This morning, this afternoon, and tomorrow

Another pancake breakfast this morning, this time in Geauga County, home of real pancakes, real butter and real maple syrup. Good sausages, too.

My daughter Beth, her mother and her husband here. Beth broke a lot of her arm last December, in an awful fall. It's not progressing as well as could it should, but she's a long way from where she started.

We all futility waved  the refill sign around, until Francis took the matter under his six foot charge.

Beth, her mother and her mother-in-law. You remember Grandma Ruth. There is no picture of Caroline and Laura today; they tend to move as unit when together, and fade in and out of sight.

Back home this afternoon, here is Toby, attempting to recover from springing ahead for daylight savings. I took a bit of a nap before supper, too.

I sewed two more quilt tops this afternoon, and Laura put several more together, before retreating to her room to exercise her thumbs.

The winter storm forecast starting tomorrow afternoon is now up to 9" of snow. I'm beginning to take this personally.

Such a Charles

In another lifetime, when I exhibited at art shows, there was a show at Lincoln Center. I applied for it on the proviso that Ann would accompany me, and Beth, if she could. I navigated some big cities in my time, and I mastered Long Island, but NYC was out of my league, alone. Without them, and Charles, I would know nothing about NYC except the GW and Throg’s Neck.

Booths ringed the perimeter of Lincoln Center, and were on the mall. These had to tear down every night, to accommodate patrons, so I chose a booth on the east side. To load in and out, I had to park the van on a road I think was called just Lincoln Center. We had a window of time to unload, then the van had to be moved. At that time I carried all the garments on wheeled garment racks, reducing the dolly loads to two or three.

But, at Lincoln Center, everything went down a long sidewalk, up several sets of shallow steps, and more long sidewalks to the booth. We took the booth structure first, and as I set it up, Ann and Beth began transporting the balance. I saw both garment racks coming down the walk, one propelled by Ann and Beth, and one by a tall man, expertly guiding his from the middle. It was Charles. He helped us load out, too. He would take no money for his work. He told us the best route back to the Hudson River parking lot, and to give panhandlers cigarettes, but no money.

Charles appeared at the show, with customers in tow. They shopped, but Charles was disappointed none of my shirts fit him. He was at least 6’6”, and his shoulders approached fifty inches. I knew I could custom make a shirt, with a flat fell seam up the back, using two lengths my forty inch wide fabric for the front and for the back, instead of two widths. It should have cost twice as much, but instead I gave him my “good friend” discount from the regular price.

At Lincoln Center

Thus repeated my time at the Lincoln Center show. I realized Charles was attracted to weavers as if weaving had been a profession in a previous life. He couldn’t collect enough of it, and that on a living as a bookseller, abiding in a NYC apartment. Between the shows, I often received little parcels from him. There were books, bits of fiber art, all sorts of weaving. Once a beautiful pine needle basket, from an indigenous weaver in Georgia came out of the box, and I had to chide Charles on his extravagance. How valuable did he consider a “good friend” shirt every year, with some towels for ballast.

When I retired the Lincoln show, Charles ordered fifteen towels, which he divvied out to friends, according to his erratic letters. Then came 9/11, and I lost track of him for a bit. Finally, my “don’t make me come find you” letter had a response, and in his very Charles way, he was completely consumed with volunteerism.

As happens, we did lose track over the next ten or so years. Last fall, though, Charles was out of towels. He sent a chatty letter to me, at the old house. It languished on the Hoosier; K forgot to give me the accumulating mail. When she did, I read six pages of Charles’ interesting handwriting, on sheets of handmade paper. I wonder what he doesn’t collect.

I answered him in January, with the crushing news. My towels are over, gone. If he had saved any for himself, he’d still be using them. (I might send him a twenty year old specimen from the towel drawer!) I recommended a good weaver to him, who makes towels for sale, using my favorite ring spun 8/2 cottons. I wonder where that weaver buys it. Stop it, Joanne. Too late now.

Yesterday, a package came from Charles. He is “downsizing.” Yea, and I have a bridge in Brooklyn. He has retired the bookstore, is writing his books and plays, and travelling all over the world. The same eclectic collection, tied up by two bits of ribbon, also saved from years ago, I’m sure, packed in the box. Such a Charles.

Charles does not want the other weaver’s towels, he says. So, I contacted the other weaver, and selected six towels to go to Charles, NYC via Peninsula. I do want to see them first, to be sure they are what I think they are.  I think I need to get the Shaker Towel pattern back from Praxis, and commission a few. Think of it! Paying for towels.

A book, Wisdom Weaver. Postcards from his Russo/Asian travels. A continuous strap, from an indigenous weaver in Brazil. Probably to hold a baby or a jug. Some blue scraps pieced neatly to a damask napkin. I recognize the initials as an old friend of his. She died one of the last times we corresponded. Charles was very distraught.

The big towel fish that got away! Love it.

Yin and Yang are working with a desolate landscape

My Yin and Yang knowledge is the usual schoolgirl type. The contrary forces around us now are not complementary. Yang is not bright and positive, but using its force to stop ordinary folks at airports, detain them at will. People on business trips, travelling home from vacation, students.  

Power changes people; not necessarily in a bad way, I'm sure, but when added to a personality already obsessed with the grandiose, the uses of power are  ranging  from petty to autocratic. Today I am sick at heart. The new potus is devoid of empathy, and today’s postcards include one to him, telling him not to become the fool of power.

Back in my real world, I still need to be the change. Youngsters wear that slogan on their shirts, on their backpacks, on their trinkets. It’s the distillation of my philosophy of doing the right thing in my sphere. Today was a good day.

I went back to my birdseed store and bought a bag of mixed safflower, sunflower and peanuts. Laura filled the bird feeder this morning, and we had a tufted titmouse before she was back indoors.

Today was the monthly stock up grocery run. Even more fun because my daughter Beth, and granddaughter Caroline, came to pass the couple of hours Francis is at rock climbing class. I love these people.

Caroline has a new haircut. The last time you saw her, she had a messy bun, like Laura usually wears. Today, a bob. Her story is, the hair was in her face in gym class and she had nothing to secure it. After school, she and her girlfriend cut her hair. They braided it at her neckline and cut it off. "It's like cutting a rope."

But, not the end of the story. Grandma Ruth declared the cut as close to a disgrace to hair as Grandma Ruth is able to sound disapproving. Caroline went to Grandma Ruth's hairdresser, who "loves to clean up bad cuts." "It wasn't that bad," Caroline said.

The three of us went grocery shopping; Beth stayed home to catch up on paperwork. The entire shopping trip went indoors in one trip. Each has two bags of groceries and they split the cat food and litter.

Beth in the kitchen, working. Oh, that arm. She's become a lefty, and wonders how Francis does it. She's just recently conquered the number 8, and confesses her 9's are only upside down 6's.

The girls put away the groceries; I stuffed envelopes for Beth, and it was time for them to go. "See you next time you're the designated rock climber mother.

Two firsts and a second

Grandma Ruth and I took one of her granddaughters and one of mine out to lunch today.

Both Caroline and Laura are big fans of milk shakes, but neither had tried a malted milk.

Much as they were intrigued by the lure of essence of the inside of a Whopper candy, neither was brave enough to make the leap until I added that malt is a byproduct of brewing beer. (Not totally right, I know, but close enough to get the job done.)

Two malts went right down, to the detriment of the following lunch order, which went home in boxes for later snacking.

Laura, realizing the picture coincided with the spoon in her mouth.

So, the two firsts.

This is Francis, Caroline's big brother. He is fourteen, about two weeks younger than his cousin Laura.

When this picture was taken, at my 73rd birthday lunch, France was just back from a bicycling adventure. He and a schoolmate spent several days bicycling from Columbus back to their homes in Cleveland. 

Young Man poised for Summer Adventure

Early this morning he and his dad left for Virginia, to meet up with another cyclist. France will spend the next month cycling the TransAm Trail from Virginia to Illinois.

He spent last summer in southern Ohio, climbing rock faces with a school chum.

To his mother's dismay, he was incommunicado the entire time, and didn't set pen to paper once to let her know he was fine.

Recently Beth told me this same young man was heading off on a bigger adventure, and, be still her heart, intended to blog about it.

This grandma asked if she could give him a plug, and he said "Most certainly."

A click on the link under his picture will take you straight to Summit, his blog. So will a click on Summit.

Give him an atta boy, nice job young man.

And throw in one for his parents, too.

Why we didn't raise the iris today, and some nice pictures

When the 17 year cicada nymphs emerged seventeen years ago,

a family of fox camped out in our yard.

Parents and kits, spent a week gorging.

No such luck this year, though we have heard the foxes yipping across the road.

A blade of grass, saved by a cicada.

More. I don't need to tend to Solomon's Seal this month.

And, the iris may be planted too deeply until fall.

This is the first round of cicadas.

They're around about a month.

Can you find this one?

Enough! More of Laura's little rose.

I believe it's a kind of tea rose.

No good to pick, but nice to look at.

A tiny moss just moved in. It grows on various old wood structures, like our retaining wall.

I probably shouldn't like chipmunks so.

Aunt Beth, Caroline and Laura, bagging up plants they liberated last weekend, before the cicada invasion.

A sunny day through sheers.

Growing pains

Beth and I made plans to get together today and let the cousins visit. That was cancelled this morning, when Laura’s cough (from yelling so much at the dance, Grandma) turned into a barking cough. The last barking cough was a sinus infection, but this one seems to be bouncing from lung to lung, so we’ll see. I do know if I felt like she sounded I’d be in bed, not reading a book.

Last night, when the bark was an occasional throat clearing, my plan for today was a stop at the drug store for some cough syrup for Laura and a beautiful razor for Caroline, on my way to visit. But Laura went with Jan and Emily, to the bank and the drug store, and after an earful of that cough, I could only call Beth and cancel.

Emily needed the trip to the bank to open her first checking account.  This was on the “to do” list for fall, but her current job preempted the requirement by refusing to deposit her paychecks into her savings account. The reason given; the bank’s handwritten savings account and routing numbers could be entered incorrectly by the payroll department. Emily is working for the school, after school, maintaining computers. And, that’s enough about that bit of illogical thinking.

Why does Caroline need a razor? Beth mentioned a trip to the drug store might be in her plans today, too, if she needed something for Caroline’s rash. “What rash,” asked Grandma. “From shaving with her father’s razor,” snapped my daughter.

I laughed.

“Why haven’t you bought her a razor,” I got out between lingering chuckles.

“Why hasn’t she told me she wants one,” came the irritable answer.

“Do daughters do that? I don’t recall you asking me; my razors just disappeared!”

Well, she supposed so.” Then, “Did you give Emily and Laura razors?”

“Long ago. It seems I should get one for Caroline, too.”

Perhaps next week.

More art

Remember this?

July, 2014

Laura's first formal art class.

Over the next year she and Mrs. P worked on sketching.

Last fall they took a fun break for another fashion project.

Today Aunt Janice, Emily and I attended the reveal.

Laura took a mid fifties, June Cleaver type evening gown,

and restyled it into a breezy sleeveless dress for a young working woman.

She explained her working sketches for the jewelry and the shoes.

The piece of fabric draped on top of the easel is a fabric remnant, perfect for the shawl.

Laura thinks she may wear it to her school dance tomorrow.

The necklace is mocked up from heavy silver ribbon.

The first shoe rendition was heavy and closed.

Now it's light and airy.

 I like her new logo, in the upper left.

Her old logo was LCL in cursive.

This is so classic and streamlined.

I know there will be so many comments on how well they are growing up.

And, they are.

But it takes a village, it really does. Their teachers. My friends. My sister.

Women like Mrs. P.

And a hint I received years ago, from my oldest daughter, who told me, "Thanks for letting me make my mistakes and work through them myself."

I remembered that today when Mrs. P asked Emily if she was worried about starting college in the fall.  The answer was an emphatic "No, not at all."

Another one, ready to leave the gate.

A good day yesterday

I went to lunch with Beth and Ruth yesterday. We had a very nice server, who took good care of Ruth and me while we waited for Beth.  I screwed up my rudeness courage, told the server I liked her haircut and could I take a picture to show my granddaughter. She went down to camera level for the front, then the back, and told us in cosmetology terminology exactly how the cut is made. That was over my head.

She is growing out the same basic cut as Emily has, and this is its current iteration. After school I showed it to Emily, who needs a haircut. Emily would leave the long side a bit longer, but have the back cut identically. However, she is waiting for the teal to fade more so she can have it dyed purple (I think). I like the cut so much I’ll do it myself, next trip to the barber.

It’s only a week since the holidays ended, a week back to school and work. I try very hard to focus on the good and bright spots of being an old grandma in charge of two abandoned girls, and work on the hard spots in the background. Offstage. The second semester of the school year began Monday. It is going well for Emily; so well she has almost left us in spirit and is waiting for her body to transport to college, too.

I asked her jokingly if she has selected her roommate yet, and learned she is about to open that module of the Hiram website. I saw all this happening in my mind’s eye last fall. Band uniforms had to go to the cleaner after the last football game, and the dry cleaner receipt turned in. Seniors, however, had to turn in the uniform, too. I asked about the Memorial Day parade. “I won’t be marching in that!” replied the young woman who has lived and breathed marching band since I dropped her off for camp, four years ago.

But I can see the sadness index rising for Laura. She was ten when she landed here, a hardened little soul with no father, an absentee mother, the tail end of a string of siblings not much interested. I didn’t help a lot in the beginning. I treated Emily and Laura as a unit, sending them to the same summer and after school activities. Emily, of course, flourished and Laura tagged along. My great epiphany a couple of years ago sent Laura off on her own, to drama and art classes. She had the courage to try for and be accepted as a sixth grader to the jazz band.

Laura’s her own person now, with long hair of many colors, thanks to her art box of felt markers. She wears tall boots and denim jackets, and hasn’t resolved losing her first, false “boyfriend” last summer. Her father showed up for the first time in a year at Christmas and her sister is leaving in a few months. It’s tough to be fourteen. Her sad little face has come home no happier all week, and no changing it.

I climbed the many steps to Mrs. P’s art studio yesterday to fetch Laura, rounded the corner and heard peals of laughter from the studio. Mrs. P. hurried out. “I have to block you right here, while Laura finishes up. It’s a secret.” Mrs. P is half my size, and I laughed out loud. Laura came out laughing, and I got a hug. Next class is the big reveal of the fashion project they have worked on since summer. Emily and Aunt Janice are invited, too.

Laura’s Christmas blues are not banished, but they are lifting. Regular routine is a good thing, Mrs. P and her art class one of my salvations. We will work harder at happy these next several months; Emily will only be a phone call away, Laura will go to marching band camp in August and we’ll see what she thinks of being the only child.

There are no paper report cards during the year; the electronic cards were released yesterday. No matter the other issues in their lives, both these girls stay focused at school. Perhaps it’s the best constant in their lives. Each made the honor roll, with distinction. And Laura aces gym, now. It’s a long time since fifth grade, when she failed gym because she wouldn’t do push-ups.

Laura - A in gym

Emily

Reverie

This morning I set myself the mind boggling task of filling in the 2016 township calendar on the website. Before I started on the calendar, I put up a picture of the road super, retired after thirty three years. I found the perfect picture, don’t you think. 

Trustee and zoning meetings on the calendar are fairly straightforward, but when I get to brush and leaf pick-up, I boggle, my mind and my eyes wander. I looked up at a picture that has been on my wall for twenty years. Everything in this house is old, me not the least among the detritus.

I love that picture, Stalking the Wild Yarn. My friend Nina presented it to me one winter, the seasons I set up shop in her antique gallery and waited for the spring to arrive.  Below that, exhibitor buttons I accumulated over the years at the big fall show in Louisville, St. James Court Art Show.

I loved that show, and never did it alone. I always took Ann or Beth, or both, who did more than help set up, tear down and sell. Both of them could keep the map of Louisville in their head and knew how to get to the restaurant and the motel, even if we were lost.

Did you wonder about the ostrich head? The speech bubble says “They’re how much?” Linda came across that, an ad for a long forgotten product. She presented it to me shortly after we both exhibited at the Letchworth Park fall show. It’s actually a fall color weekend event; the exhibitors are an afterthought; the sort of show where artists stand outside their booths and declare to the sky “God strike me dead if I ever do this show again.”

I was behind my booth on a smoke break and walked back to the front past one of the millions examining the jacket from hell and saying to the world, “They’re how much!?” “They're obviously made of solid gold, you fool,” I said on my way by. From the other side of the sidewalk Linda’s husband Dick looked up from their booth, crossed, patted my back and said “Take a break, Joanne.” So I went and looked at leaves for fifteen minutes.

The postcard came from Laura, in the mail, more than ten years ago. The front door picture—Nina, again. She set herself the project of photographing every front door in Boston. They are famous in the community, and displayed at most events. That’s Angus, the best Cairn terrier who ever lived, looking out the front door. The only Boston door with a dog, Nina said.

You all know Toby, the spoiled cat. Good lord, how much stuff can I accumulate? Back to the cat and the yarn and suddenly I saw the dust. All of it. I dusted down the wall and went back to work.

Plan B +

We pulled a lot together in a week.

Linda came Wednesday afternoon and wove until Thursday afternoon.

That took care of about half the remaining warp.

I'll try the yoga skirt from this tomorrow.

Friday evening and this morning Emily took over.

Her first time throwing a shuttle.

In the meantime, I wound all the bobbins for a scarf warp,

which Emily got on the loom.

Here, tying the new threads onto the old threads in the tension box.

Turn, turn turning the new warp onto the sectional beam.

Beth arrived mid afternoon, and we began threading heddles. That's the royal "we;" I handed threads.

Her reward was to pick the color of the first scarf.

Basketweave with stripe. Looks a little psychedelic. 

We should have scarves to the gallery by Wednesday.