A summer (or two) ago, I was blissfully yard-saling away with a favorite fellow hunter. Hidden beneath a table, we found a box full of the wildest, wooliest vintage fortrel fabrics you ever did see. I gasped and flapped my arms about, yipped and squealed, writhed and exalted. The fabrics had belonged the the seller's mother, and had never been used since they were purchased in the 70's (my only guess). It was hard for her to imagine selling them, and she just couldn't let them go for a song. Since purchasing stuff for a song is a big part of my anthem, I didn't want to spend a wad on a box of fabric. That would mean I'd have to go home and stop the hunt.
My friend, who could have a second career as a lawyer, disclosed an embarrassing amount of information about the bags4darfur project. I left with a decently priced chunk of psychedelic yumminess.
Also present at the yard sale was the granddaughter of the fabric's original owner. (in my vocabulary, she's the grandchild of the FABRIC). She expressed interest in the project and mentioned that she'd love to see a bag made from her grandmother's stash.
I took her info and made a mental note: make her a bag. A kind of latent gift from her grandmother.
I made the bag.
Then I made another bag, and looked for her contact info.
Couldn't find it. I sold the two bags, but never forgot about my intentions. Then a year later, I got a facebook message from the granddaughter- hooray! A chance to make things right. I made another bag, then for the life of me, could not locate the original message.
I spent another year wondering how to find her, and regretting the I could not for the life of me remember her name.
I sold the third bag.
Then, just a month ago-- Another message! This time I wasn't going to mess it up. I made another bag tut sweet and shoved it in the mail before my rabbity brain could err again.
And that, my friends, is the story of the bag that finally got away.