What about all that fun ladies used to have at quilting bees? I was wondering if quilting bees were as charming and folksy as they look in the movies. Were they real pals’y kind of places, or was everybody looking to see if your stitches were small enough? Did people feel obliged to go even if they didn't want to, like Tupperware Parties, or were they heaps of fun? I 'spose it depended on where you were and who you hung with.
I designed this fantasy quilt to celebrate my memory of the closest experience I have, to participating in an anti-quiltin' bee
The summer of 1977. I had just finished up my junior year at the University of California at Santa Cruz, and was living and working with my sister in Yuma Arizona. She had gotten me a junior programmer gig for the summer.
Trisha had gotten roped into going to a Tupperware Party. Her best friend, with whom she volunteered at the “League of Women Voters”, was putting it on, so of course we were going whether we wanted to or not. Coming from one of the more alternative U.C.’s in California, I saw it as quite a cultural experience.
The nice-lady who ran it showed us a fine new product. A hot-dog bun keeper for the freezer.
“Because, girls, you know the problem you have keeping hot dog buns in the freezer. You KNOW how those darn buns stick together!”
Trisha and I stared at each other in amazement. We were both thinking the same thing. Don't they have a big knife to whack them apart with?
We drank our carcinogenic diet sodas and after 30 minutes, figured we could slip on out while the others were playing some kind of game with clothespins and a laundry bag that we never did understand.
The nice-lady’s skinny backside was firmly anchored against the door.
“Girls! (toothy grin). Where are your order slips?”
We managed to mumble that we were not buying anything.
She gave us a look of amazement, tinged with horror. “But what about the hot-dog-bun keeper?” (I'm not making that product up.)
The nice-lady swiveled her head slowly back towards the rest of the group, who were now frantically scribbling on their forms amidst a welter of clothespins.
Trisha swung one foot around the screen door. I slithered through, and we lit out like two banditas into the badlands.
(This story also published in my art-journal)
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