A happy landing

I’ve been weaving for the last year or so, using up the dwindling supply of cottons we purchased fifteen or twenty years ago.  My search for new thread for weaving was futile. F.U.T.I.L.E.  In the old days we wove with mill ends from good factories. The thread available now is imported and expensive. If it were good thread I would consider using it, and raising my prices. But, everything I found resembled twine, prickly and scratchy as all get out.

The last two warps I put on were wonderful. An all white warp of 12/2; exquisite hand. Ran through my fingers like butter. The last warp was the last of the white, with red, orange and yellow stripes. It actually was sad to weave it; everything I put on the loom would be the last and would be gone before the year was out.

Then came to decision to sell the house, and when the contract was signed, the packing began. We had an auctioneer come through to take things. The loom did not register with him, and the sewing equipment was of no interest. “No one does this anymore!”

The Cleveland Institute of Art downsized its textile program a couple of years ago, and two young women, in collaboration with CIA, put all the looms and equipment back together in a warehouse on Cleveland’s east side. It is the Praxis Fiber Workshop; its director is Jessica Pinsky. Stop right now and explore the link. This is a wonderful undertaking. I wish there were a good photo of a third of a football field filled with three long rows of world class looms. Mind boggling!

Of course Jessica would be delighted to take my studio off my hands. So, one fine day the moving company I hired to do the job showed up, loaded it up (“One, two three, lift!”) and we took it to Cleveland.

A box or two of miscellaneous essentials.

The Siruba industrial serger. It weighs two or three hundred pounds. The movers "One, two three," lifted it and took it away.

Helyn!

Boxes of soft, soft cotton.

The last warp. It went to Cleveland just like this. I could not bring myself to throw another shuttle.

The yoga skirts from the last warp. Behind them, the white shirts from the next to last warp. 

My July sales sheet shows them gone. That's a good thing.

Getting it done...right

A problem nagging and nagging for the last several weeks seems to have imploded, no thanks to me. 

Quite unbeknownst to me, Emily and Laura sought out and consulted two family friends for advice on screwing up the courage to tell their mother, when the opportunity came, to stop telling them she was taking them back, as they would not be going. The opportunity came in just a couple of days, and they said what they had to say. Just think what cool hands they may be at breaking up with boyfriends.

We may not be out of the woods yet, but we will be.

Meanwhile, back in the studio, I took another try at a yoga/beach skirt. It required the disassembly of two entire serged seams, but, by golly, I think I got it. I see I didn't re-press the waistband seam, but the skirt's still on Helyn, and it will be done before a customer notices. I don't know about the length; it easily can be shorter, but will need customer feedback on that. The prototype probably is a few inches above the knee.

I do believe normal service is on the horizon.

I planned posts for all this stuff

I got the key to the locked room on the second floor,

and took a picture of the hummingbird nest, from,

more or less, eye level. Can you find it?

Took this picture of the pileated practice tree I pass.

I've seen a pileated woodpecker on this tree twice.

A couple of years ago, going to work, a big woodpecker was working the tree.

"Please be there when I come back with my camera," I said to him.

Turned around, back up the hill to home. Woodpecker still there.

Returned in ten minutes with camera.

Gone.

Spring still hovers.

A new shirt for the gallery.

Actually, this is embarrassing.

I finished making up the white fabric on Tuesday evening,

took pictures,

Delivered to the gallery on Wednesday.

Looking at the pictures today, I see I missed the last job; 

give everything a quick press.

At the gallery.

I planned posts for the weeks' pictures,

And now it's Thursday.

Week in review.

A good person

Perhaps you’ve met a person who radiates goodness, but has no idea that is the persona the world sees. I’ve known one such.

Eventually our weaving business needed two sewers to make enough stuff to sell, but  the people we interviewed were not a good fit for our laid back little studio. Eventually I went around to fabric stores and dress shops and asked if they could recommend a sewer. I came up with one name, and called her.

Linda lived barely a mile from us and was very interested, but was just about to begin her last round of chemo for breast cancer.  A sweet voice said she just couldn’t take on a job now, but if it were available after the new year, she would like to know.

And so we left it, and she was still the only person I knew of come the next year, so I called again. “Oh,” the sweet voice exclaimed; “I didn’t think you would call me again.”

She came to the studio, and had my standard interview of let’s chat while you sew this shirt. We chatted about her family as I watched her put together a shirt after asking if it had side vents and knowing the sleeve front from back without a word from me. I had mentioned the starting pay before she began, and raised it by the time she was sewing down the facing.

“Wait until I tell my mother I got a raise before I even started!”

Linda was an artist. In her more healthy days she sewed fabulous costumes for a children’s theater, putting together mad hatters and Cap’n Hooks from a scrap of this, a swatch of that. When I saw her costumes displayed I was awestruck, and wondered how she ever came to work in our little studio.

She came in with a smile, she left with a smile, she worked with a smile. She paid little attention to her machines, they performed light and floaty just like Linda. Others cleaned them when Linda was gone, and grumbled, but I couldn’t reprimand her. Everyone was paid by the hour; what difference did it really make.

We had liberals and conservatives, old people and young in the studio. Linda was sweet and kind, ethereal. Her views were liberal, on the sunshine side. The only people she ever judged were those who sent Elian Gonzalez back to Cuba.

Linda must have been a wonderful mother; she lived for her boys and her husband and chatted about them endlessly. The rest of us felt they undervalued her, but knew that thought never crossed her mind. She saved every paycheck, and every bonus to buy something for her boys. One secret purchase was a computer, for Christmas, complete with AOL internet.

This computer purchase was in 2000 or 2001. She came in one day and said she felt so silly. “A man in California was helping me install the internet. He told me several times to click on ‘My Computer,’ and I was so confused I couldn’t answer. Finally he asked if I was still there, and I blurted out ‘But your computer is in California!’”

Linda worked for us for four years. In the middle of that time she said her cancer was recurring, but she was going to go through another round of chemo. We now knew the round before she came to us was the second. She was staying around for her boys, one in college and the youngest, an artist like herself, still in high school.

The jackets became too heavy for Linda to lift, so we hired another sewer, and kept the very light jobs for her, when she came in, for work she would. I cannot recall how she compensated when her legs hurt badly, but compensate she did, lightly saying “My doctor says if I would just stop sitting on my legs, like a school girl….”

Linda missed a few days and called to say she was in the hospital. I went to see her, sporting a big, unwieldy neck brace, for I had just had vertebrae fused. I went into her room, and she shooed everyone away from her bed so she could sympathize with my surgery. She was so tiny, and so gracious about my coming unannounced, with all her family visiting. She was tired, and I stayed just a few minutes, to tell her I loved her and would see her soon.

Linda died that night. A bright full moon lit my room and woke me, and Linda stopped over my bed and said goodbye.

I knew Linda’s sewing. When I hung up the last jacket Linda made, I thought how I would feel selling it. When the time came, I felt compelled to tell the woman of the Linda who made it.  She hugged the jacket to herself and told me her name was Linda, too.

A silly anecdote I read tonight reminded me of Linda and the computer in California, and so you have it. Several years ago I asked the mayor of her small village for news of her boys and her husband. “Quite the bachelor pad over there, now, without Linda,” he replied, and I finally drove by her house, and wondered if the bachelors knew the gift she was.

John Campbell, piper in NSW.

At her memorial service, we were piped out with

The Campbell's are Coming.

Linda loved it, I know.

Working nine to five; what a way to make a living…

.

Only three days into the first working week of the new year, and I’m exhausted. I have a self imposed goal of closing last year and opening this by week’s end. The alternative is to have two years open at once, and in twelve years I cannot bring myself to do it. Government accounting is too complex and my brain too fossilized. I make neat piles and dispose of them systematically and am done. I cannot worry about two years at once.

The program turns red X’s into green check marks as the close progresses. I was down to one red X yesterday, struggling through the warning on the screen that I was in in statutory violation of some important thing and could not continue until I cleared the refund I made to the road super of the health insurance I over deducted. 

I struggled with the fine print for an hour and by luck and tinkering found I could make a negative allocation of the amount back to the payroll account and hey, presto, the green light came on. Good enough for the government, as they say.

The clerk before me retired in his seventies, as I am now. I teased him he didn’t want to deal with CCR registration on-line. That’s Central Contractor Registration, not Credence Clearwater. CCR was the original platform for awarding government grants. It has morphed into the colossus that includes IPP and SAM, which I must use to obtain government funds.

I told a completely disinterested trustee recently that state government is pushing on us to file our accounting records in GASBE or GAAP format. It would mean mapping all our accounting records to look like, at year’s end, some general accounting formats prescribed by the National Accounting Standards Board. Still not the real thing, but on the road to uniform records from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

To that I say baloney; that’s why we pay the auditors, and we must pay them anyway. This year I had to pick whether I was filing one of the G’s, or my old friend, Regulatory. Next to Regulatory was a note, Not Recommended. Sez you; and I filed Regulatory. The year I don’t have a Regulatory choice will be my CCR year. End of my term or no, I’m outta there.

Add physical therapy and fetching children from appointments and I am beat. This afternoon I took a nap, waiting for Laura to come out from jazz band practice. Tomorrow she has art after school.

At lunch time today I rearranged the stock left at the gallery.  We changed the display to feature two right angle sections, and I think it all looks much more accessible.  I put everything on nice coat hangers today, put a scarf through one of the grids, and went back to work.

I need to weave this weekend!

What to do with the rest of the day after a 9:30 a.m. eye doctor appointment

I’ve been on Medicare these many years, plus supplemental private insurance. In the olden days, when I was under insured anyway and did not carry a vision plan, I had my eyes checked every two or three years.  The first eye doctor visit after I’d rolled through the obligatory sixty five years, and the youngster checking me in asked for my insurance cards, I demurred. “My insurance doesn’t cover that,” I explained. And in return was told Medicare would check my eyes once a year.

This year, however, the technician asked the reason for my visit, and I replied my annual visit. She responded my doctor had scheduled me annually for these several years because of my cataracts, “but you don’t have those anymore.”  We settled on dry eyes, which are the truth, and the exam proceeded.

It was still overcast and raining as I came home, so I only needed one pair of sunglasses to offset the numbing and dilating drops. Though I drive right past the town hall, I didn’t go to work. I only have two tiny jobs to get done before Wednesday’s payroll, and they can keep till then. I never like waiting for my eyes to return to normal, and less so at work.

I did decide to weave some more on the scarves. I’ve finished six seventy to ninety inch scarves since we put the new warp on the loom three weeks ago, with another almost done. After those initial painful sessions I can weave about an hour at a time. Not without hurting, but in a more weaverly fashion. I’m now convinced there’s more arthritis going on in my shoulder and arm than broken bone recuperation, and when I visit the arthritis doctor in January I will slap my disc of shoulder x-rays on his desk and say “Do something, please.”

When I see the physical therapist tomorrow, I will astound him again with progress brought about by toughing out the weaving. With my arm fully extended I have about eighty percent of all motion down pat. This morning the young technician checking me in stopped about half way through all the new computer stuff, clasped her hands behind her back at her waist, stretched her arms straight and lifted them chest high.

I got up from the chair and tried it myself. I only reached bottom of my rib cage height, but I’m making progress.

And, I’ve spend the rest of the afternoon wondering how I am going to set up an inventory accounting system so I can figure cost of goods sold for this year’s taxes. Note how brilliantly I’ve avoided it for another day.

Busy Saturday

In the studio, Laura sorts quilt fabric for Aunt Janice.

Emily sews quilt blocks.

Jan held up two panels of her current quilt.

She is making several quilts to be raffled to provide food bank funding.

I finished the scarf I wove on all week, and it's on Helen, at the Gallery.

Together with one lonely purple scarf.

And me, taking its picture.

And Emily, watching.

On weaving with a broken arm

Here's how to weave:

Step on a treadle, open a shed.

Throw the shuttle, catch it on the other side.

Use the hand that threw the shuttle to pull the beater into the weft.

Repeat with the other hand.

Here's how to weave with my broken arm:

Step on a treadle, open a shed.

Throw the shuttle left to right, with broken arm.

Put the shuttle in left hand, in order to use right hand to beat warp.

Put shuttle back in right hand, throw to left, catch in left hand,while beating warp with right hand.

Anyone who had done a job that requires a rhythm will see the broken beat here.

I can throw the shuttle left to right and catch it coming back if I do not lift my wrist or forearm from the breast beam.

I cannot raise my left arm high enough and far enough to reach the beater.

My left hand caught the shuttle in the picture below, but cannot rise and move left to make the return throw properly.

I have spent three days trying to weave, and can keep at it a little longer each day.

I have made half a ninety inch scarf.

Emily bailed on me. Teenagers!

Back at it tomorrow, after physical therapy.

On a happier note,

I put on a bra today, for the first time in six weeks.

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.

And I can't even throw a shuttle

I went to the gallery today to deliver the last two garments I was able to make from nothing. Two weeks ago, delivering two scarves I made "before the fall," Diane mentioned a customer demonstrated her yoga skirt and said one in handwoven would be cool.

What are you talking about?  I now will know a yoga skirt if I see it on a person exiting a yoga studio. If you run wearing yoga pants or spandex, if you ride your bike wearing spandex, if you actually practice the art of yoga, the activities conclude, and you and your friends  duck into your favorite coffee shop for a latte.

God forbid your butt  hang out now, so you throw on your yoga skirt. It's only job is to cover the same butt that jogged the trail, rode the bike or did downward faceing dog. Mine was not to question, especially as a yoga skirt merely is a sixties wrap skirt, that anyone can make. Even a weaver with only one decent length of fabric in her stash.

Always too clever for my own good, I decided to put a series of button loops on one side of the fabric and buttons pretty much around, for a rather infinitely variable size feature. This so I could avoid making draw strings, though I remained on the hook for twisted cord. I made the skirt, and I did not like it. Nevertheless, I would hang it on the rack and see if it went off in a bag.

This morning I decided it needed a tweak, so back to the sewing machine. On the way by I put it around my sister's shoulders. Like it was meant to be, there hung an understated little wrap that buttoned down the front. I immediately made another and delivered two. I forgot to take a picture. I did do a count of coat hangers on the rack and see I've sold another ten or so garments this month. And, I cannot throw a shuttle.

It has been four weeks, and my intention of being half through the ordeal isn't panning out. Two sets of  X-rays show no separation, but one round of therapy was disheartening. A couple of the exercises were cake, but another showed up a problem I already put up with--severe arthritis in that shoulder. Moving the arm away from my body now is too painful to contemplate. I made it through three snaps of my shoulder. "It sounds just like a rachet," I groaned. "No more!" Jamie laughed and said that's exactly what is is called, racheting, as bone spurs snap past each other. I must bring this to the attention of the orthopedic fellow this week.

I hope I find another Plan B around the corner.

I neglected to take a picture of my yoga skirt cum shrug this morning, but here are pussy willows behind a gallery, with no idea it isn't spring. 

Still chasing autumn

I took my camera, yesterday, on the way to drop off a couple more things at the gallery.

The sun was shining on everything.

Across the lake.

We've lost so many trees to emerald ash borer.

More dead ash trees.

Our considerable stock of wood for the studio stove for the last couple of winters has been ash trees cleared out from neighboring properties.

Another stop, another maple.

 Pictures don't do this oak all its due.

My favorite over arching. I've presented it in all seasons. 

From the other side. The cable company has no idea how I despise that cable, especially knowing no one watches TV any more.

From the underside. There were twice as many leaves yesterday; however, the weather was half as lovely.

When I dropped off my two things at the gallery, Diane, the owner was there.

"Let me help you, what do you need?" she said.

"Just a couple of hangers. I can get them." (From my tub of empty hangers in the bin in the back room.)

"No, here, I got them. Look, two right on top, not put away from the last that was sold."

I may like the looks of my check at month's end.

Buy low, sell high

The chief part of weaving is the thread for the loom. When I started up again, it was not too difficult to round up the basic supplies. People who used to weave for us, like Ann and my daughters, still had boxes of the stuff. Not boxes and boxes, but boxes. Not a big palette, but enough.  I put it all on three or four shelves in the laundry room, and thought I had plenty to be getting on with.

In the old days, after I discovered thread jobbers, there was plenty of thread. I’d call and big boxes came in a few days. Beautiful mill ends from the cotton sweater factories, from the cotton afghan factories in the south, or in New England.  Always plenty for the imagination of my sister to put together to weave into beautiful cotton fabric.

Once at show in North Carolina I had a great conversation with an executive from a well known clothing manufacturer who had been “drug” to the show by his wife. Rather wistfully he showed his wife our different weaves and textures, telling her “we used to do this here.” He had just finished overseeing the move to Indonesia of a large spinning plant their company used.

As our weaving career wound down, so did American spinning and knitting mills, though there was no relationship one to the other.  Socks went to China. Ordinary fabric went to India. Poof, like dandelion fluff, cotton products left this country.  

One good thing about the stock of thread I have left, aside from the cost, is the conundrum I must solve every time I put together a new warp. In the old days Jan and I would go to the barn with our trash bins on wheels, put a range of shades in the bins, go back to the studio and wind a hundred pounds of thread onto the back of a loom. Now I need to make five or six pounds of thread look equally as fun, and there are only so many ways to shade a bunch of natural cotton.

Sourcing inexpensive cotton thread in this second decade of the twenty first century is close to impossible. I can buy it from India, thousand pound minimum order. Haha. The jobbers in this country have no cotton to sell. All the odds and ends we once bought for $2 a pound are no more!

The weaving supply houses in this country, who cater to hobby weavers, import thread they have dyed for them. The thousand pound minimum order stuff, which they put onto one pound cones in house and sell, starting at $18 a pound. I’ve bought a few cones and it’s not the beautiful ring spun of cotton sweaters or coverlets. I’m sure the beautiful stuff is still being spun somewhere, but out of my price range.

Trolling the internet for thread is amusing. I have EBay on a constant search. It mostly returns the $18 a pound stuff from the last paragraph, from the same shops, but for $12 a pound and $5 shipping. I won’t weave with that stuff, but I do have a great end game plan: trolling the internet for old weavers with left over stashes. 

I got a box today from Maine, from a retiring weaver (but younger than I!) who used to bring home car loads of cotton thread from the great New England mills. She sold for a hundred and fifty percent mark up, and I can live with $5 a pound thread. But not a penny more!

When all the thread is gone, I’ll retire for good.

The box from Maine. See that cone of  Delft blue, up in the left corner.Using my best flashlight illumination technique, I took a picture of the label.

The Cleveland Yarn Company, Thompsonville, North Carolina. I'll bet this cone is thirty years old. Cleveland Yarn is no more.

Does anyone remember having a Delft blue cotton sweater? This stuff is soft as a baby's butt.

Back to the gallery

A thicker shawl for fall.

A lime green dress.

I need to weave for more long sleeve shirts!

 There is so much more in the gallery.

A new trip around:

Windows and windows of glass and pottery.

A final touch.