this moment :: finishing

{  this moment  }

A single photo

~ no words ~

capturing a moment from the week.

A simple, special, extraordinary moment.

A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

~ SouleMama


:::


inspired by the Friday reflections at Amanda's

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The next leg

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I am the daughter of an April fool...

Genealogy is a trickster and a grand informant.  My earliest traceable ancestor on my father's side

immigrated to America from England to escape religious persecution.

He was a Methodist minister who settled in Woburn, MA.  The year was 1608.

Following this line, there were two men who fought together in the Revolutionary War...

my gt.-gt.-gt. grandfather and his son, both named Jirah.

I have copies of their war papers.  Jirah, Sr. was discharged in 1782, the document signed:

"By his excellency George Washington Esq., General and Commander of the Forces of the United States of America &c., John Trumbull, Secty.  By reason of wounds or disabilities received in service, he was placed upon the pension list, and was a pensioner June 1, 1813, "Rank, Private. Annual stipend, $60."

I can't quite fathom this...George Washington himself.

My father's father was named Lewis Napoleon...
seriously?

As for my own father,  I wish I knew more.
Born today, April Fool's Day, 1924...he would have been 88.
I remain trumped by my own genealogy.

But back to grandpa Lewis... he married a young gal in 1917 by the name of Fanny Mae Bowyer.
She was from Hereford, England (the trickster is going full circle!) and while I lived in the UK in the late '80's,
I visited the village she came from.
I found the headstones of her/my ancestors in the village graveyard and had tea with distant cousins.

Fanny Mae was fond of hand work (just like my maternal grandmother).  She knitted & sewed and sent me presents when I was little.
I don't know what all of this means except that genealogy is potent.
Ever present.
Layered.

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My grandmother's needles

We may have heard that old saying about characteristics or traits skipping a generation...true or not, 

I am testament to this saying in my own lineage.  In so many ways I am unlike my mother. 

Dearest heart and dearest friend that she was to me, I am different.  We were different.

It is my grandmother I resemble more.  Oh, not so much in physical features  -  although I have her genetics to thank 

for the arthritis in my hands - but in our chosen activities.  Pastimes.  Personal pursuits.

My grandmother taught me to sew.

I don't remember my mother ever using a needle.  As a single parent, she worked as an administrator in a high profile law firm.  Those are skills I will never have, neither the parenting nor the legal ones.  Grandma babysat me for long hours after school.  It was then that I learned to not only drink what she called, coffee-milk (1/4 cup of coffee to 

3/4 cup of milk...with about 3 teaspoons of white sugar), but also to play canasta, and mend.

I have kept her sewing box all these years....such a ratty old thing, which I stuck way back in a storage cupboard.

Recently when I needed a big-eyed needle, I knew where I could find one.

The box was chaos.

Bits & bobs of everything in a massive, tangled jumble.  How many six inch segments of leftover rick-rack does one need to save?  How about snaps missing their opposing sides? 

So, I held a little impromptu reorganizing party and gathered together

my fondest memories...

Grandma kept her needles in their original packages.  This one used to hold fifty...

a penny a needle. 

Do you see those numbers, 7425?  Written in my grandmother's hand.

Someone's phone number, jotted down quickly.

Back in the day, everyone in our town had the same prefix so phone numbers were always written like this.

Her sewing chair was right next to the telephone table.

Imagine...ten cents for 18 crewel needles made in England...

This is my favorite grouping 

- every needle once in use - 

but more than that, I  remember my grandmother showing my awkward, young hands 

how to re-stick the needles here.

Her fingers were gnarled & bent, yet their misshapenness was so meaningless to her...

now mine are the same.

: : :

This post is a commemoration (of sorts)...it was a year ago this week when I accidentally stabbed myself with a sewing needle and a dangerous infection, along with a long course of intravenous antibiotics, took over my right hand - and my life -

for four long months.  It was a dark time.

And it is no more.

: : :

You may have noticed there's been quite a bit of photographic experimentation going on 

around these parts of late...thanks for putting up with me  :>]]

I'm having a rip-roaring time!  Here's what I worked on today for Day 8 in 'Beyond Layers.'

In honor of.

  

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Weaving velvet...

If ever I could find a velvet frock such as this one, something in this exact shade of green,

I just might be encouraged to change my mind forever about the wearing of dresses

(which I never wear)

Yes.  Definitely.  This would persuade me.

oh, and the glorious stitching details at the cuffs...

~ painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 'Veronica Veronese' ~

These I would NOT wish to wear,

not one little bit...

ever.

They must have been the height of fashion in their day, worn by Lady Mary Stanhope around 1660...

blue velvet, embroidered with silver gilt thread...once tied across the tongues

with decorative ribbons perhaps...

~ Shoe Collection, Northampton Museum & Art Gallery, UK ~

Back to the future...where a wall can be velvet...

~ Capital Museum in Beijing, photo (c) Trey Ratcliff ~

where we can travel in style if we want to...these seats look comfy don't they,

but...

~ Hankyu velvet, photo (c) Sam Bowman ~

...not nearly as inviting as these velvet seats.

~ Rocks, Moss & Water, photo (c) Martin Cathrae ~

Watchers.  They wear their velvet in summer...

~ Prairie Grass Bucks, photo (c) shadarington ~

and the groves, their velvet raincoats...

~ trees covered in velvet moss, photo (c) KWDesigns ~

...while here at home, repurposed velvet becomes a bit of architecture for my long cloth...

*****

What a gathering has happened over at Spirit Cloth!

'Contemporary Woven Boro'...a workshop who's meaning redefines itself each day...

over one hundred of us (imagine that)

*traveling companions* engaged in the common language of cloth:

 weaving, stitching, experimenting, learning from one another...

jumping off...out...even when there appears (at first) to be no familiar net to catch us.

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The humble cloths that are Japanese 'boro'...

Multiple layers of extensively repaired and patched fabrics...

hand-sewn for practical purposes, for retaining warmth...

utilitarian assemblages such as futon covers

or clothing such as a 'yogi' (sleeping garment used as a blanket)

...abundant use of recycled indigo dyed rags

and handwoven cotton & hemp scraps, 

repeatedly mended...

some held together by thousands of 'sashiko' stitches

transformed into something precious and valuable.

"These textiles are generational storybooks, lovingly repaired

& patched with what fabric was available.

Never intended to be viewed as a thing of beauty,

these textiles today take on qualities of collage, objects of history,

and objects with life and soul."

~ John Foster, Accidental Mysteries blog ~

tatters, telling complex stories...

"although boro has become a bit of a trend these days, the raggedy edges

and patching and primitive approach to cloth making...there is a subtle reminder

that this was not an intended art form.

this was life, mending, thrift, respect for cloth.

this is the result of living small with consciousness of means.

the need to stay warm, the patience to repair, restore and to keep going...

and the resulting beauty in that."

~ Jude Hill, from 'art, craft, and dedicated intent' ~

All photographs courtesy of kimonoboy.com 

where a short history on Japanese textiles can be found here.

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Mending with the blues

The other day over at her place, Spirit Cloth, Jude was playing with gaps.  This got me to thinking about a few gaps of my own...

...ever thought about whether you are left-kneed or right-kneed?  Neither had I until I realized that ALL of my favorite jeans eventually look just like this -- a big hole in the left knee.  Never the right -- just the left.  Good to have things in ones life one can always count on, I suppose  ;>}

Pawing through the mending pile, the choice for the *sacrificial lamb* jeans was not the least bit difficult.  You should see the derriere on this pair...beyond hope I decided.  Off with its leg!

Thought it would be fun to just play with stitches, no particular goal in mind except to stop the drafts and add some reinforcement so out came a menagerie of embroidery thread recently gleaned from the local thrift store.  Ended up using every blue in the bag.

Kept the raggedy edges all 'round (I'm prone to that lately) although future laundering should fray them up nicely.  In the meantime, my favorite gardening jeans have a new lease on their days in the dirt.  Thanks to Jude for inspiring with her own particular style of "knee keepers."  


I love my new knee.  But look at that perfect RIGHT knee...what's up with that?!  One of life's mysteries.

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