We used to quilt. Okay, maybe we never really quilted much, not as a group anyway. But given that no one seemed to come up with a better name for the twelve or so of us who decided to bind ourselves together over thirty years ago, that’s the name that stuck.
We did express with enthusiastic consensus that it would be interesting to be quilters, and we did agree that as a domestic byproduct it lent just the right air of legitimacy to our group.
That and if we wanted to do it, not a one of us doubted that we couldn’t do it. The fact that we almost never did it, quilt that is, wasn’t an issue as far as we could tell.
What actually bound us together originally was purely a matter of circumstance, geography and the fact that a specific moment in time found us attending the same Southern Baptist mega church. Like sugar crystals forming on a piece of twine from over saturated water we were nucleated by our Church and spun off into our own little creation.
At least once a month for those first several years, we met regularly. As time rolled on husbands expressed mild curiosity on what held the group together for as the years rolled by the rum