Friday, November 27, 2009


My mother used to tell me stories; her growing up with her mother, sewing potholders for the kitchen, blankets for the winter, and clothes for herself and four younger siblings. I would imagine her as a sister on Little House on the Prairie instead of the much more realistic Irish New Jersey suburb.

As a child, I would sit beside my mother arranging blocks of colored fabric on our carpet attempting to create watercolor designs. She would allow me to fuss over these blocks for hours but when the wall hanging was finished she would rearrange them to her own liking. She was artistically stubborn. I inherited that from her.

As I grew older she tried to influence me to follow in her footsteps but I was more attracted to paints and collage, the theatre, more physically laborious work. In high school my mother was diagnosed with Stage 3 Ovarian Cancer and given little time to live. I helped her store her materials away and lock up her sewing machine. She lasted longer than any of us imagined and at my college graduation awarded me a large quilt she had been making over the past year. It was fantastic; filled with purple star shapes and a precious message on the back that I would always ‘be her star’. She died shortly after.

As a family we moved often. At 24, I have lived in over 27 houses, rentals, apartments, condos, co-ops, etc. But it was my mother who made the location in which we slept, a home.

This project, this patchwork home, would be my homage to her and a healing for myself. After all the pressure she put on me to be a quilter and the fight I put up, I find myself loving to quilt and sew; making clothes for my friends, potholders for the kitchen, and blankets for the winter.

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