Hand-piecing a king-size quilt from old shirts. Part One.

I began a quilt in 2015 using fabric from old shirts that I held onto that belonged to me and my husband.  These shirts were frayed at the cuffs, the collars, sometimes worn thru the elbow or had an unfortunate stain.  I kept them folded up for awhile, appreciating the stack of white and blue, some solid, some with tiny plaids in blue and white. The 100% cotton shirting was otherwise in great condition and so soft.

These were the shirts of our early careers, of our days in the office, before we met, during and afterwards.  My button down shirts tended to be white or solid blue, his more patterned and included a few favourites that were not white and blue - a seersucker yellow, white and blue shirt that is impossibly soft and a few red and white checked shirts.  

This stack of shirts became a beautiful palette of our merging life.   I wish I had taken pictures back then.  This is one of the reasons I miss blogging - intentional picture taking for sharing with my future self.  

When I decided to embark on this quilt, I was inspired by the flying geese block.  I imagined white triangles on one side and all the blues mixing together to be like a murmuration with introductions of red and yellow drawing the eye.  

That winter, I remember laying out all the shirts on our dining room table, trying to estimate how much fabric I would have, and how large of project this could be.  I concluded that I could probably aim for a KING size quilt, accepting that I'd have to source additional white to fill in the gaps. And so I began deconstructing the shirts along the seams, removing the buttons, collars, cuffs until I had the flat back, sleeves and front panels of each shirt.  Then the ironing and the roller cutting. 

I knew right from the beginning that this project would take a while. 

I knew I was going to hand piece it, having enjoyed the process of hand piecing for two other (much smaller) quilts for my two kids.  

But I also knew that I was ok with that.  Hand piecing is for long days of passenger travel, movie 'watching' and end of day resetting.  Once your pieces are cut, the project is light, portable, and needs just snip-size scissors, a spool of thread and a needle.  

This is hand-work, a skill that I treasure in myself. It's also a mindset shift, a realm where I can set aside speed and efficiency*, and allow for a project that may take years. 

Just how many years is up to your life circumstances.  

So, here it is 2025.  Nearly 10 years since I decided to cut up the shirts.  I believe I worked diligently through the spring and summer of 2016 - making my way through what I had cut, seeing how long it might take.  And then, I set it down.  Even forgetting about it while we reset our life in Alaska.  2017-2019, I was a busy parent who took on volunteering for the PTA, got a puppy and took up walking.  

The last time I remember working on this quilt was during the pandemic.  In the spring of 2020, shortly after I started working part-time again, I pinned the blocks I had completed to my closet curtain. The quilt became my 'background' during video calls.  I renewed my vision for the quilt, made a new sketch, cut up more triangles, including more white shirting, and started composing the murmuration from the pieces that I had.  I sewed during on-line conferences and workshops, when listening was enough.  

Until somehow I just stopped working on it.  I did have it set up where I could have grabbed a baggie of triangles and tools to toss into my purse - and maybe I did that 3 times total. I guess I just wasn't motivated.

My impetus to work on it again came from a conversation (in late March) while walking with a friend.  She expressed to me her desire to maybe learn to quilt again.  She had recently come across a selection of fabrics for a quilt she envisioned for her firstborn from 15 years ago. 

We talked about the feelings that come up for unrealized ideas, expectations, and of course, our time.   

In that moment I re-remembered this quilt. I told her about how invisible it had become to me, even though I looked at it daily.  When I got home, I looked at it with fresh eyes where it is still pinned to my curtain, and admired the direction I was headed.  I remembered that I had hit some sort of wall - I couldn't remember what happened exactly, was it something to do with running out of white? 

Stay tuned for part two.

*(I could argue a bit that hand-piecing is a different sort of efficiency, where you never have to wrestle with your sewing machine).