FROM RAGS TO RICHES

A while back I warped my old Union #36 with alternating white/blue threads. I had in mind a design, that only too soon, did I realize, I hadn't actually warped for, and unlike some of my weaver friends who I admire because they can simply cut off warp if it turns out to be a problem in any way (Barb, I speak of you) I just can't bring myself to do that. Perhaps because I dislike warping, and find it such a chore, that I feel I must use up whatever I put on despite problems, major or otherwise.

Anyway, the rug below is the one that emerged from that warp, and I truly disliked it, and it has thus sat, ends unfinished. (Though I do have plans for it that might, just might alter that perception. We'll see.)

As there was still plenty of warp left on the loom, and I, for one as I said before, cannot cut it off, I had to come up with something else that I might like.

I know in the past I've spent time declaring my love and fascination for old rag balls, of which I at one time had a very large supply. Although this supply is dwindling at a rapid pace, I decided that the blue/white warp would receive rag balls well, and that I might like the result.


Here is the VERY LAST of my supply... except for

this huge ball whose circumference measures nearly thirty inches, (it was much larger at one time).

I wish I could find the words for my feelings towards these rag balls. I know I've tried in the past. I get all tangled up with the grandmothers who I think cut, stitched and wound these balls so many years ago. I think of the faded house-dresses they wore, their husbands worn and frayed shirts, little girls torn or stained dresses, young boys trousers, old sheets, etc. I love the way a piece of fabric reveals itself when I am winding a ball onto my boat shuttle, or slipping it through the open shed, and I often wonder about its history.

...small scraps of some of the fabrics from a rag ball...

...a closer look...
and aren't they simply beautiful?

And so I proceeded, although with a great deal of reluctance as I so much fear the approaching end to my supply. I wove a rag rug that I loved in and of itself....



however I always am saddened that the actual rags are so densely packed in the rug, no one can really see or appreciate the beauty and history of each piece. I gave this much thought, wanting to highlight the individual rags, display their vintage beauty to advantage, and not just hide it deep within the rug.

...and so I decided to embellish the rug with rag flowers, the very rags used in the rug...

Oh, I love this rug, and believe that the rest of my rag balls have found their destination.
When they are used up, I guess I will have to start making my own rag balls. They won't have quite the same feel for me, nor the old, old history, but they will one day have a life of their own.

Awakening

I recently began reading a book called How We Age, by Marc Agronin, and within two pages came upon the following 'de' words referring to aging: decay, decline, demise, depressing, dementia, despair, debilitation, degradation, decrepit, derogatory. It is true that all of these 'de' words in some way fashion my aging life, however one exceedingly prominent 'de' word that was left out was delight. One of the greatest and perhaps only true perk in growing old in this society, is grand-parenting. And although I am blessed to still enjoy life vigorously and with great intensity, it is truly the delight in my grandkids that en-forms my days.

Children, I love. Bread, I love. What could be better then children who love bread?

...fresh baked, along with two tiny loaves for two small children...

...didn't have to fake this photo...I could hardly get them to stop eating and eating and eating the fresh from the oven bread

Elsa wanted peanut butter and honey smeared on the each newly chewed end of her unsliced loaf

it disappeared quickly

while Iris wanted tiny sliced sandwiches with butter and peanut butter

along with tea and a bit of cereal

Grandchildren seize the heart and 'old' does not apply.



It seems everyone I know and talk with is ever so eager for spring's arrival. Almost all casual conversation begins with some reference to being tired of winter...ready for warm weather, etc. I do not share my feelings of reluctance to let winter go, I doubt anyone would understand.

Yesterday, as Iris and I took a long exploratory hike along Jug Creek, my feelings of reluctance were reinforced, but as we sat alongside the creek listening to the birds and the water, I must say a flicker of anticipation began deep down in me. We talked about the musical babble of the water and how it seemed to be a part of us. Wondered what the songs of the birds in the bushes alongside the creek were asking us, and what we might reply. Thanked the sun for its brilliance and warmth. Planned our return, with a backpack of sketchbooks and a picnic, when spring's presence was full.

Here, though, with the last of winter's snow clinging to the earth, a poem I had recently written was brought to mind:

Morning In Early Spring

The last of winter's snow
lies in the morning cold
fiercely clinging to the earth
reluctantly awaiting
the rising sun.

Oh what a season
it has been...
piled deep over vast fields
an impeccable shroud
obscuring the dark, the dirty
the broken...
and for a day perhaps, or just an hour
there in deep winter
the sun's brilliance
struck the snow's crystal sequins
until I had to turn away
as though before the face of God.

And now the snow
and I
grasp what little is left
of purity
both reluctant and eager
for what is to come...
another awakening,
another chance.

and another

Reluctant Awakening

It is the wet season now.
The earth,
which so recently lay consecrated
beneath winter's snow
has yielded
to ooze and muck that almost seems
unfriendly in its
quicksand grasp.

I know in my mind
it is the natural rhythm of life...
this space, the nexus
before the glory-end
of transformation,

still my heart sags
tugging at my soul's edges...
my eyes momentarily locked
against anticipation
see only the demise,
caught as though pulled
by the mud itself.

My body obeys this tug
holding out against
the might quickening of the earth...
but I know, too,
its stirrings,
which faintly, faintly begin...
will soon release me
to spring's majesty.

a lovely last patch of ice

a very serious study of stones

I, who have a tendency to over-collect rocks and stones, find it delightful to see how stones, so ordinary and plentiful, enrapture and captivate this little one.

A bag, fashioned from a bandanna, getting seriously heavy.


And a new beginning of another kind....

I am anxious to complete this newly begun rag rug whose brightness and colorfulness herald the coming of spring.

The UPS and DOWNS

Just returned from a train trip to Whitefish, MT. Our train left on time from La Crosse, which is always nice, however, instead of reaching our destination at 8:45 the next night, we did not get in until 2:00 in the morning. Needless to say, we spent much of our train time in the dark, which we hadn't anticipated.

I was astounded that my camera could get decent photos while the train was flying at top speed. The hills of North Dakota. They reminded me of S.D.'s Badlands, and were visible for much of the ride through N.D.

Approaching the mountain area.

When we arrived, it was a short walk to our motel (JUST a motel, nothing more) which was right in downtown Whitefish. We spent the first day recovering and walking around the area. Lovely setting, but I must say that Whitefish is the most littered town in America. Having been to San Antonio a few years back, I thought no town could be more littered than that, but I was wrong, Whitefish had litter absolutely everywhere. In fact, Sunday evening as we were walking in town to dinner, an elderly woman, I'd say about 85, was walking with her walker on main street, a plastic bag attached, picking up litter. She said to us as we were passing, "Please don't litter." Wish I'd have had my camera so I could have captured that moment and sent the photo to the Chamber of Commerce.

The Snow bus, free and frequent transportation to the mountain, took us up to the top.

We could have ridden the lift to the top and back down, but we surely weren't dressed for it that day. There were plenty of skiers and snowboarders, and much to our surprise, plenty of them were under 6 years old. We were astonished at the ease with which such little ones negotiated the hills. That was fun to watch from the chalet window (with a very expensive glass of wine for me...and half price beer for Freddie.)

A light and lovely snow was falling.

There just happened to be a Brewfest at the mountain on Sat. Freddie did not take part, but it was fun to watch...

brew in and brew out
...the bus driver commented on the addition of these for the weekend...

...a view from the parking lot...

We spent Sunday just walking around, and early Monday morning walked to the train station. The train was to leave at 7:45, but due to a freight train derailment west of Whitefish, the incoming passenger train was diverted. All of the passengers had to board buses (4) around midnight Sunday, and travel to Whitefish. They did not all arrive until around 10:45, so our leaving was delayed.

Unfortunately for us, on board our car were 4 teachers and about 25-30 teenagers. They were on for about 7-8 hours. It was pretty excruciating, I must say. One got to see how high on themselves teens can get, as they continually walked up and down the narrow aisles, laughing and shouting to one another, congregating nearby to howl about something, never really misbehaving, but totally oblivious to anyone else on the train. It was like being in the middle of a teen-filled unruly school bus. Believe me, this got tiresome pretty quickly.

They disembarked in Havre, MT...and peace and quiet ensued.

There were stunning vistas until one reached the prairies of MT/ND.

We would love to return to fly fish this river.

...many pools of such a vivid green called out to us...

We came across the remains of a grain train derailment of a couple of weeks ago...

Crews were still working to clear the cars from the side tracks.

Much of our trip was lovely, but I must say that way too much of the immediate view from the train was of trash, all kinds of trash from beer cans aplenty to cars! I often wondered if the train tracks in Europe are as littered? It was truly ugly...

...and uninviting...

...and far too frequent...

...throughout the entire ride...

Freddie loves the prairies of Montana and North Dakota, not me so much. However one thing that I find utterly beautiful are the abandoned structures that once were homes. They are everywhere, interspersed with the more general turquoise or orange or yellow, weary-looking trailer houses which are a typical residence in the prairie.

The abandoned structures seemed lonely, yet hopeful, as though they awaited someone's return.

The mountains are beautiful, but then so is the Kickapoo Valley, and it is good to be home.

I CAN'T WRAP MY MIND AROUND IT ALL

My thoughts are a bit of a jumble this morning. I headed out to the cabin to update my blog, with glowing words and hopefully glowing photos of our Ice Cave hike yesterday. As I stepped out the door and proceeded down the path to my cabin, I was confronted with this icy, treacherous path. I slipped, and thought surely this is one of the ugly manifestations of winter's end.

(I have been trying to craft a poem that captures the beauty of winter and the ugliness exposed upon its drawn-out passing, and though I will most likely continue my efforts, Japan dominates my mind even more so than plight of collective bargaining in Wisconsin and all it entails.)

...the morning crust/afternoon mud path to the cabin...

...one has to be thoughtful with every step...

and though my thoughts were of how to step safely, they turned to the utter banality of my problems, (the prospect of bruises or at worst broken bones) as I thought about Japan. The wish I recognize inside were that I could go to Japan physically, and exert myself, hard and long, to help someone, anyone in need. I despair because this is not possible, and all I can do is send dollars. Yes, I know dollars are needed, and will offer probably more help then I could do myself, but it seems too easy, Mastercarding dollars. I want to hurt with my giving, suffer sore muscles and sweat in exertion and know I've made a difference, however small. Still, it is money I will send.

The beauty of our hike yesterday has not paled, but its significance perhaps has. It was a stunning late winter day, brilliant sun, diamond snow, and ice caves aglow.

A picture of the winter woods, which I had intended to use to illustrate a poem I have written about the winter woods, ...and though it seems frivolous at this point, it follows (it was written about a much colder winter day):

The Winter Woods

Stark and bare
nature honed down
unveiled beauty
distinct;
a leaf upon the snow
alone
and brown
the contrast sharp
caught electric
in a momentary master work;
a multitude of minute pine cones
blooming
like tiny winter roses
scattered on the snow;
with every step
a different image framed
by barren branches
each a rhythm stilled,
caught in visual melody.

And I
dead inside the center
of this masterpiece
surrounded by the brush strokes
of some greater God
am also stroked in beauty everlasting.
Were the trees
and branches
the rocks and steep inclines
prone to whisper words
to one another
perhaps they'd say
how beautiful she stood
within our frame.

Somehow
I, too, am honed
keen and crisp,
unessential inner baggage
frozen brittle
dropped free,
and I,
whittled thin
by winter's penetrating sting,
am razor sharp
skate-bladed shoulders
slice the air
quick and clean
as I slash my way between
fragile frozen molecules
hanging everywhere.

I feel myself like steel
hard
and resolute
wrought down
like anthracite I burn inside
white and hot and real
the pinnacle of opposites am I
as the bitter cold ignites my flame
I crystallize like frost
am consumed
and lost
absorbed into the other side
of sight
whiteout blinded
into winter's being.

This ice cave is smack in the 'middle' of what used to be, long ago and before the Dam Project, Freddie's great-grandpa Enos Daines' land. I could not help but feel Enos' presence all around us, as we hiked his land.

March is the perfect time to explore the ice caves as the drip of melting/freezing snow builds them up as it melts them down.

This form seemed almost human to me...perhaps Great grandpa Enos spirit lingering near.

The utter beauty of yesterday does not dim, but rather accentuates the pictures that are emerging from Japan. I find it difficult to drag my thoughts away and to proceed with my day, but of course, I will.

My life a wonder of gifts I wish I could share.

ROSE PATH

Finally I've been back to the loom! It has felt good to be weaving again, and to be doing something a bit new for me.

...a cotton yarn, cotton warp, rose path bath mat...

...again, rose path, but this time wool yarn is used, and once off the loom, it seemed destined to become a tote bag... the strap is finger woven wool yarn.

a peek on the inside

After completing this one, I was inspired to do another. I have so much wool yarn in so many colors, it was difficult to choose. I finally decided on two shades of gray and two shades of burgundy, emphasized with black.

a good sized tote to bring along to the food co-op, or simply use as an every day bag...

lined with a heavy duty cotton
Again, a finger woven wool yarn strap.

Weaving is a wonderfully meditative endeavor, although I must admit keeping count of the treadle pattern of rose path is sometimes a challenge! 4,3,2,1,4,1,2,3,4 and if you happen to be interrupted in between, it can become, at least for me, a real problem. I have been know to undo several rows in order to recapture the correct pattern.

I am anxious to get to the looms in the basement, so although I love winter and would like more, a part of me is ready for spring, and warping up my two looms in the new cabin basement.

Is Heaven Orange??

Believe me, this was even more delicious than it looks!! Looking around for recipes to use up the last of my Butternut Squash, now growing wrinkled in the basement, I came upon one that we both deemed the best Butternut Squash dish we've ever eaten.

It was not deliberate that I teamed it with carrots, and afterward felt like it ought to be Halloween with all the orange. (However, the deeper the orange the better it is for you, right. I could have added the last of my sweet potatoes, too, but thankfully it never occurred to me.) The carrots are honey/Dijon mustard glazed...and really good themselves.

Peel and cut one 2# butternut squash into approximately 1# cubes. Put into a large bowl, add one very large minced garlic clove (or several small gloves) 1/2 c. parsley flakes, salt/freshly ground black pepper, and 2 tbs. flour. Toss well. I let this sit all day long. Two hours before supper, I set the oven at a low 325 degrees and proceeded to oil a 9 x 13 pan with olive oil. Put the squash into the pan, drizzle with a healthy dose of very good olive oil. Set in oven uncovered and roast for 2 hours. It just could hardly be simpler, and is a dynamite dish. The squash condenses its flavors fiercely and forms a tinge of crispness, the garlic is almost beyond description.



The edamame beans were chosen not only because we love them (well, F loves them, but hates to take the time to slip them from the pods...see below.) but also for the lovely contrast of green and orange.

F's first plate, after that he had to slip his own beans from the pod.

...and with a glass of 14 Hands Chardonnay a meal fit for royalty...