That Just Irks Me

I had such a wonderful feeling as the longarm sewing machine traveled the last pass on the seventh quilt for the day. This was a personal best, a record in the wide, wide world of men who quilt, I’m sure. Seven. The perfect number, and you can’t get better than perfection. I can die a happy man.

The CD player wafted Strauss waltzes into the air as I celebrated my momentous achievement. I enjoyed a festive moment as the longarm came to the final tie-off, a perfect ending for a perfect day of quilting.

That’s when I saw it. The late afternoon sun illuminated the tiny fabric motes that floated in the air near the floor.

Actually, quilting tosses a lot of fabric dust into the atmosphere. The batting we use is made of small cotton wisps collected and needlepunched into an ultra-fine poly scrim. Small fibers peel off as the thread travels through the various guides from the cone to the needle. The last time the tech serviced the longarm, he told me that he has pulled off the cover of a machine like ours and found the inner spaces completely packed with lint.

On this happy afternoon, I discovered that if I stepped into the pool of sunlight and the fabric dust swirl and pulled my foot straight up, it looked like dancers twirling in a waltz. If I pulled my foot straight up, then to the side, the dancers would spin and dip. I took great delight in my discovery and did the foot dab again and again.

When looking for a house to buy in 2001, the realtor provided numerous descriptions for the space where we now have the longarm quilting machine. The room could be a children’s play area, the description read, or a dance studio. At the time, we laughed at the dance studio option.

But, it turns out, the realtor was effervescent (or whatever the “-scient” word is that means to see into the future). I was an eyewitness to history being made. The realtor’s prediction had come true. With waltzes, no less. Not something mundane like jazz or tap, but sophisticated Strauss waltzes. I stood mesmerized in an aristocratic moment.

My internal conversation of delight was interrupted when she came down the stairs. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m dancing with the quilting motes,” I gushed. “Wanna try it?”

She didn’t answer out loud. Maybe silence WAS the answer. I just about repeated the question, but then she spoke again. I’ve learned not to interrupt her.

“I should have had a long talk with your mother before we married,” she said. “I’ve seen those photos of you sitting in the yard with a bowl in your lap. I bet when you dropped food on the ground, you just picked it up and popped it in your mouth anyway. I imagine your poor mother got so frustrated with you that she finally just gave up.”

I had a good Mama. Mama never got angry, but she could get irked on occasion. I can still hear her voice: “That just irks me!”

My thoughts of an idyllic childhood were interrupted as she continued speaking to me.

“And I’m the lucky one who got to try next.”

“Try what?” I asked. She just stared at me. The look.

I broke the awkward silence. “Doesn’t it look like fairy dust?” I pointed to the swirl at my feet. “See how it seems to float on gossamer wings?”

She shook her head. “It’s obvious this mess isn’t going to take care of itself without a little outside help.”

With that declaration she walked to the adjacent room and returned pushing the old office chair she uses at her sewing machine. She positioned the chair in the middle of the room and placed her … well, you say it … in the seat.

“Start right there,” she demanded.

I looked to see where she pointed. The index finger on her right hand indicated I should begin with the uninterruptible power supply (UPS) at the end of the longarm table. Now that I think about it, her thumb was cocked, too. What did that mean?

I moved the UPS unit. “Eew, what is that stuff?” she asked.

“I think the spiders have found a warm place to live,” I replied.

“Well, get the hand vac and give the whole tribe a ride on the Ferris wheel.”

(I think I heard tiny spider screams as I ran the nozzle around the UPS.)

“Okay, now get all the little thread pieces in between those totes … the totes … right there in front of you … where we have the large pieces of fabric. THE TOTES.”

My, my. A little irked are we? But I didn’t say that out loud.

“Now go around to the back side of the table.” She gave a little snort of air out of her nose, and said, “I can’t believe that the likes of you can’t figure out how to use that little vacuum on your own. Why in the world does it always take a supervisor to keep you moving in the right direction?”

With all the quilting mites created in the quilting process, the purchase of the hand vac was a good investment. It came with a user’s manual. I didn’t realize it also included an audio version and a swivel chair. Nice bonus.

“Okay, buster,” she said — or maybe it was bucko — “you’re going to have to come back around and do the front again.”

I looked over the table. The exhaust from the vacuum on the back side of the table had blown out all of the dust bunnies hiding between the totes.

“I knew it,” she said. “Even when I’m monitoring your every move, you still do half a job.”

The swivel chair followed me 360 degrees. Every corner, every cranny got a cleaning, an inspection, and, many times, a re-cleaning.

When I finished, she rose from the swivel throne, patted me on the head, and declared that we would now go out for dinner. She said she was too exhausted to cook. Fajitas, she said.

I broke into a spontaneous Mexican hat dance right there in the dance studio. She shook her head and went up the stairs.

After we were seated and had placed our order at Tacoria El Loco, I slipped off my jacket.

Her mouth dropped open. The curve of her lips went directly to a frown. She made a clicking sound as the tip of her tongue fell from the roof of her mouth. “Look at yourself,” she said. I wondered if she might start weeping.

I looked at my shirt. I had tiny pieces of thread on my sleeves, on my collar, clear down the front.

“Oh, look,” I said, “this is the Tutu color thread I used on the first quilt of the day. And this one is Jungle Shadows.” I felt like I was in first grade again with Mrs. Kegley, and it was my turn for show and tell. “I like this one, Tahiti; isn’t that a gorgeous blue. Let’s go to Tahiti someday.”

“I can’t take you out in public,” she said as she shook her head. “What were you doing before I came downstairs, rolling around on the floor?”

I chose not to answer that question. Nothing good would come of it.

“Put on your jacket and go sit in the car. I’ll tell the server to make it to go.”

My name is Keith and I am a quilter. I have 23 days to quilt 40 quilts.