weaving rags in tick season

Coming home from a walk along the road, to avoid ticks, back to my scrap heap and the long rug.

SNO-CRUSH

 

SNO-CRUSH, my first All-Textile (and some Wooden Bowls) Show, starts here on Nov 20, 10 - 5,  and continues through Dec 31.   SNO-CRUSH (think Avalanche, think Crush on Color, Crush on Design, Crush on Textiles, Crush on Artists) came into my mind late this summer.  An All-Textile exhibit of the work of design weavers, knitters, spinners and seamers, here in my store.  I don't know why it took me so long to think of doing it. 

I invite you to join us here on Saturday, Nov 20, the opening day of the show.  I'll be serving coffee and biscuits that day, and showing the work of eight inspirational artists creating with imagination and skill in weave, knit, and sewn seams, yarn, cloth, color, texture and design.  Also showing, a singular wooden bowl turner, whose work looks right in this company.  The show continues through December.  I'll be saying a little more about each of the artists in the next few days. 

  

Peony

The picture of the peony on this antique postcard could have been taken by the lady of the house I live in, 100 years ago.  The house resembles ours, and there is an old peony planted at the same corner. My husband found it in an antique store, and mailed it to me, 30 years ago.  He was in Wisconsin looking for a good farm we could buy.  We were determined to leave the city and get back-to-the-land, where we meant to build our house,  grow and preserve our own food, and I'd weave all the cloth for our clothes!  He hadn't found anything promising.

Just like the lady who lived in my house then,  I take photos of my white peony every year as it blooms in the front yard, propped  up with sticks and bentwire edging fence.  I also collect finch nests that blow down from the big white pine tree in spring storms, and line them up on my kitchen window sill.  Other than that, I don't think her life was much like mine has been here.  Our experiment in getting back to the land didn't turn out at all as we expected. What did happen was much more interesting.  And, thank goodness, I never wove one thing for us to wear.

Mr. Falk

Our good neighbor, Mr. Falk, died.  His obituary was very short, and sweet:

Carl Fabian “Doc” Falk Sr., age 85 of Avalanche, died unexpectedly at his home on Monday, Jan. 4, 2010.

Doc was born June 14, 1923. He lived a very modest and simple life. He had a very unique love for animals and gardening instilled in him.

He will be missed deeply by his family and friends.

Doc, Rest in peace. Love, your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and his pets.

 

Black Alpaca + Linen

Crisp, cold and lots of sun today here in Avalanche. The creek froze over, except where we chopped a hole to the water for the birds and small animals to get a drink.  I  just wove this pair of wristwarmers, which are also the first project I've made in 2010.  They met the cold test.

Rosepath, with a 16/2 Swedish cotton warp, unbleached linen weft, and silky black alpaca

Tilleke Schwarz exhibiting:  Beware of Embroidery, Jan 15 to Feb 24, 2010 (wish I could be there!)
Sofia Arnold exhibiting:  Tory Folliard Gallery , Jan 8 - Feb 6,  Reception: Friday,  Jan 15 ( I'll be here!)

Woman v. Weasel

Coming out the back door of the store, headed for the house, I crossed the creek on the 2 board foot bridge. I had bread in the oven, probably overbaking. On the path down to the creek I began to hear a terrible screeching noise ahead, coming from the yard by the kitchen. Maybe the cat had caught a spring bunny that was making this terrible cry? But no. I realized it was much closer than that. It was under my feet, in the creek. It was a brown animal sitting on a rock beneath the foot bridge, with some water on its fur. It was looking at me, and shrieking. I wondered if the cat had dragged it into the creek. But it was as big as the cat, and it looked mean. I stopped in my tracks, then backed up, went back to the store, and googled weasel.

There it was. A longtailed weasel, of the kind that lives in many places all over the North American continent. It especially likes watery places. It was about 16" long, tan colored, with a humpy back. It had a scraggly tail that was about 6" long, it would make a loud chirping noise when it was frightened, or when it was about to attack.

We have never seen a weasel in broad daylight in all the years I've lived here. I decided to go back to take its picture. I also took my blue and yellow IKEA umbrella, as a weapon, in case of "attack." As soon as I opened my back door the screeching sound (chirp?) started up again. As I approached the path, it turned to get me in its sights, apparently deciding which part of me to latch onto with its teeth (which I now noticed). Getting the weasel to pose for a picture seemed like a really bad idea. I rapidly opened and shut the blue and yellow umbrella, to demonstrate I was not going to be an easy victim. This only seemed to infuriate it. I decided to call it a draw, and walked to my kitchen by the long way around on the road.

Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel / The monkey thought was all in fun / Pop! goes the weasel! A very sinister sounding nursery rhyme, when you think of it. What about Toad Hall in the Wind In The Willows, overtaken by the terrible rabble of low-life stoats and WEASELS!

The weaving-knitter-felters and chicken-keepers I consulted at Kindred Threads had weasel lore aplenty to share. Barb said weasels in winter are ermine. That's the best that can be said. Mostly the weasel story is gory, their particular way of death dealing--biting the heads off of chickens-- returning again and again to do the deed, entering through the tiniest crack in a board, until finally, there are no more chickens. Their advice was to shoot it, and quick.

Luckily, I keep no poultry of any kind, and since FeltBackie died last winter, I've got just one cat. So I avoided the creek for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually, my weasel seems to have lost interest here, and wandered back down the creek. I admit while crossing the bridge near midnight, under the stars, as I go back to my house, and bed, I remember my weasel is still out there somewhere, maybe waiting under the bridge to fly up under my feet--POP!

October, 5pm

We had our first, hard frost last night, and today the milkweed pod burst open. I don't know if these events are related. The breeze then began its work of emptying out the little fluffy parachutes. Milkweed is my new favorite color. My winter wool rugs are following the rich, subtle color I see in them. Which is not to say I'm immune to the brilliance I see elsewhere.