I've mused upon this identity thing before. I make quilts, but I don't consider myself a quilter. I can throw together a pretty decent dinner, but don't consider myself a cook. I can knit a sweater or a scarf or a king sized lace coverlet, I can grow strawberries and green beans and gladiolus, I can drive a Cadillac, perform the Heimlich maneuver, and trim the branches on a tree, but I don't consider myself a knitter, a gardener, a chauffeur, an EMT or an arborist either. But for the sake of this post, I make quilts.
The thought of sewing bits of fabric together to make something I couldn't wear never occurred to me before the fall of 1992. Never. I don't think, before that, I even noticed quilts. No one in my family made quilts (and as far as I know, no one does to this day.) But on a fall day in 1992 I got whacked up the side of my head by this:
Not this quilt specifically (it's from Eleanor Burns Quilt in a Day pattern) but one very much like it. I was standing in Ruffled Elegance's old store on Main Street in St. Jacobs, Ontario (before they moved, then went out of business) and this masterpiece was hanging in an atrium, the fall sun made it glow. King sized, hand quilted feathers - it was glorious. And I was cocky (stupid?) enough to think $400? I can make that for 1/10 th of that. Ha! I should have just forked over the bucks and been done with it. In the long run, it would have been WAY cheaper.