Patchwork

Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me here!

I have always been a sucker for old quilts. I never learned how to quilt myself, but I’d love to one day. I like the quilts with perfect, repeating patterns. I also like the small ones you can hang on a wall that show a picture, half in color, half in texture. But most of all, I like the ones called Crazy Quilts. Have you ever seen one of those? They use uneven scraps of fabric in any color or size—often pieces that would be too small or oddly shaped for any other usage. That makes them sound junky maybe, but the effect is far from cheap. On top of the riot of non-pattern pattern, usually the quilter places visible stitches to bring things together. I’ve seen black Xs outlining each separate snippet. I’ve seen a colorful chain stitch uniting the whole. My favorite is when they add little embroidered flowers or other sweetly sewn ephemera, scattered here and there across the dizzying cloth landscape. Crazy Quilts are the “More is More” version of vintage bed covers, even if they were often created out of a fabric stash that was “Less and Less.” Do you know the Dolly Parton song, “Coat of Many Colors?” We have the children’s book based upon it, and Finley loves for me to read it and then pull up a video of Dolly singing the song on black and white TV from the 70s. The story Dolly tells, which is true, is that someone gave her family a bag of cloth scraps, and because Dolly had no coat, her mother sewed one from the rags. The family was too poor to buy her a new winter coat, but the love and care that her momma put into every stitch made Dolly feel rich. To make something from almost nothing, from anything you can find, in order to take care of your child—now doesn’t that sum up motherhood? I love many types of quilts, but those with uneven and wildly unmatched pieces that are brought together out of necessity hold a special spot in my heart. They should be less beautiful because they break all the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I like rules; they can bring order and peace. But sometimes life doesn’t present all the “right” pieces. Sometimes you have to take what you have and find a way to fit it together even if it looks “wrong” to others. Dolly’s coat kept her warm, and Crazy Quilts cover beds just as well as those with perfect symmetry. The rest is just details. 

I actually commissioned someone on the east coast to make a quilt for me. I had saved special fabrics over the years, including my Nana’s hankies, favorite clothing that was damaged but held dear memories, bits of lace and trim from college flea markets in Chelsea, all carried with me to apartments in Hollywood, houses in LA, a Brooklyn brownstone, and a cottage in Maplewood. I kept it all in a patterned box and added a few of my daughter’s baby items as she outgrew them. I longed to make my own crazy quilt, but I knew nothing about quilting except for how long it took, and time was one thing I definitely lacked. Then, I came across a really cool woman who made “modern” quilts. We met, and I explained my idea. I really liked her and felt like we could work together in an interesting way. She did try to warn me that her aesthetic was not in the vintage world, but I was so excited to finally be doing something with my beloved stash that I heard what I wanted to hear. I believed that in the middle of her style and my vision there would be a great compromise. That idea of collaboration leading to a better end result is something learned quickly in theatre; a play takes on richer and deeper nuance when explored by a village of artists. With that in mind, I felt great about this quilt. Well. The woman was so lovely, and she had super cool style, and I thought we were on the same page, but I was wrong. After months of work, she excitedly delivered the finished product, along with most of my pieces of fabric—untouched—and with one momentary glance, my heart dropped. This had been a pricey endeavor. And a meaningful one. Friend, I can’t even describe the quilt to you because it was so not what I wanted or expected that I wrapped it back up into her fancy logo bag the moment she left and have not been able to look at it since. The word that comes to mind is sterile. So little of the fabric I had lovingly saved for years had been used. And what she’d included were not the pieces I’d expected, nor believed I had highlighted as important. My priorities were not her priorities. And, how could they be? This talented artist didn’t really know me. The finished product reflected who she was, not what I thought I had asked for. It was well-made, but it was all wrong.

I am telling you all this because it relates perfectly to the journey we are on with our kitchen renovation. Say what? Let me explain. In the beginning, as I sat in NJ in 2020, packing up our house there while David gutted the MN kitchen out here, I worked online with a designer at IKEA to create a plan. The woman who helped me was great. She solved a lot of quandaries I had about the small space, and together we made what I felt was a great design. Even though I was far away, I could envision a beautiful, efficient space. IKEA kitchens are quite popular on the east coast. The quality is actually pretty high. I knew three people who had used them for renovations and all were very pleased. It made sense to use them, especially during Covid, as they were doing all online appointments. It felt good to be moving forward on such an important aspect of our farmhouse, especially at a time when so much was at a standstill. As we finalized the plan, the design consultant insisted that we wait on ordering anything until the walls were completed since the key to IKEA success is having exact measurements. At the time of our move, their stores were not even open for ordering—which had to be done in person—nor were our walls yet done. Friend, the walls are still not done. Because, well, life. Especially life during a pandemic, when at first we didn’t want any carpenters inside and now we can’t find any who are available. As you may have expected, my feelings about IKEA slowly shifted once I arrived on the farm. Last fall, when we did have help from our drywall guy/carpenter/jack of all trades, Nate, I shared the kitchen plan with him. You should have seen his face. “IKEA?,” he said, wrinkling up his nose. I guess telling someone who builds things with his hands that you are ordering pre-made cabinets from a Swedish box store was never gonna go over well. It wasn’t that he wanted to build them, in fact he suggested an Amish man he’s used a lot, it was more that he considered the IKEA option to be sort of disposable. Like the difference between the fast fashion at Old Navy vs. a suit made by a tailor. You can’t really compare the two. And even though Nate and I have different taste, something in me shifted in recognition of what he meant. Here I was trying to honor this historic Victorian house with all my other choices, and I was going to use IKEA?? Yeah, no. 

The next step was to try to find someone local to build our cabinets. Often, as we drove to and from Stillwater, I’d noticed a hand painted sign for custom cabinets on a red building just off Saint Croix Trail. After letting Nate’s opinion marinate, I remembered that place. I did a quick google search for reviews and found out they’d been in business for 40+ years and had scores of happy customers. Great! I called up and left a message. As with every tradesperson these days, it took a couple weeks to actually connect. Once I finally spoke to the owner, Duane, he said he’d look at our plans and get back to me with a quote, but that he was booking at least two months out. I sent the IKEA plan (without prices) right after I hung up, but we were further delayed because of a typo I made on his email address—one of those weirdly spelled, Oldy-timey ones from a random cable company. When I didn’t hear from him for weeks, I made what felt like endless follow up calls before discovering the snafu and resending to the correct address. I finally received his quote. Friend, it was $17,000.00!!!!!!!!!!!! The kitchen is only 130 square feet, and we were only talking cabinets on two walls!!! So, that stopped everything for a while. It took the wind out of our renovating sails. Nate wanted us to contact his Amish carpenter, but that required communicating only by snail mail and then driving 6 hours round-trip to finalize designs. I was going to try, but then Nate got busy with other projects and never sent me the address. I allowed that to be a sign. It was not meant. It was too hard. I felt deflated. 

We just sort of stopped talking about the kitchen for a while. Soon after, David went into the hospital—you can read about that journey in my previous post, ‘Sweet Heart’—and our whole life paused for a while. But several weeks later, and thankfully recovered, David suggested an idea. He said, “What about doing mismatched cabinets? Like using found pieces of furniture or salvage items.” Whhhhhaaaaaaaattttttt???? My brain lit up, all synapses firing. I pictured cozy, artsy kitchens tucked into Italian villas or farmhouses in Provence, the cabinets and counters made from enamel painted hutches and thick butcher blocks on columned legs. I could almost feel a warm Tuscan breeze coming through a handkerchief curtained window, a golden square of summer sun angled across a tiled floor. Yes, yes, yes!!! This was the answer! As David pointed out, when he saw my mind-blown expression, we are artists. Why not express ourselves in this space we were making? The house could absolutely support this idea. Kitchens in the nineteenth century were not made in factories. Nothing would have matched. It would have been functional, but it would not need to be conventional. It was a chance to be creative and a chance to save money. Within weeks, we found almost all the components of our future kitchen. We took day dates to a salvage store in the Minneapolis Arts District and to antique stores in small Wisconsin towns. We combed Marketplace listings for furniture we could repurpose. I drove 5 hours to pick up the first item, a wonderful primitive cabinet, already refinished in a glowing gray-blue with carved flowers on the drawers. We then found a curved top, mint-green dresser, and a pale yellow shelf with art deco lines. Next, we purchased a mission style wood cabinet with glass doors and muntins that I will paint a deep turquoise. In addition, we scored a massive end grain butcher block on turned legs that we will tuck in next to the stove for food prep. We also realized that we already have a few items that could be repurposed. It will be like fitting pieces from several different puzzles together. Sometimes I get stressed about how it will all come out, the items being sourced from disparate places and eras, but I think about the cooking rule that I often rely on: if you love all the ingredients, you will probably like the dish. 

Suddenly, I can see (sort of) what the kitchen is going to become. David has just started placing the different furniture pieces in the space to figure out what we need to do to each to make them work. Most items will need to be raised up, some extended back, a few will need the drawers replaced, and all will be covered with a new wood countertop—the element which will hopefully lend cohesion. I am zeroing in on colors for the pieces that need repainting. If you have any tips for painting cabinets by hand, specifically to look like they’ve acquired a glowing patina through time and use, let me know. While I work on the finishes, we await our electrician…Thankfully, the hardwood floors are not yet laid, so we won’t have to relive the horror that was our upstairs electrical work (see my previous post, ‘True Grit’). We will have a local company install yellow birch flooring in both the kitchen and porch addition. Those two spaces feel almost like one big room now that David has busted through the wall separating them. Where there was once an exterior wall and hollow plywood door with a rusty screen/storm door, there is now a gracious six foot opening, leading into the future breakfast nook and mudroom. The framing of that new opening, along with the framing for the three new kitchen windows, has taken up a lot of the past month. We have agonized over graph paper drawings, trying to plan the layout, while considering which walls are weight bearing, where we need electricity and HVAC register boxes, and what architectural details work in the context of this house. For example, to delineate the different functions of the space within the addition, we are building half-walls between the mud room and the breakfast nook. As a nod to the Victorian style, we are using columns similar to those on the existing front porch on top of the half-walls, and also on either side of the opening leading to the kitchen. We are figuring all this out ourselves, as it makes sense to our own eyes. There are probably many rules of proportion and design that we simply don’t know, but I know what looks right to me. And, I guess, that’s been the exciting and terrifying discovery in this kitchen journey. It started as a one-size-fits-all, clean and easy solution that would have been really attractive and functional. It has become, through reflection, Covid, and necessity, a space where we’ve decided to trust ourselves. 

And so it goes. Several other rooms in this old house need only a day or two of uninterrupted work to be truly done, but it’s been hard to find that kind of time and focus. I keep saying that I’m just going to buckle down and pound out the last tasks, and then…Well, there’s the cooking and the watering and the laundry and the cleaning and the parenting and, well, that’s the day gone. There’s very little help available for any of the above—be it construction folks or domestic help. As I said above, pre-vaccines we didn’t want anyone in here, and post-vaccines we can’t find anyone who has availability. Covid really changed the home owning game, and it seems that everyone is investing in house projects. Contractors and craftspeople have never been so busy, and we were at a disadvantage being new here because we didn’t have relationships with anyone in place. I try not to panic because it is August and, though it’s over 80 degrees for the next ten days, I can just feel the snow coming. We will probably not get certain things done before winter that we will deeply regret, but if I keep on thinking about that list, I may do myself an injury. Living here means tolerating loose ends. Heck, loose beginnings, too. But we just keep going. Mostly forward. And that has to be enough.

On a different but connected note: you know how when you move, you usually meet a lot of new people? Not just those connected to any work you need done, but neighbors, other parents at school, new doctors and shopkeepers, and that friend-of-a-friend who lives nearby? To some degree that has happened for us, but until we got vaccinated and the weather warmed, we didn’t go many places, and we didn’t meet many people. Those we did meet were usually masked, as were we, so even those interactions held something back. In these past few months of warmer weather—post vaccine and pre Delta variant—we finally began to find the first threads of community. Slowly, we have collected some possible friends. There is Bob the sculptor and his wife, Sandy the potter. There is Sarah the baker, and Sara the baton twirler. There is Lindsey the mom, and Shara the mom. There is Pam the beekeeper and Chiara the farmer. There is Karen the coach, and Victor the guy who simply knows everyone. I don’t know if all of these tentative connections will grow: it’s a lot like planting a new garden before you are certain what will thrive on your land. However, I do feel like the people here are cut from some special cloth. This place still feels new to me, and it is heartening to see others who have been shaped by its texture. It gives me hope for our future here.

I wonder: if we’d moved at a normal time, would it have been very different? I think so. I think that without Covid, I’d have had that IKEA kitchen installed already, without a thought for what it lacked. I think I would have taken classes and had babysitters and many more people working on the house. It would have been a whirlwind of activity. We would have gone out instead of being forced to go within. In so many ways, it would have been plain easier. Believe me, I would still like for us to be *much* further along in the renovations, but I’m kind of glad for what the slowness has brought. I am really excited about our kitchen now. It feels exactly right. If we had been able to move ahead with it more quickly, we would have lost the chance to make the space truly ours. 

Patterned quilts are lovely. The symmetry, the even spaces, everything lining up like it’s supposed to in those painstakingly perfect, repeating rows. I always thought that was the kind of life I wanted: one where, if I worked hard enough and stuck to the plan, it would come out “right”. I admired people who seemed able to present themselves in such pleasing alignment; Martha Stewart, I’m looking at you, girl. But the truth is, life is more like a crazy quilt. You take the scraps you get—some of them sumptuous silk, some of them battered burlap—and you make up the map. There is no getting it right, and you certainly cannot follow someone else’s design. You also can’t go out and find all the pieces at once. Life is not a one stop shop. It hands out and takes away experiences at whim, and you have to find a way to put it all together without falling apart. You will not get to choose all the fabric that will be in your life’s quilt, but you can choose its placement. You can decide how to highlight certain parts with your own topstitches, those intentional, chosen frames. You may even tuck tough bits under softer segments, though you will always know they’re there. 

I keep thinking about the word patchwork. Two words put together actually, two verbs, both imperatives. To patch is to “mend or strengthen something by putting a piece of material over a weak point,” according to Oxford Languages. And I’m pretty sure we all know what ‘work’ means. But I guess the intriguing thing is that it *is* work. You must put an effort in. It’s not called “Patch-Fun.” It is Patchwork. To cobble together, from what you have, enough—be it for a blanket or a life. I’m trying to do that here in our adopted home. I’m running my fingers over the weave of people to see if they might cover a spot that’s missing. I’m arranging in my mind the old cabinets and shelves we’ve collected from other, long-ago houses and trying to find a harmony in their mix. Heck, I’m still just trying to sew together each day in this topsy-turvy reality of being an actor when there is still no work, in a place where I’m still a stranger, at a time when there is still Covid. That’s a lot of frayed edges. I often lose the thread. There’s truly no pattern to follow. It just unfolds, bit by bit, and scrap by scrap. When I am able to step back, I see that I am slowly creating something here, something I mostly like. It is definitely not made by IKEA. By moving here, we fundamentally altered the fabric of our lives. I believe for the better. It’s harder, but freer. It’s unsettled, but filled with so much possibility. When you walk away from the design you thought you’d laid like an inevitability and decide to piece together a new life, it will definitely look crazy to a lot of people. It will feel crazy to you at times, too. Oh, well. In the crazy is the beauty—a calico kaleidoscope of what life doles out, arranged and secured by who you are and how you chose to place the material. I think imperfect is the new perfect. And that, if you’re lucky, wishes become stitches…

At the end, when the last piece is added and the quilt of each of our lives comes into focus, I believe with my whole heart that we shall reap what we sew.