It Was Never Just a Room

I came home from the lake yesterday to do the thing I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

Pack the quilting room.

Although calling it a room has always been a bit generous.

This was never just a room.
It was where things were made and where thoughts made sense.

It was a fully operational textile ecosystem.

Two sewing machines.
One coverstitch machine (because at some point I believed I hem things).
A Moxie quilting machine on an eight-foot frame that requires its own zip code.

Two tables.
Four bookcases.
Fabric. Notions. Needles. Pins. Books.

And supplies.

So many supplies.

Not everything you could possibly need—
because if it were everything, I would have had to stop buying things.
And we all know that was never part of the plan.

There are shelves of doohickeys.
Tools I bought for one very specific purpose and then never saw again.
Pegboards.
Lights.
More lights.

A nightstand.
(No idea.)

One very comfortable chair that has supported both creativity and avoidance in equal measure.

Also where I sat long enough for things to settle.

Containers of fabric.
Wall hangings.
Half-finished projects that were absolutely going to change my life.

Plants.
Because nothing says “sharp rotary cutter” like watering schedules.

And—

a gun safe.

Yes.
A gun safe.

Because apparently when you negotiate for an entire room of your own,
there may be terms and conditions.

Also… it’s the only place it fits.

So there it sits.
Right in the middle of all of it.

Which really just proves the point—

it was never just a room.

---

So here I am…

trying to pack.

And every single thing I touch
has something to say about it.

This room always did that.
It held onto things for me.

There’s a vase filled with old thread—
the kind you don’t use anymore
but you also don’t throw away.

Thread from my mother.

Too old to trust.
Too hers to toss.

Only one still has a price on it.

Fifteen cents.

I don’t know what that equals today,
but I know it equals
put that back down.

Then there’s the Shoney’s Big Boy doll—
grinning like he remembers things I don’t.

My Daddy worked at Shoney’s when I was little.
Wore that same haircut.

I can’t look at that ridiculous plastic head
without seeing my Daddy.

My mother’s cross-stitch hangs on the wall:

“Not tonight dear… I’m stitching.”

Which explains a lot.

Next to it—

“Girls just wanna have FUN-damental human rights.”

And a crocheted Ruth Bader Ginsburg doll
who looks like she’s about to file a dissenting opinion
on how long this packing is taking.

---

This room—

was never just fabric and machines.

It was time.
It was people.
It was where I came when I needed quiet… or wasn’t ready to answer questions.

It was versions of me
who thought I’d make clothes,
be more organized,
and finish what I started.

(It’s also proof I have never met a piece of fabric I didn’t believe had potential.)

---

And now I’m supposed to put it all in boxes.

Like it’s just a room.

But it isn’t.

It never was.

I think I knew that all along.

Some things get packed. Some things come with me.

And now…

it’s packed. Stacked. Labeled.

Ready to go to the lake.

And I think –

so am I.

-Pattie

If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

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