I changed quilts on my livingroom wall, this morning. About once a month, I take down the old and put up a new. Of course, they really aren't new, are they? This one was salvaged from my Aunt Shelia's rubbish bin. So glad I nabbed it. She thought it was beyond redemption- and in some respects, she's right. The edges are frayed and even the top and bottom borders are missing almost entirely. The worst is the backing. An old sheet that has turned transparent with age. Many of the pieces have busted open revealing little balls of cotton batting...So no, this isn't a quilt for the bed on a cold winters night. But it still makes me smile. It is hand pieced and hand quilted and obviously loved in its day. Its bright and cheery. Simple and charming. It still has a purpose.
On the other hand. This sweet little Singer makes me a bit sad. It is from a treadle machine. It was rescued from a barn. It's previous owner must not have cared much about it. It is full of rust, and even with copious amounts of oil, I don't know if it'll ever recover. Sweet William says it'll be a nice winter's day project. I suppose it still has a purpose- the decals are elaborate and some of the best I've seen. And it lets people know that a sewer lives here. Some one that likes old things, even if they aren't perfect. Who is, anyway?