet will get pins in—
And he’s learned there’s not just red, but brick, rust, scarlet and crimson.
He knows how she snorts when she sees an ordinary bedspread—
Cuz in HER house there’s only personally designed quilts instead.
He knows when she meets another quilter there’ll be fast and furious talkin’—
And at a quilt show there’ll be lots of scribbling and gawkin’.
He thinks of quilt-mania as a kind of creative affliction—
That can only be controlled by regular doses of stitchin’.
He knows she quilts for enjoyment, not for money,
Cuz she does quilts that are traditional, modern and some just plain funny!
And though all my cutting, designing, sewing and quilting through the years—
He’s always been interested, supportive, patient, and very, very dear. Thanks, honey.