Next comes the research. This scene used three photo references: Ben, the crow, and a shagbark hickory (because, you know, the Blue Mountains are covered with oak/hickory forest). The crow has already been simplified in Illustrator, taking advantage of that program's strength. Ben was clipped in Photoshop. The trees are just indicated with lines, since their branches are interwoven and that's easier to work out on paper. 23 April 2008.

Tracing paper lets me define each layer of the illustration, which would sensibly contain Patch, the crow and the trees. Plus one layer for the ground, which will be a quilt. Oh, and there must be space for the story, since in my world text and pictures live harmoniously on the same page. 25 April 2008.

Final tree pattern. These will be rendered in felt so they can be lofted above the quilt.

This is the quilt top. I designed some of these fabrics: the hickory leaf design and the crowfoot center patch. The ferm around the edges is a commercial product. 10 May 08.

Hmmm, is the stream deep enough to change horses here? I ran into several technical problems having to do with felting and machine quilting.. With a deadline looming, I decided to advance the project as a digital quilt.

Here is a felted tree. I hate it. It's OK as a tree, but in place on the quilt it resembles a plate of squid. 11 May 08.

Here is another felted tree; I hate it less but now my Janome felter is breaking needles. Ugh! 12 May 08.

I won't show you the quilting. Suffice it to say, I have exceeded my ability to follow a line with my Singer Featherweight. Pfaff makes a machine that should fix the problem, when I'm richer. Meanwhile, I have a book to pitch and a computer that can deliver a decently detailed rendering of my intentions. 15 May 08.

This is my digital rendering. I don't like Patch in this version, but the trees look right. Note the better pattern matching of the quilt top. Since the quilting is generated in Illustrator, it should be simple to export the paths to competent embroidery punch software. 28 May 08.

Patch is looking better. With some fine tuning and detailing, this could be finished in a week or two - the PC is now taking 20 minutes to render the scene. My machine is no slouch. The technical issue, if those things interest you, is local video memory. I am taking delivery on a MacBook Pro for school, and I was careful to specify high-end video. That might speed things up. Of course, a 3-way SLI video array with 2G of video memory would make short work of the problem, albeit at a price. Hmmm... computer? sewing machine? isn't it funny how the real and virtual converge?
5 June 08.

This work was begun in 2003 when my family visited Yellowstone National Park. Within hours of arrival, my son had bruised himself jumping on rocks just outside our cabin, had scraped himself on concrete, got sunburnt, and bitten by bugs. By the time his mother had him sufficiently repaired, the name Patchwork Boy had stuck and the writer in me was twisting reality into fantasy. The end result is a collection of tales centered on the notion of a patched-together boy, each told by a different member of the family as they fix up the unfortunate Ben. The book explores individuality and tolerance against a backdrop of the American immigrant experience.

It was only Tuesday, and Ben was sitting on the edge of his bunk in the cabin while his dad went for a bandage. Ben was running to Granddad's car to say hello. Halfway there Ben tripped and landed on an elbow, and that was that.

“Mom started a song when I hurt my knee. It was the patchy boy.”

“I know a story about Patch,” his father replied, “It's from the Blue Mountains, where I was raised. Do you want me to tell it?”

“Can't you sing it?”

“I sing like a bullfrog with a sore throat.”

And Ben's dad began to tell this story:

Patch started out as just a normal boy, who listened to his momma, mostly, and who did as he was told, mostly. But one day when Patch's Ma was sweeping out the cabin, she broke the broomstick.

“Patch,” she said, “run over to Mrs. Winter and ask to borrow her broom.”

Now he knew Mrs. Winter lived over in the next holler, and that it was a hard scrabble up over the hogback to get there, but momma said “run,” so run he did.

Puffing 'cause he was out of breath from running, he asked and got a broom from Mrs. Winter.  He put it on his shoulder and started to run back home, because “run” is what his momma told him.

“Patch!” called Mrs. Winter after him, “You'll run your legs right off if you don't slow down!”

That's right! just as he cleared the top of the hogback, one of his legs fell clean out of its bone socket, and bounced down the mountainside without Patch. He fell down in a heap, and from that heap of Patch, he watched as a pesky crow snapped up his loose leg and flew off with it.

“Ma will wup me if I don't get home with this broom,” thought Patch.

So he stuck the broomstick into the bone socket where his leg used to live.

“Good enough,” thought Patch, “maybe better.” He tried to walk. Thump! went his good leg, and Swish! went the broom. Thump! Swish! he went a little faster. Thump! Swish! Thump! Swish! And he ran on home, because “run” is what his momma told him to do.

When he got home Ma took one look and said, “Patch, what did you do with your leg?”

“I lost it momma. A crow carried it off.”

“You would lose your head if it wasn't screwed on! Now how am I going to get this floor swept?”

Thump! went Patch, Swish! and he made his way around the room, sweeping as he went.

“Good enough,” declared Ma, “maybe better. Imagine a child that cleans up after himself!”

Now momma had to go to town for a new broom, since Patch was standing on Mrs. Winter's broom, and she called Patch in from his chores and said, “Patch, you finish up your chores, and when you're finished, you make yourself some lunch. There's fresh bread cooling on the window. You help yourself to a slice. But be careful, the knife will take your fingers clean off.  And there's soup in the kettle, so dish your self up a bowl. But be careful, a hot kettle will burn your fingers right off.”

Patch nodded and went back to his chores, and his momma went to town. When Patch was done, he came into the house for lunch.

First he tried to slice the bread. But his momma was right (she was always right) and the knife cut his fingers clean off at the wrist.

“Whoops!” cried Patch, and before he could grab his hand and stick it back on, the cat made off with it.

“Now how do I feed myself?” Patch wondered. He would have scratched his head while he thought about it, but it was his head-scratching hand that the cat ran off with. By-and-by, he remembered that well-mannered folk used a fork to eat. So he got a fork and stuck it in the bone socket.

“Good enough,” thought Patch, “maybe better.”

Patch wanted some soup out of the kettle to go with his bread. But momma was right (she was always right) and the hot kettle burned his good hand clean off.

“Ouch!” hollered Patch, and then, “How am I going to eat soup with just a fork?”

He would have scratched his head while he thought, but the fork hurt his scalp when he did that. By and by he remembered that well-mannered folk eat soup with a spoon, and so he stuck a spoon in his bone socket where his burnt fingers used to be.

“Good enough,” he declared, “maybe better.”

Because he had taken so long to fix himself up, Patch was still eating lunch when his momma got home with the broom.

“Patch,” she said, “you would lose your own head if it wasn't screwed on.” And since she had been going to and from town all day, she sat down with him to eat a bit of lunch herself. That's when she noticed that her son's table manners had improved by a yard at least.

“Good enough,” she thought to herself, “maybe better. I never met a child that handled a fork and spoon as dainty as Patch.”

Patch's father was driving the team up from the next town over, and he would be home soon. Since Patch's chores were done, and his lunch was done, he had some time on his hands – well, the silverware he used instead of hands.

“I'm going to walk down to the crossroads and watch for Pa,” he told his mother.

“You be careful on the road,” she warned him, “You might fall under a wagon and get crushed.”

“I'll stay to one side,” he promised her.

Patch went Thump! Swish! down the lane.

Now the trouble is, that horses are skittish, and when Patch's dad came up the road and the horses heard Patch thumping and swishing, they bolted and ran poor Patch over, even though he stayed to the side like he promised. By the time his dad had calmed the team and brought the wagon around, that pesky crow had made off with Patch's other leg.

“I declare, son, you would lose your head if it wasn't screwed on. Now what are we going to do about your leg?”

“Got a broom?”

“Let's go ask your mother.”

Patch shook his head. “She broke one and this one (he shook his broom-leg) used to belong to Mrs. Winter, and Ma had to go to town for another one to give back. She'd wup me if I took another one, don't ya think?”

“Hmm,” went his dad, “Maybe there's something on the wagon that'll do.”

Pa rummaged through the wagon.

“I got a carriage wheel here. Found it by the road. Looks like the hub's a little worn. Probably made a noise so some rich man had it changed. Best not to waste it, I say.”

And he helped Patch fit it to the bone socket where his leg used to live.

“Good enough,” said Patch, “maybe better. Thanks, Pa. I'll race you home. Loser gets to tell mom I lost my other leg!”

Swish! Creak! Off went Patch. His dad whipped the team, but try as they might, those horses couldn't outrun Patch.

“My goodness!” said Ma, when Pa told her the news, “That boy would lose his head if it wasn't screwed on.”

“Still,” said Pa, “He gets around pretty good. He could drive himself down to the schoolhouse and maybe get some smarts.”

“Good enough,” Ma responded, “Maybe better. Imagine a child that can drive himself to school.”

So Patch drove himself off to school the next morning, Swish! Creak!

Before he set out, his mom gave him a sack lunch and said, “Mind the teacher, and maybe you'll get smart enough to be a county judge someday. That would make your Pa and me proud.”

Before school, the other kids laughed at Patch, because his arms and legs didn't match.

“You'd lose your head, if it wasn't screwed on!” they teased.

Patch could only hang his head in shame.

“Weren't,” said the schoolmarm from the steps of the schoolhouse, “If it weren't screwed on. It's vocative case, which we use when we wish or we intend.”

“I wish I weren't here,” said Patch, and Swish! Creak! he went inside.

At lunch break, the other kids learned that Patch was not only well mannered with his fork and spoon, but that he could send a kickball right over the roof of the schoolhouse with his broom-leg. And they discovered that after he did that, he could run the bases faster than anyone could chase down the ball.

Between lunch and the kickball game, Patch was worn out. So while the schoolmarm droned on about the history of Rome, Patch laid his head down on his desk and fell asleep.

The clatter of the other kids getting up to go home woke him.  But where was his head? It had fallen clean off while he slept! He felt around on the desk, and found something that was round enough, and stuck it into the bone socket where his head used to live. And so he wheeled home, Swish! Creak! with the other kids laughing at him, and his lunch sack where his head ought to be.

“Good enough!” they brayed, “Maybe better!”

His Ma took one look and didn't say a word.

His Pa took one look and didn't say a word, either.

“I'm sorry,” said Patch, “I lost my head.”

Dinner that night didn't go too well. Patch couldn't figure out how to feed the sack that he was using for a head. He was almost happy when there was a knock on the door. It was the schoolmarm.

“I'm sorry it's so late,” she said, “but I believe someone here lost this.”

She held up Patch's real head.

“I would have been here sooner, but it just seemed so empty. I tried stuffing it with pages from some good books. Law and history and some literature, too.”

She handed the head to Patch, who carefully placed it back into the bone socket where it lived.

“It may be a little lumpy at first, but you'll get used to new ideas, and then it will feel better.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Patch, “I must apologize for my forgetfulness, and for my inattention in class today. How can I ever repay your kindness?”

“Well, it's rare that a teacher gets such a chance to choose what goes into a child's head. That's good enough,” she smiled, “maybe better. Imagine what you can do with your life now.”

Then Patch, with his tidy ways, and his gracious table manners, and his ability to drive himself, took his head-full of ideas and became the Governor of the state, which was even better than a county judge, and made his parents very proud.

“Now,” said Ben's dad, “go say hello to your grandparents. And try not to lose any body parts.”