How it is possible that we ate this stuff and didn’t grow up to be as fat and round as a flock of Butterball turkeys, I can’t tell you, but we did. I suppose only getting three TV channels—the fuzzy picture beamed in via a set of rabbit-ear antennae—may have had something to do with it. Lacking the endless choice of electronic enticements that kids have today, my friends and I spent a good part of our time playing outside—red light, green light and kick the can in the summer, snowball fights and ice skating in the winter.
Note: those were the days
Besides their class supplies and fees, many students had purchased fat quarters of fabric, the first in what would become their “stash,” the quilter’s addiction and most prized possession, that collection of impulsively purchased fabrics we have no specific plans for but simply must have, our hoarded cache of inspiration.
Note: i can relate
Quilting is an art form: a means of expressing yourself, of communicating feelings and hopes and observations and beliefs without resorting to anything as pedestrian and inexact as words.
Note: quilts as art
“Well,” I harrumphed, “friendship is a two-way street.” “Sometimes. Not always. When a friend’s in trouble, sometimes friendship is a blind alley, a climb down a rope into a dark hole you’re trying to pull somebody out of, a rescue mission. Of course, it’s nice if the one you’re trying to save cooperates, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they don’t even know they’re in trouble.
Note: on friendship