It’s funny this thing about quilts. Quilts were made with hands, lots of thoughts processed while stitching it together over many many hours. How our grandmothers, going back, had thoughts about who might sleep with the quilt at night, who might have it draped over them as they read God’s word in the mornings, who might inherit the quilts later in life. Maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe our family quilts were stitched out of anger, or sadness. Maybe someone didn’t know what else to do and was so mad that the only way they could calm themselves was to quilt, or maybe they baked, or wrote – like I do.…

Cleaning Up the Spilled Milk I am home today and so glad to be. I have quite the line up of things to do today. There is no milk that spilled in my house but there’s been a lot of darts and accusations in the last couple of weeks with extended family – lots of questions, a lot of speculation, and a few answers that may or may not be right or correct. But I’m trying to clean up the mess, even though I didn’t make the mess, for the sake of the family. But….For starters, here’s what’s on my schedule today and I will get as far down the…