The first quilt

During college, there were two teaching assistants whom I got to know well. One I wish I hadn’t. The other was my Shakespeare TA. She was only a few years older, and when a couple of us chatted with her after section, we discovered that the conversation would drift from assignments to common interests. When we learned that she had cats – not fey visitors like the strays we surreptitiously fed on the back porch, but actual pets – and was willing to let us come meet them, the bond was cemented.

On the day of the kitty playdate, we discovered not only cats but also quilting. Displayed on her wall was a brand new, handmade patchwork quilt. We were fascinated. "You made that yourself?" we asked. Oh yes, she had taken a class. "You wouldn't, maybe, be willing to teach us how to do it too?" It turned out that she was.

So at the start of the new term, we made a pilgrimage to the local fabric store to pick out supplies for our new adventure. It was a crazy quarter academically, and we were working like fiends. But every week, we set aside one day to go on retreat. Our friend would pick us up at our dorm, and we’d bring along treats we’d concocted in our kitchen the previous night. We’d go to her apartment, sew and nibble and play with the cats all day, and then, before we went back, she would feed us one of her hot, home cooked meals. The food at our dorm was edible enough, but it never measured up to these cozy dinners amongst friends.

Friends, cats, and food... with such positive associations, is it any wonder I’ve stuck with quilting for all these years?