Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde

Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde

Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde

Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde

Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde

Dear Readers,
 On the four-poster bed I share with my husband in a cottage outside of a small town in Texas, rests the double wedding ring quilt my grandmother made me for a marriage that didn’t last.  The husband I have now—the one I’ve come to think of as the real husband—never knew my grandmother, but he sure admires her quilt.
 “Look at the stitches,” he says, “so small and neat. Your grandmother was a precise woman.”
 He is right, but I can’t figure out how he knows this.
“It’s in the care she took.” He runs a hand over the pattern, nods. “She loved you very much.”
Whenever Gammie started a quilt, she dove into it with her heart and soul. She’d spend hour upon hour bent over the frame, her fingers nimbly pulling the thread through. She’d work ten or twelve hours a day for three or four weeks to finish a quilt. I thought it was the way everyone made a quilt. Later I learned most people employ a sewing machine and take their time with it. But once my Gammie started a quilt, she was on a mission until it was complete. She was also adept at sewing, crocheting, embroidery, candlemaking, gardening and jewelry making. 
I inherited none of my grandmother’s artist skills, but this grounding in crafts stuck with me and now, I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to land with a publisher who encourages me to write what I know. About small towns filled with interesting people. About groups of women who get together to support and nurture each other. About knitting and quilting, cooking and gardening. About mending lives and mending hearts. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity to bring whimsical, homespun stories to my readers. 
As I write this, my husband shakes his head. “It runs in the family,” he says.
“What?” I’m surprised. “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“You do it with your books.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “The precision. The caring. The love.”
And that’s when I realize what any kind of craft is really all about. 
The love.
                                                                --Lori Wilde