A day with the artist

Back in the day my sister and I purveyed our handwoven clothing and rugs to the world, to earn our daily bread and pay the mortgage. I was a weaver, but one who saw numbers and listened to recorded books on the road. My sister was the right brain. Also the nice brain, who set out to befriend another weaver and her husband, Linda and Dick.

Like most artists we knew, their trade secrets were close to the vest.  Jan and I were rubes, we had no idea you weren't supposed to tell. We shared everything. “Oh, yeah, we buy this thread from (name of supplier); you can get that cheaper from (name of supplier); who do you buy that from?

Dick and Linda weren't sure about us. That offended Jan, so she sent me to shows with homemade raisin bread to ply them. I heard Dick consumed every crumb behind the curtains. We talked. We had much in common. Each also left professional careers behind, for one reason or another, to see how it was to live hand to mouth.

Dick died suddenly in 1996, just months before our own mother left just as quickly. We figured there was an urgent call for skilled weavers beyond the bar, and carried on.

Artists are not like the rest of us, including me. I see numbers, Linda sees in color. Or in music. Whichever strikes her first that day. She’s also hooked on how well the prosecutors make their case on the live court television channel.

She tends to weave a rug to the end of her book on tape, and then name the fifteen foot monster  KiteRunner. Not to worry; it’s the rug two customers were considering at St. James Court. I sold it to mine while Linda’s customer dithered on the phone consulting her husband.

“I think I want that,” wailed the lady outside. “I already decided,” announced the lady in the booth, as I tied up her purchase and took her money. Linda went to smoke a cigarette. “Come back and talk to Linda tomorrow, “I advised the lady without the rug. “She will make you a rug you will love.”

And that’s how it is. People who see numbers take pictures, mental or actual, while chaos swirls around the artist and the customers get A Linda they will love. It starts here, at the selvage supplier, Great Northern in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Linda drives an hour to my house, then four hours to Kalamazoo and then back. Artists work hard, and we solve all world problems while driving.

She has to go herself to select her colors. They ship and Linda has tried that, but there could be too much beige. Linda doesn't see beige, or a few other colors I won’t mention here, so any customer who has ordered those colors and received a perfect rug won’t be offended, in the event they stumble on this account.  

The goal. Upholstery selvage. 

These bales are huge and moved by tow motor, on pallets.

This one is waiting to be sorted.

"Stick your camera right in there. I want Betty to see this."

(Linda and Betty go to the opera.)

Red!

More red.......?

This is Carol. She sorts colors.

Carol sees in color, too.

A language all their own.

Looking for turquoise.

Found it.

Raw rugs.

It doesn't leave on it's own. 

I helped load up three of those bins,

weigh them,

put them in the van.

Something over four hundred pounds

to be

It's A Linda.

This is Pat. 

Her little feet went here and there,

Sweeping the floor,

Breaking down boxes,

Restocking shelves,

Putting our mess away.

I could be Pat when I grow old.

A day trip and a detour

I’m thinking many of you lovely people simply don’t hang around with tough old broads. And, the operative word may be old; as I seem to have a decade on everyone, except Lois, who I would be content to be when I get even older.

So, I will write more adventures, starting with “Why your father and I got married.”

But first I am going on a day trip with Linda, another tough old broad. Linda is so tough that at a show we did together she returned to me a rug a customer purchased at my booth before she arrived at Linda’s booth and discovered she loved Linda’s rugs more. The customer was too embarrassed to return her purchase, so Linda took it from her hands, brought it to my booth and said “This customer wants her money back.” And when I was done laughing I did it. Perhaps Linda is an even tougher old broad than I, but then she is nine months older…

After the day trip I will have cataract surgery Monday, right eye. Woo hoo. And after a week or so of not cringing when I make left hand turns across two lanes of traffic, into my own lane, on filthy black, rainy nights, I'll have the other one done so I can make right hand turns just as easily. On filthy black nights, that is. I used to stay home nights, but now I have grandchildren. Like tonight, I have to fetch Emily from working on her Science Fair project, probably not before eight or nine. If it weren't a requirement I wouldn't sign off on Science Fair, but that’s another story.

Jim Noragon
1961 high school graduation picture

I forgot--he was pretty good looking.

The problem with teaching

The last piece about the newspaper that canned me, long ago, was a rock in a pool of collective memories. The ripples touched on hard times, hard work, pride in our own ability or that of friends and siblings.  I had an awful time keeping it in my plus or minus five hundred words a post range, probably because of the facts that Mark Twain lets me leave out of a good story.  

My life has been the tale of getting into, through and out, one chapter at a time. Some ironic, some ending with sincere gratitude for having a page to turn, and some with sincere appreciation for being helped along.

The last fifty years of seven plus decades are the result of the chapter called “How your father and I came to be married.” It’s the ironic chapter, the foundation of the rest of my life. The writing needs some thought.

I left off the last post earning a master’s degree in American Literature and nailing my dream job, teaching freshman English at our community college.  I didn’t intend to carry on from there, but it’s an interesting story, so, editing by Mark Twain, here it is.

The teaching gig was night classes; a hopeful start at low pay. I kept my day job. There remained a scarcity of money, so I added a weekend job, cashiering at the local drug store. My husband was immersed in getting his sales career up and running, but he was available to watch the girls while I was teaching and on weekends.

And so things went on for two years. I know it was two years because I just made a time line. Funny how some things come together as one. Way over in Washington D.C., Congress was not funding liberal arts budget items. All over America PhD professors were out of work at universities and flooding the bottom of academia, community colleges. My contract was not renewed.

Back at my day job, I took a phone call from a collection agency threatening to garnishee my wages. After supper that night my husband went off to sell insurance, as he did almost every night. I put the girls to bed, and began going through the bill desk.  I was unfamiliar with its contents; my husband handled that end of our partnership. You can guess the reason.

Everything was months behind. There were credit card bills in my name; there was a loan in our names that I found had my name forged. I made a tidy list and hired a lawyer. The next time our paths crossed, after the children were in bed, I told him I had filed for divorce. His reaction: “You sure know how to hit a fellow when he’s down.”

Thanks to Mark Twain I can exclude the anguish, how awful divorce is for children, and skip to the part where I realized my day job would not pay the bills. I opened the newspaper to the want ads and looked for a profession that earned decent money. I found it, midway down the first column. Accountant!

Back to school again for a degree, Bachelor of Science Accounting. And I had just paid off my masters’ loan! 

To tidy the loose ends, my husband married my best friend and lived happily ever after. Sadly, for him, and for the girls, ever after ended a few years later; he died aged 44 of a massive heart attack. He was his wife's second husband, and she buried him in a single grave, for the reason, she explained to his parents, at graveside, she expected to remarry.  Love those little tidbits.

The end. I believe I’m off the nostalgia train for the time being.

Delivering newspapers

Long ago, when I was married, our household finances continually collided with the truth that my husband was chronically underemployed, beginning the day he left his job as a purchasing agent to become self employed. No more desk jobs for him! 

Sadly, the idea of being self-sufficient came to him just as I left a good secretarial job to go back to school for a master’s degree. I did have a plan; with the degree I could begin teaching English at the local community college. He and I never were on the same wavelength, although I also have learned the definition of passive-aggressive. I didn't know those big words back in 1969.

I took my toddlers out of day care when I started back to school; I could arrange my schedule to accommodate them. My husband became a commissioned salesman of industrial equipment. But, he never sold enough in a month’s time to draw more than his base. Rather like servers today depending on tips, except he never earned commissions.

So, I looked around for a job that would accommodate my children, fit my school schedule, and put food on the table. I found one, delivering newspapers.

Way back then newspapers were delivered by paper boys and girls. They picked up the papers at an assigned place, removed the binding, packed the papers into their bags or their wagons, in the case of the little entrepreneurs with multiple routes, and delivered the papers to subscribers’ homes.

My job was to load all the News Herald bundles for about half of Painesville, Ohio, into my car, and with my two children in the passenger seat, take the bundles to their assigned corners after the papers were off the press and before the little paper deliverers came home from school.

The pay was not great, but the best I could come up with on short notice, and off we went. My route manager hired the paper kids, arranged for the homes the paper bundles went to. My last duty was to collect the cost of the papers weekly from the paper carrier.

Like my husband and his commissions, I failed at this part of the job. My route was the poorest side of town; I wonder if the customers even paid the kids. I collected from the parents; the children were in school.  A mother would tell me her child hadn't collected enough for the week to pay for the papers. Worse, tell me the money bought a gallon of milk.

I told my supervisor he could add collections to his job description. He told me to collect the money, or make the parents sign cognovit notes. I refused. He fired me.

In thinking back on it, I decided everyone should be fired from a newspaper job. Nice resume material. So, I found another secretarial job, put the girls back in day care, finished my masters degree at night, and then was hired to each English at our community college.

Grade A

I was out and about around ten this morning.

  

A foggy, grey day.

And rain.

Some work in town is finishing up,

and I went to look.

The roof is done!

Nothing left but the rest of the scaffolding, here and on the entire east side,

that will be removed by the scaffolding company next week.

Our intrepid crew was on debris patrol.

Fallen snow angels.

The refurbished bridge railings started going up last week.

The Garden Club picked a great color.

Emerald green.

Compare to the south side, which will be refurbished next:

I'm wondering about that ungainly bottom rail.

The original rail the Garden Club ladies designed looked like the refurbished rail.

ODOT inspected and announced a child could get through.

The very fat rail was added,

Blocking the bridge at 36", not 34"

It probably will be re-installed, 

but the airy view is pleasant in the meantime.

The river is on the move.

The fog from the melting snow pack is quite thick in places,

But just doesn't photograph well.

Some more fog around my favorite tree.