I saw this article, well it is actually the written script of a speech given at a quilting convention. It is long, it is hilarious. If you need a smile or two, grab a cup of tea, have a read. (*first seen on the Quilt Pittsburgh Facebook Site)
This is a long read but it is totally worth it if you need a laugh, and many spouses would also enjoy it.
A
speech given at a conference on quilting (Quilt Canada 2010) by Allan
Fradsham, a criminal court judge in Calgary, Alberta, where the
conference was held.
Here's the text. It's long but amusing, and so worth a read:
“When,
some years ago, Gloria told me that she was going to build upon her
years of sewing experience, and take up "quilting", I thought she was
telling me that she was going to take up a new hobby or a new craft. I
was completely oblivious to the fact that what she was really announcing
was that she was taking up membership in a tightly knit (if you'll
pardon the expression) group of individuals whose loyalty to one another
makes motorcycle gang members seem uncommitted, and whose passion for
quilting activities makes members of cults look positively
disinterested. As is the case with many spouses, I was completely
unaware that there existed this parallel universe called quilting.
However,
to be completely unaware of a world-wide sub-culture operating right
under our noses and in our homes is a bit obtuse even for husbands. But
there it is, and here you are. And, most oddly, here I am. You might
wonder how all this came to pass; I know I certainly do.
I
cannot now identify what was the first clue I detected indicating that
Gloria had entered the fabric world equivalent of Harry Potter's
Hogwarts. It might have been the appearance of the fabric. Bundles of
fabric, mounds of fabric, piles of fabric, towering stacks of fabric.
Fabric on bolts, and stacks of small squares of fabric tied up in pretty
ribbons (I later learned these were "fat quarters" which to this day
sounds to me like a term out of Robin Hood). The stuff just kept coming
into the house as thought it were endless waves crashing onto a beach.
And then, just like the waves, the most amazing thing happened: it would
simply disappear. It was as though the walls of the house simply
absorbed it. Metres and metres (or as men of my generation would say,
yards and yards) of fabric would come into the house. It would arrive
in Gloria's arms when she returned from a shopping excursion. It would
arrive in the post stuffed in postal packs so full that they were only
kept together by packing tape (these overstuffed Priority Packs are the
equivalent of me trying to fit into pants I wore in law school). These
packages would arrive having been shipped from unheard of towns and
villages in far away provinces or states or overseas countries (I am
convinced the internet's primary activity is not to be found in
pornography; that is just a ruse, the internet's real function is to
facilitate the trafficking and distribution of fabric). Wherever we
went, be it in Canada, the U.S., Europe, wherever there was a collection
of more than three houses, Gloria would find a quilt shop from which
she would pluck some prize from some bin with the enthusiasm and
unerring eye of an archaeologist finding a new species of dinosaur.
And
of course, the reason that there are quilt shops everywhere is because
there are quilters everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE. A few years ago,
Gloria had been visiting her sister-in-law in Kelowna. While there, she
found and purchased a Featherweight sewing machine. I understand that
making such a find is a matter of such joy that it may eventually
attract government taxation. When it came time to fly back to Calgary,
Gloria worried about what the people at airport security would have to
say when she tried to take the machine onto the plane. She need not
have been concerned. Now, airport security takes pride in preventing me
from carrying onto a plane a small squirt of toothpaste left in a
rolled up toothpaste tube if the tube in which it is lodged did at some
point in the distant past, contain a prohibited amount of toothpaste.
My spot of toothpaste is a national security threat. However, when it
came time for Gloria to go through security with the Featherweight,
which is made of metal and has needles in secret compartments, airport
security came to a standstill. Why? Were they about to confiscate the
machine, and detain the person who dared to try to board with it? Of
course not. They gathered around it in awe and admiration, asking
Gloria questions about where she had found it, and expressing admiration
for her good fortune in finding it. And why did Gloria get such warm
treatment when I am shunned for trying to maintain some degree of oral
hygiene? Well, the answer is obvious; the assembled airport security
staff were all quilters, complete with the secret handshake.
Maybe
I should have twigged to what was happening when the washing of all
this fabric led to having to replace our washing machine, which was
clearly not designed for such industrial use. Now, let me pause here. I
understand that there is an intense debate within your world about
whether or not fabrics should be washed upon purchase. I do not wish to
be caught in any cross-fire between the two camps, for all I know, as
an outsider, I may not be authorized to even know of the controversy. I
do suspect that if men were making the decision, quilting would involve
lot less fabric washing and a lot more beer drinking.
I
did eventually discover where all the fabric went. It went into
drawers, cupboards, shelves, and, eventually it completely filled up a
closet, which took up one full wall in Gloria's newly built "sewing
room". What we now call Gloria's "sewing room", we used to call "the
basement".
I
have discovered that one of the art forms mastered by quilters is the
ability to purchase container loads of fabric, conceal it in the house,
and camouflage the purchase so that it slips right under the nose of the
unsuspecting spouse. As a loving and obedient spouse, I have on many
occasions found myself in quilt stores where I serve two useful
functions: I can reach bolts of fabric stored on top shelves; and I can
carry numerous bolts of fabric to a cutting table. However, I have also
started to listen to what is said in quilting stores, and one day, in a
little quilting shop in the heart of Alberta farming country, I heard
something that made it clear to me that quilters are so clever and, dare
I say, devious, that there is really no sport for them in fooling we
naive husbands. Gloria had decided to buy some fabric (which is similar
to saying that Gloria had decided to breathe), and had gone to the till
to pay for it. Upon running through Gloria's charge card, the clerk
quietly said, "Now, when you get your credit card statement, don't be
alarmed when you see an entry for our local feed store. We run our
charges under that name so that if a husband looks at the credit card
statements, he will think that the entry is just something he bought at
the feed store for the farm". That sort of financial shell game would
make Goldman Sachs proud. I knew at that moment that there had been a
major and probably irrevocable shift in the world's power structure. I
concede it is basically over for the non-quilting husband.
As
you have been told, I sit as a criminal law judge, and as such I often
find myself sitting on drug trials, or issuing search warrants in
relation to drug investigations. I must say that the more I learned
about the quilting world, the more I started to see similarities between
that world and the drug world. It has caused me some concern.
We
all interpret events from our own perspectives using the lessons we
have learned through life. When I saw the extent to which Gloria's
collection of fabric was growing, I began to worry. In the law relating
to drugs, the amount of a drug one has in one's possession is an
important factor in determining the purpose for which the person has the
drug. For example, if a person is in possession of crack cocaine (to
use a drug with an addictive power equivalent to fabric), one look at
the amount of crack the person possessed. If the amount exceeds the
amount one would realistically possess for personal use, then one may
reasonably draw the inference that the purpose of the possession is not
personal use, but, rather, it is for the purpose of trafficking the
drug. So, you can imagine what I thought when I saw Gloria's collection
of fabric grow to a point where she readily admitted that she could
never use all that fabric in several lifetimes. I reluctantly concluded
that I was married to a very high-level fabric trafficker. Mind you,
in order to qualify as a trafficker, one does have to part with fabric,
and I see very little evidence of that happening.
In
fact, the more I thought about the parallels between the quilting
culture and the drug culture, the clearer the similarities became.
Consider the jargon. I have learned that this vast collection of
fabric, which is stored in our house, is a "stash". Well, drug dealers
speak of their "stash" of drugs. Gloria speaks of doing "piece" work.
In the drug world there are often people who bring together the crack
cocaine dealer and the buyer; think of a real estate agent, but not as
well dressed, through perhaps somewhat less annoying. Those people
speak of breaking off a "piece" of crack as payment for bringing the
parties together. Sounds to me like a type of "piece work". Those who
transport drugs are often called "mules"; I have frequently heard Gloria
refer to me as her mule when I am in a quilt store carrying stacks of
fabric bolts (or did she says I was stubborn as a mule?). Well, it was
something about mules. And I should think that this whole conference is
a testimony to the addictive qualities of quilting.
In
my role as a Sherpa, I have accompanied Gloria on various quilting
expeditions, and I have been impressed by many things. One is, as I
have mentioned, that no matter where one goes, there will be a quilt
store. The proliferation of quilt shops makes Starbucks outlets seem
scarce. One day Gloria led me into a hardware store, which seemed odd
to me, that is until I discovered that, as I walked towards the back of
the store, the store had become a quilt shop. The metamorphosis was
extraordinary, and very crafty (if you will pardon the pun). At that
moment, I knew how Alice felt as she followed that rabbit down the
rabbit hole. Suddenly, one was in a different universe.
Another
thing I have learned is that the operators of quilt shops have great
business acumen. In one of Gloria's favourite shops, upon entry I am
greeted by name and offered a cup of coffee. If the grandson is with
us, he is allowed to choose a book to take home. It is all so friendly
that I don't even notice that I cannot see over the growing pile of
fabric bolts which fill my arms. I wish that my doctor did such a good
job of distracting me when it is time to do a prostate exam.
I
have learned that quilting is both international in scope and generous
in spirit. I have learned that quilters are quick to assist those in
need, and that they have always been prepared to stand up for what is
right. For example, I think of Civil War quilts, which often conveyed
messages about the Underground railway for slaves escaping to Canada. I
think of the One Million Pillowcase Challenge, and the Quilts of Valour
project. At one point, I thought of suggesting the creation of an
organization akin to "Doctors Without Borders", but decided that an
organization called "Quilts Without Borders" would indeed be illogical.
And
of course, there are the resultant quilts. We have quilts throughout
the house. They adorn beds, chesterfields, the backs of chairs. They
are stacked on shelves, they are stored in drawers, they are shoved
under beds, they are hung on walls. There is even one on the ceiling of
the sunroom. They compete for any space not taken up with the fabric,
which will eventually result in more quilts. I live in a cornucopia,
which disgorges quilts instead of produce. I have decided that quilts
are the zucchini of crafts. But who can complain? Quilt seriously,
each one is a work of art, and an instant family treasure. While family
members and friends are delighted to receive them, I churlishly
begrudge seeing them go out the door.
Though
I tease Gloria about the all-consuming nature of her obsession, I am
constantly amazed at the skill necessary to create those works of art. I
stand in awe as I watch her do the mathematics necessary to give effect
to (or correct) a pattern. When she quilts, she combines the skill of
an engineer, a draughtsman, a seamstress, and an artist. Her sewing
machines require her to have, as she does, advanced computer and
mechanical skills. She knows her sewing machines as well as any Hell's
Angel knows his Harley. She uses measuring and cutting tools and grids,
which would challenge the talents of the best land surveyors.
In
short, I am very proud of what Gloria does, as each of you should be
proud of your own skills and creations. They are impressive and very
evident at this Conference. On behalf of those of us who wouldn't know a
binding from a batting, I simply ask that when you finally and formally
announce that have already taken over the world that you find some
simple tasks for us to do to justify our existence. You might call
those tasks... the QUILT PRO QUO.
Gloria and I very much appreciate your warm hospitality this evening.
In
closing, the hotel management has asked me to remind you that those
found cutting up the table cloths for quilting fabric will have their
rotary cutters confiscated and forfeited to the Crown.”
😁
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