Walking the Walk

I moved theory into practice today. In my academic life, I'm a big fan using textile construction as a narrative device. I once compared some novel to quilting (I forget which) — using different "squares" to determine my paragraphs; my dissertation investigates textile references in early-American fiction for what they add to narratives of historical fiction. I like to use these largely-female occupations as a way to "liberate" texts out of a (perceived) notion of male hegemony. I feel like a flag waver for women and women's occupations though my songs of praise for these collaborate female arts. But I don't — sew, that is. I took sewing in home-ec (it was still home-ec then) and made an awkward billfold and I'm not sure what else. I started a counted-crosstich that was kindly finished by my sister when I was two rows "off" at the end and left it -- never to return. But today I did some "tie" quilting with my aunts, my cousins, my grandma, and my mom. I felt like Bob in What About Bob? : "I'm quilting! I'm a quilter! I quilt!" Although, I didn't really do too much. The experience, in fact, was very much true-to-Anne. I start: I can do this...this is fun. Then: I like this, I should quilt... Then: I could make a quilt myself...where can I get wool? Who would want to do this with me? To: Oh, now we need to finish the sides. This takes cutting and sewing. Hmm. I'm not interested anymore.

I could see half-finished quilts/piles of fabric in my future. Walk away and stick to writing about it, I say. Although I'd love to help someone like I did today, I don't want to carry the responsibility of an entire quilt. Too big for me.