When I decided to make a hand-appliquéd wedding quilt for my nephew, I gave myself exactly one month to finish it. At the time, this seemed perfectly reasonable.
I wanted the quilt to reflect both sides of his family. His grandparents on one side were first-generation Finnish immigrants. On the other side, his family had lived in the United States for generations but had roots in Los Alamos, New Mexico—a beautiful and somewhat secretive town perched high on the mesas. I decided to bring the two histories together in a Finnish–Southwestern fusion quilt.
At its center would be a Tree of Life, with mirrored Scandinavian lovebirds among its branches. Blue lovebirds and red hearts would bring in traditional Finnish motifs, while Southwestern-style blossoms, colors, and design elements would honor his New Mexico heritage. Near the bottom, ivory-and-gold wedding bands would mark their wedding day. It was going to be meaningful, personal, traditional and original.
It was also going to contain a little over 600 hand-appliquéd pieces.
For every piece, I have to trace the pattern, cut the fabric, add iron-on interfacing, turn the edges, position it, press it into place, and blanket-stitch it to the background. None is especially difficult by itself. The trouble is that after finishing one, I still have 599 or so waiting patiently for their turn.
Racing the Calendar
So, I stitched in the early morning and late at night, before work and after work. Whenever I found a few unclaimed minutes, bluegrass filled the room and blanket stitches filled the time. If I sat down, I stitched. My hands were never empty. Soon, I began judging time not in minutes or hours, but in how many leaves, flowers, or tiny pieces I might finish. Surely, at that pace, I would catch up.
I did not catch up.
The wedding kept getting closer at its usual dependable speed, while the finished portion of the quilt grew at a considerably less urgent pace. Eventually, the truth became impossible to ignore: I could not finish the quilt in time for the wedding.
Not even close.
At my current rate, it may take a year. So instead of leaving for the wedding with a completed heirloom folded neatly in a box, we are heading out with a quilt kit—a collection of fabric, prepared pieces, patterns, thread, and the beginnings of a family story.
It is not the wedding gift I imagined presenting, but it is a promise. The quilt has been designed, the work has begun, and sometime within the next year, it will be finished.
For now, the lovebirds are still waiting for their tree, the flowers are waiting to bloom, and several hundred appliqué pieces are waiting to be stitched. The happy couple will begin their married life, and I will come home, turn on the bluegrass, and continue mine—one blanket stitch at a time.