handstories

golden

    Still playing with Deb's yellows, combined here with a few of this summer's indigos and a scrap of that beloved old dress (story here).  This bit still held the hem stitching holes in it.  They've been honored with a few of Jude's thread beads running alongside of them.

    My new first thing in the morning exercise (while the oatmeal cooks).  Sitting at the table with eyes closed, pencil marks are made inside of a taped off space while listening and feeling.  Afterwards there is painting and redrawing the pencil lines with a pen.

    This morning the smoke had cleared enough to open the windows, but I think the birds were still staying sheltered and safe.  It's only been four days, but I'm really loving this.

    There's also been a little work at color mixing- creating the secondary colors from the primaries.  Purple is the hardest for me.  Color wheels are great- for looking at and for using.  It's also swell to be able to make my own tools.

    Other than moons, yellow doesn't have a big spot in my world, but this cloth is singing stories.

journeys

    Business first... These story cloths will be going into the shop tomorrow (Wednesday, August 19th).  

    There has been a lot of staring at these photos, and a wanting and trying to write about how things are at this moment.  Strong feelings of happiness, and sadness, and deep wishing.  The word "clinging" gathered itself and rose to the top.

    I found this when I cleared my shelves in the school basement seven years ago.  Where did it come from?  Floating amongst 23 years of teaching- books, supplies, plans, projects, props, backdrops, etc., and one little boat.  It came home with me, and sits here on the windowsill above the studio table.  It was beyond time to leave that job, some of you might remember.  As awful as that ending was, so many great things came from sailing into the unknown.

    Not long after leaving, this matchbox art was found in a shop.  The message inside might seem sad, but I love it.

    It tells me stories of longing, faraway lands and treasure, and whenever I read the words, "It took me too long to start",  "But, I did." is always tagged on in my mind. 

"Sharing Light"

stars & stuff

    Looking through a pile of starts, I found this, and couldn't remember much about it.

    Old blog posts reminded me that it was going to be a star blanket, with stars stitched daily onto it, started sometime in 2017.  Oh, well.

      A couple of collages, not my usual thing to do, but it was fun to play.

    There was an urge to make a face, something I usually shy away from.

    She's only got one eye so far, I may be afraid to go on.

    Still working on the things I love book.  It's been fifty days, there are 38 things so far.

    How it feels a lot these days.

    Things are quite unfocused.  Today a few small skies came into being, that helped.

noticing stories

    The last squares were quilted yesterday, with stars filling more of those gaps created by my wandering lines of stitching.  I am both glad and sad about that.  Today I started the binding.  I've come up with a different idea of how to do it.  I can see it in my mind.  I hope it works, I hope it wears ok.  We'll see.

    Some starts were made...

    The book goes slower and slower, but still, it's going.

    This page has two things I love- the windows that led to us buying this house, and the blue walls I waited thirty years for.

    The other day I said that I felt story-less.  I know that I'm not, but they're sure hard to grab ahold of these days.  

    But then, I was noticing the few irises that grow under the cherry tree next to the sidewalk.  I remembered how much Grandma loved them and gladiolas, and fuchsias and sweet peas... she just loved all flowers.  Once her birthday was celebrated with cakes baked into flowerpots, each decorated with different frosting flowers, all displayed in a plant stand.

    And irises grew wild on the hill behind the first college I went to.  The hill K. and I climbed after he started to propose to me in the basement of my dorm, next to the pool table.  I could see where he was heading, and said, "You are NOT going to ask me anything important in front of a pool table are you?"

    So we walked up the hill, to a tree, which I made him climb.  Up in its branches, looking down the hill, at the school, town and the Columbia River below, we made our plans.  It was February, long before the irises bloomed, but they were there.

spooning stories

    This is a Twin Star pierced spoon.  Isn't that lovely to say?  Isn't it a beautiful spoon?  As a child I imagined stardust and fairytales pouring off of it.  I have loved this spoon most of my life.

 

 

    It is part of the silverware I grew up using.  The first place settings were slowly collected during a crime spree carried out by my mom and her mother (Grandma got a kick out of the scheme).  During Mom's last years in high school, about once a month, they would go to a local diner for a cup of coffee.  The restaurant served up orders with a mishmash collection of utensils.  If there was a piece of Twin Star at their table (or on one within reach), a single piece would be taken to add to Mom's hope chest. 

    By the time she and Dad got married there were a couple of place settings worth.  The set was filled out over time with Betty Crocker box-top coupon points that Mom collected and mailed in for the missing pieces, including the magical serving spoon.

 

 

    Sometime during my high school years, Mom had saved up more points and ordered a whole new set of silverware.  It was not Twin Star.  I was not happy.  The Twin Star set was moved out to the motorhome to be used for camping trips.  A few years later, when Dad left, he took the motorhome, cast iron skillet (that's another story), and the Twin Star with him.

 

 

    While over at Dad's house a couple of years later, I spied the serving spoon, and began plotting how to get it (I am my mother's daughter).   While I didn't have to resort to thievery, it did require spending time alone with him (in a post-bar state), listening to unwanted advice and comments about me and my life, but I left with the spoon.

    I love this spoon.

tear drops & trees

   Blue turned 22 yesterday.  We haven't been with him on his birthday since he went off to college four years ago, but this year found me a little sadder than usual about it.  Moon and K. tip-toed around a bit.  K. sent capital lettered texts to Blue saying his mama REALLY needed a photo of his WHOLE face (she did), Moon decided to JUST DO the schoolwork his mama asked him to, rather than argue that she hadn't asked him to (she did).  I cried a little while singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" during the zoom practice with our group last night (fortunately there are sixty of us and our images are too small to notice dripping faces).
   On a cheerier note, last week I cracked about social distancing, texting, screen time, missing time with women, etc.  A good friend heard my meltdown via texting, cursing and silence (this is not the cheery part), and had the brilliant idea of a picnic.  With our own food, wine bottles, blankets, and six feet between our lawn chairs, we spent the evening in the front yard under the Japanese maple tree.  We're hoping the weather holds for a repeat tonight.  It's great to have something to look forward to.

    The pages are going even slower than last week, just like me, but I'm so glad that most of them resemble the things they're meant to represent.  This photograph was a gift from K. years ago.  It still makes me take a deep breath with it's fairytale magic when I look at it, I'm sorry I don't know who took it.

    There are fifty-eight squares of quilting left.  This is a photo of the other side.  I don't remember dyeing this piece of indigo, or how those little flower shapes came to be (beneath the big blob of white), but I like them and used pale blue threads here to keep them as visible as possible.
        And a bobbin of spinning was finished up, and I surprised myself by still being able to spin a balanced yarn (not too much or too little twist in it).  If I stop and think about it, there's lots to be glad about.  I hope you're finding spaces of happy, too.

another Tuesday

    Eighty-nine squares to go.  I paused on this one for a while.  Indigo, walnut and tea, I think.

    A couple of squares begun.  This one with one of Jude's stars, it had floated to the top of the basket.

    This strange thing happened yesterday in response to Jude's post about wrinkles.  Not quite sure what's happening.  It felt like birthing something, maybe myself, but looks like a rock garden, too.  Maybe my mind is a rock garden?  Now I'm remembering childhood stops at a rock garden and museum- an attraction the family would stop at on the way to visit cousins.

    The book of loved things continues, but at a slower pace.  Some pages take longer, like this one of a retired favorite mug.  It was the perfect mug- size, image, handle...sadly, the glaze has worn off on the inside making it unsafe to drink from.

    Just a bit of Rosee...

    "Every night after work, Stew and all the girls in the beauty shop and I went riding before bed time.  It got so hot that summer that the whole bunch of us took a blanket and went out and slept in the pines.  It was a lot of fun.  The summer of 36 came along..."

still Tuesday (I think)

    The pen was found, so pages are being labeled.  Now I'm wondering if I should mess with it more by adding bits of the stories of each thing?

    The start of today's page, Deb's thread.

    Another book, the first one I made, is open next to me as a place to test paints, practice writing, doodle (this one was one of Carla Sonheim's one-liner exercises).

    This morning I stood looking at the mailbox, trying to remember, "Did anyone get the mail yesterday?  Or was yesterday Sunday?  What day IS it?"  While trying to answer my own questions, it finally occurred to me to just open the mailbox and see. 

    The studio table is overflowing.  Things are precariously balanced atop each other- paints, books with painting that needs to dry, thread, cloth, to-do lists, pens, brushes, snacks...  

    This is how things go in our corner of the world.  (FYI- no one had emptied the mailbox yesterday.)

    Two-hundred-eighty squares (69%) finished, 128 to go.

    There was some spinning this week.  A little each day.  It's been SO long, so long that there were spider webs all over it.  It feels good to be at it again.

    And a piece was almost finished.  It's about all of this- how things might be, and maybe, just hopefully maybe, how things really are at the root of it all.

Rosee part 5:

    "I forgot to tell you about moving Tablespoon to the Dude Ranch in the pine hills. I got lonesome for him and his daily bath.

    Back in the summer of '34 when everything burned up in the drought, all the other horses had sore backs so Bill Hatch asked if he could use Tablespoon to ride circle. When they got back he was all a foam of sweat and they were afraid I’d give them hell for overriding him, so they sneaked him down to the pond and scrubbed him down clean before they turned him out where I might see him.

    Every time they turned him out in that pasture after that he’d go to the pond and climb in and give himself a bath.  Also he’d round up all the other horses and drive them into the corral till they finally had to put him in another pasture all by himself.  Anyway I drove to the ranch and rode him 13 miles to Ostendorfs and put him in their barn.  Emmett (her brother) came after me and took me home for the night. 

    Next morning, I came and got him and rode him about half way to the Dude Ranch.  I was standing by the road looking at him and he was looking at me as though he thought I was crazy, wondering how I could possibly get back on with my sore bottom and sore legs, when Empty came driving gaily along in the car. He leered out of the window at me, “I thought I’d find you just about here walking. How would you like to drive the car and I’ll ride him the rest of the way.“  I dearly loved him that minute."

to draw & to the draw

    These weird blurry days.  Has it only been a month?  I'm doing stuff all day long, and it seems nothing much gets done.  Things seem endless, and at the same time the days fly by.  There are weekdays and weekends.  The difference is that K. is downstairs on weekends, during the weekdays he's mostly up in the makeshift office he's set up in Blue's bedroom.

    (172 169 squares to go)

    Moon has torn down the rotting deck (the one I fell through last summer).  New lumber arrives arrived today.  K. and I both come from people who know how to fix and build things, yet neither of us have much know-how.  Moon has confidence, K. has a friend available for video consults, and I'm just trying to stay away from the whole affair. 

    Seventeen masks were made using Dee's links and tips.  The tailor finishes one in a minute and a half, I've got it down to 13.  Some were mailed off to friends in Chicago and here in Washington, including one to my therapist, because goodness knows I want her to keep safe!

    I don't know if it's this strange time in the world, or if it's from reading Rosee's letter, but this new book is meeting the recent urge to document things.  It was made using the next Peg and Awl tutorial (dinner was late that night, gosh, I love process). There had been attempts at writing, but focus with words is just hard right now.  So now, each day I'm drawing and watercoloring something I love into it.

    It will be interesting to see if skills improve, I hope so.  If the good pen is ever found, maybe some words will be added. The much loved wishing star from Jude...

    Rosee part 4:

    "Somewhere in ’35 Stew had a burst lung. Needless to say, none of us knew it was a burst lung. He just doubled over and started getting blue in the face. I grabbed the telephone and squalled at Dr. Randall across the street that he was dying on me, and Dr. Randall came tearing over and we loaded him in the car and they stampeded to the hospital where Dr. Randall stabbed him with his clothes on. He came back and told me he’d never had such a thing before but he’d read about it in a medical journal a long time ago and guessed right.

    Stew was quite a celebrity for two weeks. Doctors came from all over the state to look at the burst lung. They’d never had one before. Dr. Randall said I’d probably saved his life by calling him so quickly or he’d have died.

    Then I remembered that his life line stopped at 35.  That’s the trouble with my fortune telling, after it happens and then remember that I saw it.  He’s 65 today and still going strong. This was kind of a blow to my fortune telling, but maybe he was destined to die with his burst lung and the fast thinking of Dr. Randall beat the fates to the draw."

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."