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.

You can do this

When Beth lived upstairs on Whitcomb, Jan and I were just starting our weaving business.  Back in Mentor, every time a daughter moved out, I put a loom in the bedroom.  First Beth’s room, then Shelly’s.  Then in the dining room.  Down in Akron, after she and Tom married, Jan put a loom in her old bedroom.  Then one in the dining room.  They still ate meals there, until a second loom went into the dining room.  That’s when we bought this house, with the studio.

In the beginning we bought far too many looms.  Good looms are never a bad investment.  We learned from our looms, and then sent them back into the world, generally at a profit and never for a loss.  Until we learned a good deal more about them, we gladly went to look over looms that folks wanted to sell.  

The only Union Loom we ever owned we purchased in a distress situation.  The owner loved it, but needed the money.  It was a wrench for the woman to part with it; she had happy memories of learning to weave on it when she was a teen.  But, we paid up and loaded up and the deal was done.

Driving back we knew we really didn't want it, but…..   Let’s give it to Beth.  She can weave rugs!

I knew Beth was away on a business trip.  I also knew Chrissy had a key to take care of the cats.  Chrissy was very reluctant to agree with my request to let us into Beth’s house, as she should have been.  It was extremely presumptuous of Beth’s mother to put a loom in Beth’s dining room and wait for Beth to come home and find it.  But she let us in, and Jan and I hauled the loom up a long set of stairs and set it up in the dining room.  We put on the first warp and threaded the heddles and the reed.  Then we went home and waited for the phone call.

When it came I caught heck for involving Christina, but not for the loom, which really interested her.  In our ignorance of Union Loom braking systems, we put the first warp on the wrong direction.  Beth fought her way through it, and was a downhill weaver thereafter.  

She bought several looms and wove steadily for us until Bill came along and distracted her. Beth owned her house by then and all the looms lived in the garret.  Shelly and I finished emptying the looms up in the attic of desperately needed fabric while Beth and Bill made goo goo eyes downstairs.  By the time they married, all the looms were out of the attic and sold.

The Union Loom never made it to her attic; it did its service on Whitcomb. That’s where Ann learned to weave.  The Union had been pressed into service for fabric by then and Beth wove a couple of yards each night, when she came home from work.  Ann moved in with Beth temporarily, after selling her home, before moving to Wisconsin.  She came home from work earlier than Beth, and looking for something to pass the time, picked up a shuttle.  She accumulated her own looms in Wisconsin and wove for us until we retired. 

The  Union Loom we sneaked into Beth’s house?  The original owner said she’d like to buy it back.  So, having done its job, the loom went back to the person who loved it most.

Christina, the cat sitter who let us in.
During her harpsichord phase, twenty years ago.
She grew up to be a New York attorney.

Beth’s porch

I went to Beth’s for lunch today, and we ate on her porch. I went for lunch a month ago, right after all kids were sprung from school, and we ate in the dining room. Today she put our plates of BLT’s on a tray. (First Ohio tomatoes; free range bacon from the oven; fresh Romaine; organic mayo [eat your heart out if your daughter does not own a restaurant!].)

“I can carry a plate to the table,” I protested. She added drinks and napkins, and we went to the porch. Beth lives in an old, ethnic pocket of Cleveland. Slovenia, Ukraine, some such. She married a Welsh man whose mother is German and a Ukraine dash. They live in a comfortable old home that housed laborers at the turn of another century. My mother approved her purchase, and as I remember, she bought Beth towels for her bathroom, one of the last things I recall happening in Moms life.

The porch had a standard half wall and obligatory support columns. When we went to visit the new homeowner, we’d wind up on her porch. Jan and I were in an antique store once, and spotted a turn of the century recliner. Wood slats, and a rod to hold the reclining back at different angles. We bought it at once and took it to Cleveland for the front porch. Beth found another one with a very similar back at a yard sale, and so there is a pair of comfy old chairs on the front porch.

Beth bought a farmhouse screen door at an auction in Wisconsin, and probably brought it home when she drove that little red truck. In a remodeling the porch went from half walled to screened, with an old Wisconsin farmhouse screen door. So, we ate lunch and chatted. Beth’s two, Francis and Caroline, are in South Carolina this week, with Grandma Ruth, visiting their cousins at Uncle Ben and Aunt Maureen’s house.

All those new names in the mix. Grandma Ruth is an amazing woman; I may get permission to tell you her story, which I've heard but was not part of. Uncle Ben is my son in law’s younger brother, a handsome young surgeon when I first met him, who took assignments at hospitals where pretty women abounded. The Bahamas. Vegas. Oh, the exotic girlfriends he worried his parents about. The he married a lovely nurse named Maureen, and made his mother very happy. His father, too.

Beth was waiting for Bill to come home, hopefully soon, otherwise at six. Sans kids, they intend to camp in the Alleghenies for a night or two. Bill is a bank executive who came home from a company picnic recently, happily waving a piece of paper. How many people work for a major bank, and he had won an extra day of vacation. Or, two half days, if his schedule worked out.

At one o’clock Bill parked on the street, in deference to my car in the one car drive, so I hugged everyone goodbye and left with a bag of my favorites, oatmeal raisin cookies. With no further preliminaries (haha), Beth’s porch, from my visit a month ago.

The chair from the antique store

The chair from the yard sale

Francis, toute cute in my mechanism close up

A cat heaven front porch

The other side of the screen door from Wisconsin

No tall people in our family

I visited my daughter Beth and the other two grandchildren not long ago. My daughter’s house is a revolving gallery of children’s art. It’s always on the walls.

Caroline, the mistress of cats, had another portrait on display. By the arthritic knees I’d guess this to be Kipper, the cat as old as Caroline, nine, going on ten. I understand cat years are exponential.

Francis current piece was on another wall. This is the young man who bolted the Paint like Picasso class at Cousin Camp two summers ago. Georgia O'Keeffe and he was gone. He said he wasn't interested; I figured being the only boy among girls was a contributing factor.

Francis' O'Keeffe, 2012

On display by Francis, an obvious self portrait. Eyes didn't interest him that day, he said. Before I left I made an estimate of his height, and he’s in the 5’6” range. At twelve years. And I was reminded of an incident when he was not a year old.

Francis was crawling, making his way somewhere. Passing my foot he helped himself to handfuls of blue jeans and pulled himself up.  His face was above my knee, and I said “Oh, my, you will be a tall one.”

His father looked over. Now, Bill is a respectable 5’10”, as was his father. “How tall?” asked Bill. “Over six feet,” I replied.

“There are no tall people in our family,” my son-in-law responded.

Some of us in the room had a good laugh before we reminded Bill he was responsible for only half the boy’s genes, and he’d never meet most of Beth’s forebears.  Both her grandfathers were over six feet. Both my brothers were taller than our dad. And in case Bill needed more convincing, my father had one six foot tall grandmother, not bad for a nineteenth century woman.

No tall people in Bill’s family, but more than a few in his son’s. I attribute France’s black hair to my dad, too, although his Welsh father and grandfather probably contributed.

Humoring Grandma

Friday was the Homecoming Game.  The Blue and White won, the game was over about 9:30.  I parked in the agreed upon pick up area, under a light so Laura could read her book.  The game may end, but the band keeps working.  The band plays both teams off the field, then marches off themselves.  Through the windows we could see them marching through the lit up gymnasium, drummers still drumming.  It was close to eleven before my little flutist came out, band uniform in the garment bag over her shoulder, hat box in the other hand, her little sister asleep in the back seat. 

Band duty is back to Tom this week; Laura can sleep in his truck after the game she has rooted to a conclusion with Uncle Tom and while they wait for Emily to appear with her garment bag and hat box.  I had Laura demonstrate her whistle technique.  We should have taken the demonstration outdoors.  I dare any team not to make a touchdown with that little girl yelling and whistling them on.

If Friday was the Homecoming Game, for sure Saturday would be the Homecoming Dance.  Emily and Aunt Janice found a pretty little dress for the dance and dancing shoes.  But Jan was at Quilting with Machines last week and Gramma’s expertise does not extend to cool dance hair.

Who to the rescue but Aunt Beth.  Beth and Bill came down on Saturday to facilitate a little cousin time and to rescue us from a week of restaurants.  Uncle Bill took Francis, Caroline and Laura off for some rock wall climbing; Beth stayed to visit with her old Mutz and participate in dressing up a little girl for a dance. 

What about the hair?  We went looking for some greenery, which is mighty sparse at the rainy end of September.  Beth snipped off a pampas grass frond from in front of the house, but nothing else appeared until we found Queen Ann’s lace and some chicory behind the barn.  They joined the little bouquet and we trouped into the kitchen to see what Beth could do.  “Don’t you remember, Ma, I’m the queen of French braids. I braided Patty’s hair every morning before classes?”

From the fabric scrap drawer.

I have an eye on you!

Greenery from the yard.

One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, please can we go?

First, the hair!

Three young women off to dance until the coach and four returns at ten.

St. Patrick’s Day green yesterday

Beth took a ravioli class and was so pleased with the result she called and asked Jan two burning questions.  Did we still have the noodle machine and did Jan know how to make noodles.  And, would her Uncle Walt be available to turn apple wood into apple wood planks.  It all came together yesterday; Beth and Caroline came down, Walt and Mark came over, and Bill and Francis went on the other side of Beth and Caroline’s line, where they carry everything on their backs and hike out and back for two days, for the pleasure of eating powdered eggs and oatmeal in the morning.  Although, Caroline informed me, her father also took the last two bagels and the cream cheese.

The ravioli instructor handed out pre-made dough, dismissing that stage saying “Everyone knows how to make basic noodle dough.”  Beth wanted to share her new ravioli skill, but needed to get over the basic noodle dough barrier. She also wanted a noodle machine, but recalled there had been one in use when she was a child.

The noodle machine came to live with us in the ‘70’s.  In fact, it was responsible for the reconciliation between Jan and Grandma Rolf.  Grandma never approved of her, and Jan responded in kind.  Grandma was still an independent woman when she got her last grandchild, but becoming rigid and unforgiving.

Back in the kitchen in Mentor, Jan and I used to throw parties that featured a house full of friends.  Lots of noise and confusion and the sort of food we normally didn’t have.  There were Jan’s famous Thanksgiving in July parties; her Chinese egg roll parties.  And, the beef stroganoff party.  Except ours would feature homemade noodles, just like Grandma Rolf used to make. Recalling all the time Grandma also spent rolling them out, I decided to spring for the noodle rolling machine.  Jan recalls it cost $49.95.  In 1975.  That was a chunk a change.

There we were, a party coming up and the noodle machine on the table.  We didn’t know how to make noodles.  Jan called Grandma Rolf.  Grandma was pleased beyond words to tell her long haired hippy granddaughter how to put flour on the counter, make a well, crack the eggs into the well, how many egg shells of water, start working the flour in with the fork.  All the way up to rolling and drying.  Jan didn’t tell her about the noodle machine, in respect of the new rapport.

Jan  told Beth exactly how to do it, and she did.  Uncle Walt was hanging out in the kitchen, having planked the apple wood.  We reminisced about the drying noodles when we were kids and Grandma Rolf was in our kitchen.  Noodles hung over the backs of every chair, in addition to being on towels on every counter.  Walt also told me about beans on the shelf.  He hated green beans.  He noticed his older sister’s method of disposing of runny scrambled eggs, and immediately added green beans to the ledge.  The cat didn’t eat green beans.  Walt got in trouble.

Because it was St. Patrick’s day, and because her mother and her Uncle Walt are very Irish, Beth made spinach ravioli.  When she and Caroline went home, they took the noodle machine and the apple wood planks.  The machine will live in her kitchen and her restaurant will feature apple wood planked scallops next week.

Cat whiskers

I’ve always collected cat whiskers.  I kept them somewhere, but they generally weren’t there when I thought about them or went to add a new whisker.  No matter, I’d start a new repository.  My most recent collection has three whiskers, although one is too fine to show up.

The new kitten, Toby, has over the legal limit of whiskers, in length, if not in number.  He lost a baby tooth, we found it and I stashed it with the collection of cat whiskers prior to the current collection.  If all my collections ever come together, it will be magnificent.

When we went to lunch at Beth’s last week I took my camera.  She and Shelly have been given charge of the family mementos they dusted as children, but I thought pictures of some might be fun for a blog.  Here are Beth’s baby shoes her other grandma had bronzed.  Do we still do that?

Here is my Grandpa Rolf’s silver baby cup.   Grandma Rolf  kept it polished!  I didn’t.  I never owned silver polish.  I used tooth paste to clean my silver rings.

But look what is in the silver cup.  My son-in-law, Bill, has a fine collection of cat whiskers.  I wonder if the bird feather keeps them from disappearing.

Cats don't think they are people.  They think we are cats.

Subwoofer

The twenty years I was a weaver I lost track of the world of computers.  I bought a new computer in the late 1980’s, about the time Bill Gates was taking over operating systems and my world of DOS was being edged out by icons.  Not today’s icons; those icons were identical and only identified by the title printed under them.  It was maddening, frustrating, stupid, I didn’t have time in my life for icons.  I made my son-in-law put my brand new computer in DOS mode.  I had my accounting program, I had Lotus©, I had weaving draw down software, I was happy.  I skipped Windows 96 and 98.  Then Y2K was upon us.

To fall for it or not.  The accounting program people assured me their software would not be affected.  Good.  On the other hand, the computer was more than ten years old and showing its age.  The dial up internet access was not always reliable, due, according to the very young techs I spoke with, to the age of my operating system.  A new computer it would be.  But what.  How to figure it out.

 I turned to the younger generation.  This time to my other daughter’s fiancée.  Bill, I need a new computer.  Get on the Dell website and pick it out for me.  I watched over his shoulder as he put everything I would need in a shopping cart, whatever that was.  OK.  OK.  OK. 

The new computer arrived in a lot of big boxes.  Another young friend came and unpacked it.  Then she plugged a cable from the old one to the new one and slid all our brains right down the line.  Magic.  Bill and Beth were around from time to time and I’d get one or the other to tweak things about Windows 2000, but on the whole is wasn’t too bad.

One day Beth looked up.  “What’s up on that shelf, Ma?”  “Don’t know,” I replied.  “It came with the computer.  Bill put it up there.”

“Why does my mother have a subwoofer?”

I have upgraded from Windows 2000 to Windows XP to Windows 7.  I still have my subwoofer.  The young techs who work on my computer now are amused. Every mother-in-law should have a subwoofer.  Every mother, too, I imagine.  If I used my speakers I’d probably know what it does.  Beth and Bill gave me the cat to sit on it.