For the first few seconds after reading this post I was thinking bad thoughts about the granddaughter. Then I remembered that when I was about 10 (which was 52 years ago) my grandmother made me a quilt. It was pink and blue and white. She made it on her treadle machine. She didn't have money for patterns, so she'd see a design in the newspaper (they advertised patterns on the same page as the comics, if I remember correctly) and make her own templates and cut them out with her scissors. I remember thinking it was old-fashioned. My friends had "store-bought" comforters on their bed, so when they visited I'd turn the quilt over to the plain pink side. I still had the quilt when I got married, and it got washed many times. Before I really knew how to quilt I replaced the batting, and then the backing. And washed it many more times. Now all that is left are the corners. I've cut them out and put them in a shadow box with a picture of my grandmother. It's hanging in my sewing room, and it inspires me. My grandmother inspires me. So I didn't love it when it was new. And now that only small pieces are left, I cherish it. As I do memories of my grandmother.