🧵 Making Stuff – Third Act With Pattie

My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

I call myself a quilter.

In the interest of full disclosure…
I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
that feels a little ridiculous.

First it was cancer,
then it was recovery,
then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

I’d have a hot tub.

But I don’t.

I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

that if I did have a hot tub,

I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

something unexpected has happened.

Every time I open another bin,

I stumble into an old idea,

an old project,

or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

which feels judgmental at this point.

Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

insisting I was “almost done”

like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

and completely hated by block five of assembly.

And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

What can I make now?

Not what should I donate.
Not what should I finish.
Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

What can I make now!

And then it hit me…

my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

Not the pressure to make something impressive.
Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

Just the spark.

That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

The good kind.

The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

And honestly?
I think I’m finally ready for that again.

So come sit by me.

We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

Some traditions are worth preserving.

– Pattie

June 1, 2026

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.

No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

April 18, 2026

I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

I call myself a sewist.

It sounds respectable.
Capable.
Like someone who makes actual clothing that people wear out in public.

You know –

from fitting the pattern to hemming the garment.

But the truth is…

I don’t make clothes anymore.

Because I hate fitting.

Hemming too –

Which is unfortunate,

because at 4’10”, I have never met a pair of pants that didn’t need hemming.

Not once.
Not even in theory.

So instead, I quilt.

More specifically, I paper piece.

Give me a pile of crooked little scraps,
lines on a piece of paper,
and permission to sew things together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at first glance…

…and I am completely content.

There’s something about it.

The wonky angles.
The unexpected shapes.
The way it all looks slightly chaotic until suddenly — it doesn’t.

Those pieces feed my soul in a way the traditional blocks just don’t.

They’re pretty.
They’re orderly.

But they don’t feed me.

Right now, though, my sewing room is disappearing.

Or at least, it feels that way.

It’s being packed up piece by piece as we get ready to move,
and I have discovered something I probably should have expected:

I cannot pick up a single thing
without going down memory lane.

And at my age, memory lane is not a quick little walk.

It’s more like a slow, winding scenic route with frequent stops.

Very frequent stops.

So for now, there’s not much sewing happening.

But there will be.

I’ll be sharing the process as I reinvent my sewing space in this next chapter —
what stays, what goes, and what finally earns a place in the Third Act.

And in the meantime, I’ll start sharing some of the pieces I’ve made —
the ones with stories stitched into them.

Because every one of them has one.

And apparently…

I have time to tell them now.

Maybe that’s the point of the Third Act –

Finally having the time to take all the wonky pieces

And see how they fit together.

— Pattie

🐾 Sassy says: That room better come back with a proper dog are – including the rug Mama made for me. I do not forget these things.

April 1, 2026

Category: 🧵 Making Stuff

My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

It Was Never Just a Room

I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)