Make Quilts Not War

chapter 1



“It was a dark time,” Mavis Willis said.

The Loose Threads quilt group sat spellbound around the table in the large classroom at the back of Pins and Needles, Foggy Point, Washington’s, best and only quilt store.

“Cotton had once been king. Up until the early nineteen-sixties, something like eighty percent of the textiles sold in America were made of cotton. By the mid-nineteen-seventies, it was down to maybe thirty-five percent. Cotton was displaced by the scourge of the decade.”

“Polyester?” Harriet Truman said in a hushed voice.

“That and worse,” Mavis replied. “Synthetics of all sorts. Our fabric, our threads, our upholstery—the very warp and weft of our being was being supplanted by a poseur.”

“What did you do?” Carla Salter asked, her eyes round. At twenty-three, she was the youngest member of the group and had never experienced polyester fabric firsthand.

“What could we do?” Harriet’s Aunt Beth answered for her friend. “We used what was available. Our fabric was a cotton/acrylic blend, heavy on the acrylic.”

“I think everyone made at least one polyester knit quilt, too,” Mavis confessed with a small shrug.

“Yes,” Beth agreed. “We all have them.”

“Where?” Harriet challenged. “I’ve never seen yours.”

“Would you display it, if you had one?” Mavis asked.

“Good point,” Harriet said.

“I’m sure the colors were different back then, too.” Robin McLeod said tactfully.

“If you mean avocado green, electric orange and mustard yellow, you’re right, if the pictures in my mom’s photo album are any indication,” Lauren Sawyer added.

“Those were the colors of the times,” said Aunt Beth. “Not just for quilts, either. Appliances and shag carpets also favored them.”

“I guess I’m glad our house is historic,” Harriet said, referring to the spacious Victorian home her aunt had given her, along with the long-arm quilting business housed within, when the older woman had retired.

“I wanted a harvest gold refrigerator in the worst way,” Aunt Beth mused. “I was so jealous when Mavis got hers.” She smiled at her friend.

“My mami was so thrilled when papi put Astroturf on our cement patio,” Connie Escorcia said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Diós mio,” she added with a laugh. “Those were the days.”

“How old were you in the sixties?” Carla asked Connie, blushing at her own boldness in asking such a personal question.

“Those were my glory days,” Connie replied with a smile. “I was a teenager. I was born in nineteen-fifty, so I turned ten in nineteen-sixty. My mami taught me to sew on her sewing machine when I was twelve, but I didn’t take up quilting until my babies were in school. By then, I’d gone back to teaching, so I didn’t have a lot of time.”

“When do we need to have our quilts finished?” Lauren interrupted. She looked at the clock on her phone. “I have to meet my client in forty-five minutes.”

“The sixties festival opens in exactly four weeks,” Harriet said. “They want us to have the quilts hanging in the exhibition hall by Friday of the week before.”

“Yikes,” Robin McLeod exclaimed. “I got behind when the power was out from the storm. I’ve got mine cut out, but I haven’t sewn a stitch yet.”

“You better get cracking,” Mavis said. “They didn’t do long-arm machine quilting back then, so Harriet isn’t going to be able to stitch your quilt for you.”

“I’m tying mine with yarn,” Carla said.

“That was popular back then,” Beth assured her.

“What are you doing, Harriet?” Lauren asked.

“I’m working with some cheater cloth,” she replied, referring to a fabric that is preprinted with images of pieced quilt blocks. “I’m doing some piecing to go along with it, but I’m not sure I like what I’ve gotten done so far.”

“I’ll be done with mine by next week,” Jenny Logan said. “I can help sew binding or…” She looked at Carla. “…tie knots.”

“You made another quilt?” Lauren asked. “I thought I heard Marjory ask you to bring that quilt you have in your guest room. Didn’t you say you made that in the sixties?”

Marjory was the owner of Pins and Needles and was chair of the textile show committee for the upcoming festival.

“Yes, but that was forty-some years ago. The fabric is faded and worn, and I was just learning to quilt back then.”

“It looked like it was in pretty good shape when I saw it,” Lauren persisted.

“I need to do something current. I wish I’d never shown it to you all. I wasn’t a real quilter back then. The batting is an old blanket, and I made the blocks from old clothes. And I tied it with acrylic yarn.” She shuddered with the memory.

“Marjory’s not going to take no for an answer,” Mavis told her. “She’s looked at every authentic sixties quilt in our community, and yours was the only one that didn’t have orange and brown in it. They want to hang it in the exhibit hall, and with those mustard-colored walls, orange just wouldn’t work.”

“I’m still not comfortable with it,” Jenny said, tucking a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear then patting it into place.

“It captures the youthful spirit of the times,” Harriet said. “Besides, anyone who attends quilt shows around here knows your quilting has improved dramatically since the sixties. If it bothers you that much, I’m sure you could ask them to leave your name off of it. Do you have a label on the back?”

“Of course not,” Jenny snapped then reddened when Harriet and Carla stared at her. Her tone softened. “I mean, we didn’t think of that back in those days. It was just a quilt meant to be used on a bed. And thank you, I will ask Marjory if they can leave my name out of it.”

“I just hope all this effort is worth it,” Aunt Beth said. “I know some of the other communities around here have had success with theme weeks during the dead of winter as a way to pull tourists in, but no one has ever done the sixties before.”

“It does seem like that time period would better lend itself to a summer event—summer of love and all that,” Harriet said.

“The committee thought people were burning out on murder mystery weekends, especially with what’s been going on in Foggy Point the last few months,” Mavis said.

“Langley isn’t that far from here,” Beth added, referring to the host community of a very successful mystery weekend held every year on Whidby Island.

She and Mavis had been on a planning subcommittee once the main group had decided to add a quilt show to the lineup of events.

“I can’t imagine any theme they could choose that would boost my business. I’m in such a specialized niche tourism doesn’t affect me at all.” Harriet said.

“You got some additional work when we did the Civil War quilts last summer, didn’t you?” Lauren asked.

“I did, but it was from you guys, not new customers, and then no one did new quilts for a month after that, so in the end it wasn’t an increase at all.”

“Well, at least the stores and restaurants will get a lift,” Jenny said.

“I heard the newspaper was going to run a special edition, with headlines from the era,” Robin said, rejoining the conversation. She and her friend DeAnn Gault had been concentrating on the binding they were hand stitching on a lap quilt they were making as a gift for Robin’s elderly grandmother.

“They’re offering very affordable advertising,” Marjory chimed in from the kitchen across the hall. She came into the classroom. “The staff will help you tailor your ad to the theme. They got into their archives and made copies of representative advertising from nineteen sixty-eight.”

“Wow, they’re really getting into it,” Harriet said.

“My mom is digging out a couple of macramé pieces she made for the county fair,” DeAnn said.

Carla looked up, clearly confused.

“Macramé was a popular craft back in the day,” Aunt Beth said.

“People braided polyester cord into intricate designs,” Mavis added.

“They made hangers for potted plants, or sometimes you could put little glass or mirror pieces into them and make a hanging shelf,” Beth continued. “We all tried our hand at it.”

“People made belts and guitar straps and choker necklaces, too,” Jenny said. “They usually used hemp cord for the bracelets and neckwear, though.”

“Sounds…interesting,” Carla said, her cheeks turning pink as she spoke.

“They were interesting times,” Mavis said.

“It was the Age of Aquarius,” Connie said with a smile.

“It was also the age of assassinations, the age of the war in Vietnam, the cultural revolution in China and the six-day war in Israel,” Lauren said.

“Every era has its share of sad things,” Mavis said with a sigh.

“I’m surprised you didn’t mention the invention of the computer, Lauren,” DeAnn said.

“The computer wasn’t ‘invented,’” Lauren corrected. “A series of innovations allowed the computer to evolve into its present state.”

“The sixties were definitely political times,” Robin mused.

“And it was a time of good music,” DeAnn said. “Marjory,” she called in a voice loud enough to carry. Marjory had returned to the retail area of the shop.

“You rang?” Marjory said as she appeared at the classroom doorway a moment later.

“Someone told me you guys landed a big-name rock star for the grand finale,” DeAnn said.

“As a matter of fact, we did. And not just for the finale. We’re having a ‘senior prom,’ of sorts, and he’s agreed to play at that, also.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Harriet prompted.

“We got Colm Byrne,” Marjory said with a smile.

“Colm Byrne? The Irish rock star? That Colm Byrne?” Harriet asked. “How did you land him?”

“We have our ways,” Marjory said and laughed. “Actually, Jerry Weber is on our committee, and he apparently knows him. I don’t know if Colm has looked at real estate in this area with him or what.”

Jerry owned and operated Foggy Point’s biggest real estate office.

“All I know is, we decided we wanted music, and Jerry made a few phone calls, and suddenly we’d booked Colm Byrne and we’re only paying a pittance.” She turned and left the room.

“Wow,” Harriet said and sat back in her chair.

“Wow is right,” Robin agreed.

The group around the table fell momentarily silent.

“Did the Loose Threads go home?” Jorge Perez asked as he came into the room carrying a large insulated box. “I hear no one speaking. This can’t be the Loose Threads I know and love.” He laughed. “They are never without words.”

“Marjory just told us the festival committee has landed Colm Byrne as the musical entertainment,” Harriet said.

“Colm Byrne the Irish rock star?” Jorge asked. “I think Marjory is telling you stories.”

“It’s true,” Marjory protested as she returned once again. “Jerry Weber has some connection to him or someone influential in his entourage.”

“He will draw a crowd,” Jorge said and smiled. He set his box on the table and removed the lid. “Now, who’s hungry?”

The Loose Threads had arranged to use the classroom all day so they could make serious headway on the projects they were finishing up to make way for their sixties quilts. Jorge had agreed to deliver lunch from his Mexican restaurant, Tico’s Tacos, so the group wouldn’t have to go out.

“Here, Lauren,” He said and handed her a brown paper bag. “Señora Beth said you have to leave early and wouldn’t be staying for lunch.”

“Thank you,” Lauren said as she took the bag. She looked at Beth.

“You said you were dealing with your difficult client when I saw you yesterday. If it’s the same one from before, they seem to have a nose for when we eat. I had Jorge make your food to go just in case—seems like I was right.”

“You were, indeed,” Lauren said and put her coat on, then picked up her sewing bag, tucking her lunch inside.

“What are we having?” Harriet asked.

“I brought cheese quesadillas, pork tacos and chicken burritos and, of course, chips, salsa and guacamole and…” He paused to take a plastic box from his big container. “…a chicken salad for Señora Robin.”

“Thank you.” Robin sounded surprised.

“You think I don’t notice what everyone eats?” Jorge said with a wink.

“What are you doing for the festival?” DeAnn asked.

“I’m doing what I always do,” Jorge said. “Making food. My restaurant is timeless, so I don’t need to do anything there. I’m on the food committee for the festival. We’re having a food court at the community center in the walkway between the exhibit hall and the auditorium where the music will be. I guess they’re going to have the high school bands from Foggy Point and Angel Harbor playing music a couple of times a day before the big concerts at night.”

“What sorts of food will be available?” Carla asked.

“We’ll have tacos and hamburgers and hotdogs, but also we’ll have a cart of foods from the era—fondue, peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwiches, on soft white bread, of course. We’ll have spaghetti from a can, little pizzas made from round crackers with a slice of pepperoni and mozzarella cheese…” He paused to think. “Instant breakfast in a can, vegetable sandwiches with sprouts—that was toward the end of the era. Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, HoHo’s, if we can find some.”

He ticked these items off on his fingers.

“We’re having brownies, but not with anything special in them, we’ll have cans of Fresca soda, someone is bringing that gelatin that separated into three layers. And I’m sure there is more I’m not remembering.”

“Lots of us were cooking perfectly normal food every day,” Mavis said, “But those meals weren’t especially memorable—or tied to a single point in time, for that matter.”

“Isn’t that when we got our first Julia Child cookbooks?” Aunt Beth asked.

“Maybe,” Mavis looked at her longtime friend. “Or that could have been in the seventies.” She sighed. “It all runs together after a while. In any case, Twinkies and Marshmallow Fluff were much more memorable.”

“Can you stay and eat with us?” Harriet asked Jorge.

“I think I can spare a few minutes to eat,” he said and glanced at his watch. “I don’t have to sew anything if I stay, do I?”