Six in the morning. Curlene Spoolworth does not do six in the morning. We start this diary at a civilized eight, when she surfaces from under a quilt she made herself and her rainbow crest is already doing whatever it wants, which is how she likes it. On the branch above the bed, her spools hang on their little strings ~ she falls asleep counting them, the way other people count sheep, except her count comes out in yards.
Eight fifteen: coffee, and a long look at yesterday's block from across the room. Everyone knows you cannot judge a block up close the morning after. Distance first. Coffee first. Judgment can wait.
Nine: she pins the block to the design wall and stands there with her head tilted, the exact tilt every quilter's family has learned to walk quietly past. This is not daydreaming. This is work. The whole crest tilts with her, every color of it, like a paint chart thinking.
Ten through noon: piecing. Real piecing, the kind where the bobbin runs out at the worst possible seam and she says a word we will not print on a family blog. The curl in her crest tightens one full rotation per hour at the machine (this is documented), and by lunch she has the full spool-curl going. So the cap goes on. Not to hide anything, understand. To frame it. Hers is the blue distressed one with her own portrait on the front, because when you have reached a certain level of quilt hair, the only correct move is to wear a picture of it happening.
Curlene Spoolworth ~ Distressed Baseball Cap
Afternoon: errands, worn proudly in her tee (the one where she's perched on her branch, spools swinging, crest at full wingspan), because a quilter in the wild likes to be recognized by her own kind. She is. Twice. The first is a nod across the thread aisle, the silent salute of one maker to another. The second turns into twenty minutes in the fabric-shop parking lot and covers backing, borders, and somebody's cousin's longarm. This is the correct way to run errands. The frozen goods did not survive. The conversation was worth it.
Curlene Spoolworth ~ Relaxed Fit Tee
Five o'clock: the flask comes out. We maintain it is tea. Curlene maintains it is none of our business. Either way she earned it around the time the bobbin quit, and the flask has her face on it, which means that technically, whatever she's drinking, she's drinking to herself. We respect it.
Evening: one more seam. Everyone says one more seam. Nobody has ever meant it, and Curlene least of all ~ the lamp is still on at ten, the wine sipper is within reach, and the block from this morning has become four blocks that actually agree with each other. She looks at them the way you look at a thing that fought you and lost politely. Cooler nights call for her long sleeve tee, same bird, more coverage, because the sewing room after dark is its own climate and every quilter dresses for it.
Midnight: crest fully spooled, quilt pulled up, machine cooling in the dark. The spools sway on their strings above her like a mobile. Tomorrow there will be more thread in her hair and more top on the frame, and that is a good life, honestly. That is the whole good life.
Here's the quiet truth under the comedy, and then we'll let you go. Curlene is beloved around here because she never apologizes for any of it ~ not the hair, not the hours, not the twenty-minute parking lot conversation. The whole world will tell you your obsession needs managing. Your bird disagrees. Wear the bird who lives the day you wish you were having: she's on tees, caps, flasks and sippers all over the shop. Pick the one that matches your own ten o'clock.
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Written by Chic Quilter. Thanks for reading.
