Category: quilts

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Epiphanies-R-Us

579300_10152390569614698_1755223128_n(This column first ran in July 2007, right before I became a Mrs. again.)

I drove up to the home county of Sonoma a few weeks ago to pick up one of our girls from a visit to her grandparents. I had some time to spare (shocking but true) and wanted some quality time with my parents, so I hung around for a while.

I picked some plums with my mom and she gave me some geranium and penstemon cuttings for the garden. I gave my parents their wedding invitation and I got to see the latest quilts that she was planning to show at the county fair. We talked and looked at pictures and made plans for later in the summer. After a while, and a glass of iced tea, it was time to go.

As we stood outside near the car, my mom looked at me and laughed a little laugh. “You’re me, you know,” she said.

Now I know plenty of other people who would bristle at such a statement if it were made to them, and plenty of times that I myself would have driven screaming away and never returned, but this time, finally, it is true. My mom raised five kids, and here I am, embarking on the next phase of my life, taking in two more to bring my total of children to five as well.

When I stood there with my bowlful of sweet Santa Rosa plums and my geranium cuttings and my packet of scraps for the next quilt I’m going to work on soon — har de har freaking har — there was a moment, I’m not going to lie, when I did want to scream. Just a little bit.

Because, you know, everyone wants to be themselves, not their mom, or dad, or elder siblings. No one wants to be the apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree, and no one wants to be “junior” anything. We all want to be special and a bit more advanced or evolved — to do better in our generation than our parents did, if that’s even possible anymore.

But how does one do it better? I simply can’t beat the 53-plus years of marriage that my parents have shared, with five healthy kids who all graduated college and made something of themselves. I may never get the 17 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren (including all the step-grandkids). Maybe our kids won’t even have babies.

My parents worked hard, played by the rules, did the right thing even when it wasn’t their personal choice or even what they could bear. They just did it anyway, for the sake of the kids or the family or the whole shebang, and here we are today: an agricultural water plant manager, an attorney and CEO, a financial analyst, a commercial construction manager and a writer, and our kids are coming up behind us, traveling the world and taking it by storm.

I learned a lot from my mother about how to feed a large family, and it wasn’t just “add more water to the soup.” She was a champion at filling our bellies in even the hardest of times. There were always bread and butter and vegetables and a main course on the table, and we learned our manners and how to say grace before meals, and took turns setting and clearing. We did our homework and got ourselves to school by foot or by bike or by bus, and none of us coasted; we all got jobs and did farm chores and learned to do the right thing, too, mostly.

Alack and alas, though, a daydreamer like me comes along and lives an uncharted life: Unexpected pregnancy in college! Scrimping along as a single mom! Married to a Catholic priest! Divorced! Writing a book about it! Single parenting again! Eek! May I just offer kudos to my parents for keeping the faith? I’m a peach now, but I was a prickly pear for a very long time.

Ah, well. What can I say? My mom says, “You’re me now.” Am I?

We spent the last weekend painting the kitchen what I call “olive,” but let’s be real here – it’s that classic ’70s paint color, avocado. Then I finished up the valance I was sewing, made from a novelty print featuring a cheerful vegetable motif, hung it up and we made ourselves some vodka tonics. The kids were scattered around the countryside but they’d all be back at the dinner table in a few days. We toasted our weekend’s work and got ready for the next week.

Dinner for seven? I am indeed my mother.

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green guilt, green quilt

The book, Plastic: A Toxic Love Story, has been recommended to me a couple of times and I wanted to offer it in case anyone else wants to read it. It’s on my request list at the library; I’ll post a review when I have read it.

Yesterday was a hot one — hot and smoggy, so they declared it a Spare the Air Day: don’t drive, don’t BBQ, don’t have wood fires, and try to keep energy use low. But I was in my car, driving up the highway to meet the roofer at our soon-to-be house, and man, it was really and truly hot on the road and smoggy in the air. I felt “green guilt” about the driving and have realized once again that my eco-lifestyle has become my new religion. As a recovering Catholic, I’ve noticed this before, and I won’t say a lot about it, just that I notice similarities in “doing the right thing,” “green guilt,” knowing “the litany” and “the sins.” Purging plastic is akin to a Lenten purge, isn’t it? Or maybe, since it’s supposed to be for life — a vow of celibacy from plastics? Something to think about as I ponder (pray?) over my choices and light candles instead of flick on a light switch.

On my journey through Sonoma County yesterday, I visited my parents, and my mom gave me some of her childhood toys to sell at an antiques dealer here in town. Apropos to our current conversation here about toys and plastic, it was interesting to see what her toys were made of:  paperboard puppets and doll furniture; Halloween masks made from starched and painted cheesecloth/muslin layers; aluminum and wooden pots and pans and rolling pins; cloth doll clothes and bedding; wooden beads to string. And the toys are still in good shape. Although there were choking hazards and perhaps lead paint in these older toys, at least they have held up over the years (70+). And they’ll eventually go back to the earth, since they’re all made of organic materials (the aluminum may take a little longer).

Chatting with my parents, who are children of the Great Depression, reminds me again of how many ways there are to do things: to save, to reuse, to resuscitate and revive. My father is an inveterate straightener of nails. My mother makes award-winning quilts (look for hers at the upcoming Sonoma County Fair) for the family, and as part of the Santa Rosa Quilt Guild’s ongoing mission to make baby quilts for the homeless or less fortunate. My parents use what they have, either in the barn or in the fabric stash, to make their creations. If you’re looking for inspiration on how to live with less plastic, look back a generation or two in your own family or neighborhood, and see what you can learn from our elders. (Feel free to post what you’ve learned in the comments section.)

For the past 18 or so years, I’ve slowly been working on what is perhaps the world’s ugliest quilt. I chose some rather bold purple, green, and hot pink fabrics back then, and set to work on it when Ana was a baby. Ana is 19 now, and I finally finished what I could with this ugly thing. I took it to my mother’s and we looked through her stash of fabrics, found some calmer green for the sides and back, and a friend of Mom’s is going to quilt it and finish the binding for me. There were several leftover squares from this Ugly Quilt (it’s so vivid that it will scare the beard off my husband when he sees it). My clever mother took the “orphan” squares and made a couple of baby quilts, using her fabric stash and some very calm lavender and dark green. The result of my mad fabric purchase from two decades back is that two babies will have handmade, warm, soft quilts to sleep in, besides the finished cover for our bed in our new (old) house.

There’s no plastic in this story, but there’s also no waste. There’s no trip to the dump, there’s no plastic bag, there’s no shipment from China, there’s no toxic side effects, and there’s no mountain of refuse. There’s fellowship, years of quiet handiwork; there’s the creative act and the act of sharing and giving. There’s the handing down of tradition, and the act of generosity toward others with less in their lives. I can’t think of a single negative in this story. And that’s a success, in a month of purging plastic or any time.

Guilt or quilt? I think I’ll take the latter.

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February dreaming

These blossoms have not yet bloomed, but we’re getting to that point. These are mock-pear, but it’s something in February when the cherry and plum trees bloom. Petals falling like snowflakes on the sidewalk. So pretty.

It’s been sunny, with pretend-threats of rain, but no such rain for a week or so. The big storms (such as they are in California) were wonderful, loud and very wet. More, please! However, the sliding glass door leaks, and I had to stuff the cracks with plastic bags to keep the rain out. Now, a week or so later, guess what I find? Little green sprouts in the carpet, and shiny, sluggy-snail tracks near the sliding door. The door-repair-guy is coming Friday. If all goes according to my Evil Plan, I will end up with a French door and windows instead of the hopelessly misaligned and leaky sliding door. G*d willing and the creek don’t rise.

I know you’re dying to know what’s going on with my Iron and Mend Challenge. Well, I’ve extended it another week-ish, since I didn’t finish. Health and time were factors in completing the challenge. I did do quite a lot of ironing, and some mending. But there’s more to do. I have not yet given up. Nor given those items away.

Crafty Poo
Still working on the scrappy sweater, and returned to a cotton ring scarf I was knitting before Xmas and forgot about. It’s close to done, depending how long I want it. I would really like to finish up the yarn, no leftovers. So that’s how long it will be. Maybe with a fringe, too. Hmmm. I had also started a pretty granny square afghan up at Lake Tahoe, in mountain colors (shades of blue, green, brown and white). It is about 4 ft square, but not quite big enough yet. Coincidentally, it’s the same colors as our bedroom. I had in mind to crochet this at Tahoe, and keep the spirit of Tahoe alive with us all year. Whilst watching that silly show American Idol, I picked up the crochet hook and off I went. This could be a good match — watching mindnumbing TV and crocheting a simple pattern. I sense progress.

I added some sewing to my list, because of yesterday’s living room re-do. This is the cheapest living room re-do ever. All we did was rearrange a very few things, and bring in some quilts and plants from another room. We went from a very black and tan room to a creamy/pink/floral room in no time. The black and leopard sofa is still here, but with tan and dusty pink pillows (new covers, from stash fabric, to be sewn soon). A large beige afghan over the black lightens the color scheme. No surprise here, but Simone (daughter #2) and I picked colors out of the wall quilt, designed by me but pieced and sewn by my mom, and we played up the floral and salmony-pink tones. It works with the tans and even with the black. Go figure.

I know, boring without photos. But I don’t want to run upstairs yet again for my camera. Photos when it’s sunny tomorrow, promise.

Mish-Mash Potato Hash
Wrote a few little letters to friends, made a few calls, did a few chores, and now I’m thinking it’s time for tea. Prissy Pants McGee here, huh? I already wrote my poem for today (I’m in a month-long writing challenge, not writing a novel, but a poem per day, which is just as hard. If not harder. Seriously.). I cleaned up. I thought deep thoughts.

Kids are out in the world — Mia on her last few days of her Deep South tour. Austin at school. Simone at school and around town. Ana at work in SF. Patrick, my Mr. Husband, with his nose to the grindstone. And here I am. Trying to make the words flow, the juices run, and keep it all moving.

Advice to Aspiring Writers: Somedays there is only try. Today there is do.

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January jawbone

Jawbone: That’s slang for chit-chat. Catching up. It’s been a couple of months, obviously, and not many changes. Just resting and refiguring where I am and where I’m going. Nice to have the time, and very necessary for straight thinking.

I spent some of today soaking up the sun’s rays in a chair on the back patio, since I feel oppressed by too much cloudy or rainy weather. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, the poet might have said, but he meant sunshine, surely. Today was a lazy Saturday, not many chores done, although they are legion and endless. Resting from a sleepless night, mostly. But there’s a ham and bean soup that I made yesterday for dinner, and homemade focaccia that I baked yesterday as well. It was a cloudy day, and perfect for soup-making and bread-baking. Leftovers good. Very good.

In today’s mail came a sewing pattern, “vintage and retro,” from the 1980s, I believe, for lingerie: all the underthings a gal could want, and her husband would like them, too. This falls under the category of being self-sufficient and Buy-Nothing-New, a tenet of the Compact group to which I belong. I spent an enjoyable morning perusing the layouts and how-tos, and I believe a trial set of drawers from this pattern might be in order. Before I try silk and lace, anyway. Entertaining, if nothing else. And hey — I could post pictures! Of homemade underdrawers! Won’t that be a shocker?

In my restful state, I reread all the Little House books, and then that wasn’t enough Laura Ingalls Wilder for me. I spent considerable time online and found a number of books (second-hand and not costly) that delve more deeply into two areas of interest — one is pioneer history, more about the Ingalls and Wilder families and how they survived, and the other about the mother-daughter collaboration in writing the LH books. Fascinating reading on how Laura became a writer and how much or how little adult Rose helped — and resented helping, since her own work/fame suffered and was eclipsed. You never see that in the Little House stories. The book I’m currently reading, Constructing the Little House: Gender, Culture and Laura Ingalls Wilder, is not for the faint of heart. Written in gyno-critical-speak, it will freak you out if you haven’t read much lit-crit — especially assertations about the suppressed incestuous love-gaze between Laura and Pa, and Ma’s submerged hatred, etc. But — I’m absorbing a lot about what life was like, for example, choices between freedom and control, or the balance between them. Good reading for me, in my suspended state between past and future. Such as it is.

Projects in the works or on the to-do list, besides general house-drudgery (as opposed to skulldudgery):

  • The Iron and Mend Challenge, with one day to go to complete the basket of ironing and mending — or everything therein goes bye-bye. The (self-imposed) challenge ends Sunday. ACK!
  • Plum and apple green/aqua scrap quilt, in kind of a simplified Courthouse Steps pattern (thanks, Aunt Barbara, for the right name). I have 2 blocks left to piece and press, then the sashing and backing. Ongoing, but the end is in sight. This is made from rescued fabrics, btw — totally green and free.
  • Scrappy yarn cardigan. I have a lot of gold, beige, off-white and cream yarns that I’m playing with to make a handknit sweater. The ribbing is in the honey-gold color, then into cream colors. At some point I will have to get clever with my colors to make it work. Also a rescued yarn project. To be continued…
  • Purple ombre socks, thich and warm. Half of one knitted so far. This was a lost and found project. I started it 2 years ago and found it recently. I hope I still have enough ombre yarn. (insert scary doom music here)
  • Something about new towels for this house. Towels. Hmm. I’ll come back to that. Want new towels, don’t buy new, gotta find alternatives. Hmm.

That’s it for now — I’m glad to be back on the blogging pony and using my hands, brain and creativity again. Be well, buckaroos.