handstories

afternoons

    The weather has been really weird this week.  Pouring pelting rain at the window, sunny the next minute, hail so loud you have to yell to be heard over it, and lots of gray skies in-between.  It suits these strange days.

    Using this video, I made a little book with one of my cards, and then filled it with swashes of paint.

    Pages were pressed together to make a print on the opposite page.

    And some daydream doodling- pink crystal waterfall, rooted heart, sparkling goose, and a home built on strong clouds and stone.  Time goes along. 

    It did for Rosee, too...

    "About a month after he left, a traveling salesman came breezing into my lair and asked where Stew was.  I said I didn’t know, he’d just gone away for a while. The salesman wanted to know who was buying supplies.  I didn’t know.  He said “Look, you lovely lady, you can’t make bread without lard and sugar and stuff.  Somebody will have to buy them.  I said wait till Mickey the head baker comes on tonight and we’ll ask him.  Mickey was a great help.  He bellowed, “I’ve never bought anything, Stew always handled it!  All I do is bake!”  We stood around swilling coffee and looking stupidly at each other for a while, and then they both pounced on me.

    "Miss Rosee O’Neill, we now elect you as purchasing agent for the Blue Ribbon Bakery as of now."  I lit out a wail that I wouldn’t know how much to buy or who to buy it from. The Salesman, being a patient soul said, "Get all the old bills out of the flour barrel and order what Stew bought last time.  Then this stupid Irishman can keep track of what he is low on, and, well, purchase that.  See, here are the bills from my company stretching back three years, so you can go ahead on that."  We did.  When the bread paper man came, we did the same thing.  Everything went nicely.  On the first of the month I’d trudge up and down main street getting everybody to make a payment on their bills.   None of them actually paid up, but me and my seven bakers were still getting paid. 

    Then the flour man came and announced that it was time to contract for a carload of flour.  He sat down and patiently explained, with papers out of the barrel, that it was done that way.  I made him wait for Mickey again.  Buying sugar and spices for a couple of hundred was one thing, but contracting for a carload of flour for $1,000 was something Rosee O’Neill was not going to sign.  Again, Mickey argued me into it, and I sat and wrote a check for $1,000 signed Blue Ribbon Bakery by Rosemary O’Neill.  Then I just sat there and looked at it.  Me getting $18 a week.  There was something about it that gave me the willies.

    One day, a smart salesman came in with a bread wrapping line of paper Stew had never bought, and I turned him down cold.  Nothing doing, if there wasn’t an old account with the company in the flour barrel, I wouldn’t touch it. 

    Of course, I got to use my Newspaper Institute of America writing those clever little ads in the Miles City Star every week.  

    One day, about a year later, we were all gathered around the coffee pot with the girls from the beauty shop, who always joined us in coffee and rolls, when someone said, “Hello” and we looked around and there was our lost employer- sane, sober and clean.  We were all so glad to see him that none of us ever told him how frantic we’d been when he was gone.  We didn’t even know whether he was alive or dead till a counter check showed up at the bank about six months after he disappeared. That night I waited till the bakers came to work to show them we still had an employer somewhere."

maelstrom

    "Story" goes along.  Stars fill gaps left by wayward stitching.  I look forward to working on it every morning, rushing to get showered, oatmeal and tea made, so that I can settle into it.

   It was a happy surprise to flip it over, after days of not looking, and find a whole other story going on.

    This chart was made on a day it felt like I wasn't getting anywhere, to document and see progress.  Each day is a new color, except for that big blue space that was the first accounting of finished squares before Tuesday.

    Tuesday was a crazy bad day, in lots of directions.  Including a meltdown while trying to dismantle and pack up as many games, puzzles, etc. to send to Blue, who had asked for them, and I was so glad there was something I could do for him 2,351 miles away, but not so glad that it meant a trip to the crowded post office, which stressed me out. 

    And then another in the car when I couldn't release the emergency brake Moon had set as hard as he could. 

    And another upon returning... just because. 

    The last one included a word that Moon has never heard me use before... which sent him into his own meltdown.  We were all like a whirlpool, with everything being sucked down to the bottom of the ocean... sea, sand, ships, and great whales of emotions.

    And then morning came... with that after storm stillness, everyone treading lightly, checking the weather.  The sun came out, and everything has been very peaceful since (knocking on wood)!  Clearly I need to swear more often!

    As for Grandma Rosee, when last we left her, she had just gone to work for Stew, the baker.

    "I told him I knew shorthand and bookkeeping, and he said he’d never done any bookkeeping because all he had was bills, and it was less discouraging to just throw them in a flour barrel. However the Income Tax man came along and requested a report. Stew said he’d give me $5.00 extra if I’d clean out the barrel and put it in a ledger, which I proudly bought. At last I was going to get to use my Business College that I’d taken four years ago in Seattle.

    When I got all the bills and nasty letters recorded, I found a blank space under rent. Nothing but nasty letters and threatened legal action from the landlord in California. I asked Stew why we never paid the rent and he explained that he’d either have to lay off a baker with a family to feed or pay the rent, so he hadn’t paid the rent for three years. That was the picture all over the United States in those days.

    When I’d been there about three months, with Stew sleeping and swilling whiskey in the chair beside me, he came down one morning and said, “Rosee, I’m going away for a while and someone has to sign the checks, so come down to the bank with me and I’ll authorize your signature.” That was all the authorization I ever had and he was gone for almost a year."

    To be continued...

rows & rows & Rosee

    Different day, different squares... (these few are from Jude and a trip to London).

    Routine helps me.  So, I'm trying to stitch in the first half of the day, lunch, and then afternoons are for computer things, reading, housekeeping (once in a while), trying to pry Moon away from his phone... doing anything that needs done (today it was a search for the eggs K. couldn't find at the store last night.  A dozen was scored, but there wasn't a grain of flour to be had...another day.).

    These papers are also becoming a piece of the days.  The manila envelope that's held them for decades was uncovered last week.  Forty some pieces of onion skin paper, written on the fronts and backs by my Grandma Rosee.  I think I was in high school when she wrote it for my dad and his sister.  He had handed it to me saying I should type it up before it was lost.  So, forty some years later, at last, it's happening.

  It begins with...

            "This is the story of my life. You might be interested and you might be bored, but it gives me something to do and I’ve never been home to tell it to you."

    Way back on the blog I wrote this about her... "Rosee was Montana born and raised as a cowgirl.   She was a palm reader for a while in Alaska, while Grandpa was out at sea fishing, during their early years.   She hung her shingle outside her door on the building, the building that also housed women who were frequented by the fishermen.  She was schizophrenic, heavily medicated, wore bright red lipstick, loved her Harlequin romances, and would lay on our couch when she visited once a year, with an ashtray balanced on her chest.  She would only get up for food, cribbage or to read our palms- never sugar-coating what she saw in your hand."

    Since then, there have been family discussions about whether or not she was schizophrenic, or misdiagnosed and misunderstood?  She was in and out of the state hospital for most of my dad's childhood.  There were shock treatments and lithium, which left her flat and mostly silent.  So it's great to be hearing her expressive, funny and sarcastic "voice" in her writing.

    The first fourteen pages told about the animals of her childhood on the ranch.  She described the personalities of eleven horses (Tablespoon, Dainty Boots, Silver, Star...), a sheep named Popeye, and Puppins and her puppies.

    Today her story finally left the ranch...

    "I was one of those suckers that never could pass a fortune teller without shelling out a dollar to have my fortune told till I finally got disgusted and sent to Montgomery Ward for a fortune telling book."

    She goes on to tell about educating herself in palmistry and numerology, reading more and more books.  When a text didn't match what she had already learned, she would heave it into the stove and buy the next one on her list.

    "This was in those deadly depression days when I couldn’t get a job. I took a correspondence course in news writing but I found out I couldn’t write anything unless I had first lived it myself.

    In 1934, I’d had all I wanted of O’Neill, Montana, so when Peggy (her sister) got ready to go back to school. I said I’m going with you and hanging out my shingle as a Fortune Teller in Miles City, which I did. An ad was placed in the Miles City Star and I waited for customers. All the teachers in her bridge club and all the beauty operators where we had our hair fixed bought a fortune. One day one of the girls in the beauty shop said the baker next door wanted a fortune so I went next door and read his hand, and he asked me if I wanted a job as a retail clerk in his bakery. I almost climbed his frame with joy. It actually paid $18 a week. That was the end of my fortune telling career."

    It wasn't the end, I know she read palms later in Alaska, but I'm not reading ahead.

    Until next time...

rough & only draft

    I've been avoiding screens (& people, too), feeling they were adding to the stress.  When I'm anxious, worried, scared, overwhelmed... I tend to turn away from everything, and lean towards shutting down.  Self protection.  Looking for a shell to crawl into.  But pretending that I have one doesn't seem to be serving me.  So, I'm going to try to keep going out loud here, and drifting and reaching back into the worlds of others.  Here I go...

    Much of the days are spent stitching on the "Story" blanket.  I could be doing a neater job, taking time and care.  But, I'm not.  Seams of the two sides were eye-ball lined up- iffy at best.  Spilled tea on it, probably a little wine, too.  Just going.  If I stop to get it right, it may all screech to a halt.  So, I don't look back.

    Stitching in whatever direction it gets picked up in, whatever I feel like doing.  There are no rules other than going.  The needle is too long.  Moving the few safety pins that I could find to hold ("baste") the layers together as I go.  Managing only what is in my lap, not the big picture.

on turning 57 during precarious times...

    A quiet birthday at home, not that different than what would have been asked for.  Some of these works are still in progress, including me.

a yarn yarn

    "Knit on, with confidence & hope, through all crisis."- Elizabeth Zimmerman (knitting hero).

    K. is working from home for weeks. Schools have closed for at least six weeks, so Moon is home, too, and so is the neighbor boy (Who now has LOTS of time to play his drum set.).  Museums and libraries are closed for a month.  Our singing group concert, Moon's thespian festival, K's and my getaway during Moon's festival...cancelled.

    I find myself wanting to eat potatoes and cinnamon rolls.

    The story of this yarn...

    A year and a half ago, sitting in the Providence, RI airport, waiting to fly home, there was a woman knitting.  "That is who I want to sit next to on the flight," I said to myself, "Instead of another elbowing, wide-spread-knees man." (The seat mate on the flight to RI.)

    When we boarded, there she was, in the seat next to mine!  She had just moved to Washington.  We realized that we also had the same connecting flight, and seats next to each other again (this time with an empty seat for our yarn bags between us).  She had a bag with "Prague" written on it.  I shared that Blue was going there on a college trip soon.  We knitted and chatted across the country.  

    Saying our "Nice to meet you's," I handed her my instagram link.  A few months later she reached out saying that she was the new owner of a yarn shop in Coupeville (on a nearby island).  I've been to Coupeville twice since (for Christine Mauersberger's workshops), and both times have stopped at her sweet shop for a souvenir skein.

    This one (Wonderfully Whidbey) is from last week's visit.  I'm calling this color "In Search of Blue Skies."  If you're ever in Coupeville, WA, please stop by Sea Bre's Yarn shop and say "Hi!" from her old seat mate.

    So, today I'm knitting on, with hope, if not confidence, that things will be ok.  Twinkle and I will learn to share our daytime space.  Although, she did have to yell at Moon to get out of her birdwatching chair this morning.

Coupeville & Christine

    Things are so strange right now.  The virus... How much to worry?  Events being cancelled, going to three stores before finding toilet paper (we were down to our last roll), Moon says a third of the school is staying home, K.'s office has told everyone to work from home for the next two weeks... Where is the line between panic and reckless?

    Meanwhile, I took myself on a short retreat.

    Traveling companions- pincushion complete with guardian girl, Velma's bear, Jude's star, a piece of smoky quartz (I don't know what it does for me, but it feels good in my hand), and the "ease" cloth.

    A whole two days to myself looking at the water and trees, listening and watching the many birds, and stitching and stitching in a cozy comfy room.

    I watched the neighbors frolic during breakfast.

    For lunch there was a walk into town, a table by the window overlooking the water, and eating in a restaurant alone for the first time ever.  Yes, ever.

    And more stitching, knitting and a little painting into the twilight.

    The next morning, and why this getaway happened, there was Christine Mauersberger's  "Stitching a Small Story" workshop.  Christine is a wonderful teacher- inspiring, generous and she creates a warm rich environment to work in with wonderful kindred folk.  I especially love her prompts and how she shares her own process.  It was really good to step out of my own "boxes" and stretch my abstract muscles.  Everything informs and enriches everything.  Also, what a gift it was to be able to see and hold so much of her beautiful artwork.

    "Yesterday in Coupeville" in progress.

    The water, trees, birds...  What a good piece of time.

    There was even a hot pink sunset (pinker than it looks here).

    This photo, with its glowing moons of light, is just how it all felt and was.

floating over the deep

    Last night, I went to bed thinking about art, process, and my place with it all right now.  Somehow this led to remembering days at summer camp at the Oregon Coast...

    Every year, on Friday, the whole camp would go over the dunes to the beach, working together to carry a long thick rope.  I couldn't tell you how long, or how many of us there were.  A hundred children?  Fifty feet?  We would march down the sand, parallel to sea.  Once we arrived at the designated spot, the counselors would spread themselves along the rope and carry it out into the ocean until they were waist deep, creating a barrier between us and danger.  When the signal came, we would all run in as hard and fast as we could!

    I remembered that feeling of jumping into the waves, and the occasional momentary drowning panicking feeling when overwhelmed by a surprise surge, and then being upright, breathing air again, excited it might all happen again, and the anticipation and elation of jumping just right, so that the swell carried you almost to shore...  It was a joyous kind of baptism.

    (You should know that it's hay fever season, and I'm in those first loopy days of meds...)

moon talk

    We've become good friends over the last couple of weeks, telling each other stories, making a new one together.

    Jude's big orange moon sings with the stars of Deb's thread.

    Collaborating with cloth.

"Moon Talk"

    She's in the shop.

"cultivating peace"

    This is a photo of a photograph by Ishiuchi Miyako.  One of her many beautiful and poignant works on display at the Spirits Rising: Hiroshima exhibit at the Portland Japanese Gardens.

    "...documenting cherished items and clothing left behind by victims of the atomic bomb detonated in Hiroshima at the close of World War II that are now housed at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum." 

    More about her work can be found here.

    We've been in Oregon for a few days visiting family.  The gardens were part of a lovely day with K.'s sister.  I hadn't been there in decades.

    The Heavenly Falls.  (To see & hear them in action go here.)

    It was a bright sunny cold day, and I don't know how to adjust for that with the phone camera, so please imagine all of the lush green that surrounded us.

    There was a view over downtown Portland, looking towards Mt. Hood.

    Such a blue sky.