analog me

Bound

A long, long time ago, I promised my husband I would make him a quilt. I imagined piecing together a stunning design using some interesting fabrics of our joint choosing. 

Of course, that's not what happened.

He decided he wanted a whole cloth quilt made from retro cowboy fabric. This is the leitmotif of our bedroom decor. I buy a handmade lampshade, he finds a garage sale shade fashioned from scenes of the wild west. I hang fabric in embroidery hoops on the wall, he imports a guitar to the corner. I find a vintage cotton woven bedspread, he counters with a request for a cowboy quilt. Our bedroom, with its "matrimonial eclectic" design could look strange to outsiders (if they were even allowed to peek in) but we are happy and rarely even notice how odd things are. (There is a lot of debate these days about what constitutes marriage, but I think this sort of sums it up.)

 

 

Back to the quilt. The fun part is choosing fabrics, designing the pattern and piecing. Quilting and binding it all together are the sewing equivalents of weeding the lawn. And after some quick calculations and the sewing of a center seam, that's all I was left with: drudgery. I put off the hours of pinning the layers together for about a year. Then, it was a couple of weeks before I quilted the parallel lines. Next, I procrastinated putting on the binding for a few more months. 

 

 

One reason I put it off so long is that my hands are not strong enough to hand sew a full quilt binding on. It's pretty hard to sew the binding on by machine so that both sides look good, but I developed a technique that works pretty well. Any quilt binding avoiders out there interested?

 

So, now we have a quilt to put on the bed. It's not that beautiful and it doesn't really match anything, but I have upheld my promise, my husband loves it, and it's great to sleep under. Plus that machine-sewn binding is never going to fall apart.

The Dark Side of Thrift

I recently found this in a bag of sewing notions I "rescued."

On one hand, I had some respect for the person who revered these tiny lengths of thread enough to carefully wind them on an empty spool. On the other hand, I was a bit horrified to think what this person's surroundings must have been filled with. Mountains of tiny fabric scraps too small to use? Old envelopes wrapped with a few feet of thread? Boxes full of treasured bias tape? Umm. . .it sounds a bit like my "sewing" space which seems to collect so much junk I sometimes can't sew. Am I a sewing hoarder?

As you may have guessed, I buy a lot of my sewing materials at thrift stores. I used to think this was a good thing: I rescue stuff from the trash, make useful stuff from it, and save money and resources. 

It's true that a lot of my favorite projects were made from thrift store fabric. The Chicken Dressand my Orangey Ginger make me smile when I see them hanging in my closet. But that's mostly what they do: hang in the closet. I usually wear my home-sewn solid skirts and pants and the comfy knit shirts. Guess what? decent lengths of good quality, basic fabrics are few and far between in thrift stores.

I have also been examining my all expenditures more closely and, I tell you, its shocking to see how much it costs to save money.

Almost every time I pop into a thrift store to see if I can find something I need want for a bargain, I end up spending 15 bucks on something I might need someday. But if don't really need it, it's not a bargain at all. 

And then there is the really dark side of thrift. Often I buy something and only add it to my stash thus diverting stuff from the waste stream into my closet. Then I have to spend a lot of time washing, organizing and storing stuff. Is this really where I want all the rejected fabric of South Minneapolis to find a final resting spot? In the end I end up making a lot of work for myself just managing the stuff.

Sometimes I have the idea for a new project but no appropriate materials, so I end up making something I want less just to use up with what I have. I'm going to keep sewing with what I have  but I think I need to be the boss of it. I'm not quite sure how to do that, but I'm guessing I need less stuff and a better organizing system— like a booklet of swatches perhaps? Any ideas?

I'm going to get rid of more stuff, and I'm going to stop buying stuff "just in case" I might want to use it someday.

As for that little spool of threads. I'm not sure what to do with it. Should I throw it out now— or save it as a warning to myself?

 

An Unusual Christmas Day

 

To be honest, I didn't think that touring a sapphire mine on Christmas Day sounded very appealing. In fact, as we descended into the pitch dark mine shaft in a growling, diesel fume-belching, dirt-hauling machine, I panicked. Looking back, I saw the entrance and light get smaller and farther away and said, "I need to get out."

I figured I could just walk back out and wait in the light for everyone else to get out. Luckily, one of my cousins and an old-timer miner, Lou, got out with me and basically forced me to walk in. So we let the machine go ahead and then walked on in with just some flashlights to push back the black. At first, all I noticed was that we were going hundreds of feet underground into a damp, dark, dirty, dank, silent hole in the earth. You know that sort of sinking feeling of going into whatever black hole it is that you are looking down? That's sort of what I felt like. And then the miner started pointing out the vein that holds the sapphires.

There were whole caves lined with crystals.

And, just think, if it were not for our flashlights, this

would just be total darkness. Lou showed me some big carboard boxes hidden behind a crystal dome and told me that he had enough explosives there to blow up a small sized city. That made me smile.

The smell of the earth was actually clean and fresh. And there was a snow white, fluffy fungus that looked so delicate growing on the mine shaft floor.

A whole underground world right there under me feet—like an inverted reality. I have been through these mountains so many times before, but never imagined all this existing underneath my feet—and it is actually incredibly beautiful.

In a way, it's a lot how this year has been.  Sometimes, looking down into the darkness, I have thought just get me out of here. But then, you go on, someone takes your arm points out something, you look a little more closely and think, Hey, this is beautiful too.

And then walking out, the light is so bright. (That's my handsome husband.) 

I think we might have a new family tradition. Thanks Lou, you were a great guide.

HAPPY NEW YEAR !

 

Uncle Ed

I had big plans, but life has a way of happening. And so, I have been back with family in Montana again. 

My uncle, a larger-than-life Western rancher and outfitter, died last week. Born in 1928, when life on the range was pretty rough, he lived a long and colorful life.  He was my father's only sibling, and I grew up next door to his family--which meant a mile down the road. If you have ever wondered how the protagonists of tall tales or epic hero cycles could be inspired, then you've never known someone like my uncle. This was man whose sneezes could be heard a half mile distant, a man who slept as he burned down half his house, who could drive up any mountain, and ride his horse through any stream. He seemed fearless and his risk-taking led to so many totaled cars, motorcycles, trucks, 4-wheelers and cars that not even Lloyds of London wanted to insure him. Once when my Dad was preparing to make an emergency crash landing in a Piper Cub airplane that was choking up and losing air and altitude, my uncle climbed out the plane's door, opened the hood and hacked ice off the carburetors with a screwdriver while hanging from an overhead wing. Its a bit hard to imagine those two resting in peace. . .

My cousin made this spray for the casket, and when I saw it, it was so perfect It brought tears to my eyes. Because the other side of my uncle was a nature-loving cowboy, an extremely social man who always had a witty retort or a well-worded dinner blessing.

I do get a bit antsy waiting for things to happen when I don't have any projects, so my sister and I drove up in the mountains to collect greenery. Here we are at the Judith Game Range (with a mitten/camera prop in the foreground).

We found about 5 different kinds of evergreens (mostly from the stumps of trees that other people had cut) some grasses and berries and even a nest and made a giant wreath for my brother's grave. (Except it's not a grave, just a spot next my Dad's grave where we sprinkled some ashes.) This was all wired to a big circle of old, heavy barbed wire so it won't blow away.

 And since this is in a community cemetery on land donated by the adjacent landowners, there are no rules about what we can put there. It felt good to do this. I know this is sort of a strange idea, but the reclaiming of rituals of mourning from commercialization might be one of the most powerful things the do-it-yourself movement can do.

My uncle had a multitude of injuries and Parkinson's disease, which made walking difficult, yet he insisted on getting out and doing things as long as possible. About a year ago, he backed his 4-wheeler off a bridge (that he and my dad built) fell in the river and had to be pulled out. He was cold and rattled, the 4-wheeler was further bent and he lost his glasses, but he had survived--again !  I thought that might be the real end of his driving days, but when I was out last spring I saw that he was still speeding down to get the mail.

I'm going to miss him, but I'm not going to forget that spirit. 

 

Last words

It's Thanksgiving.

One year ago, I spoke to my brother for the last time. It was a pretty short conversation.

At the end he gave his usual sign-off, "Well, it was nice hearing your voice."

I said, "Love you, David."

"I love you too."

It was partly just luck that we spoke that day. Three days later my chances for connection were forever severed.

But, of anything this year, that conversation is what I have been most thankful for. And it's a reminder as I head into the holidays to remember what it's all about. I'm trying to remind myself top stop worrying about how clean the house is or whether the table cloth is pressed (or even if there is a tablecloth) and remember it's about the people.

Happy Thanksgiving.