These Days

Suddenly we had a cats-and-dogs rain, with no disastrous floods or tornadoes. I admit to feeling more anxious than usual, lately.  The bee yard up on Salem Ridge was soaked. The random colors of Bill Pike's bee boxes were free for the taking, so, inspired, I rushed home to weave. The supple scarf is silk and cotton, mainly, with some tencel, and cotolin. It is one of the new ones with the great spring story moving through my imagination, and hopefully through my hands

(update: Bill was just here to look at the bees and told me he paints the colors on his boxes so the bees won't drift into the wrong hive when they come back from gathering. It's their address. He paints with paint returned to Walmart by people who had the wrong color mixed.  Can people do that? I thought once it was mixed you're stuck with it)

Chinese Kites!

New in the store this week are these beautiful, hand painted silk traditional Chinese kites. I'm infatuated! There are butterflies, owls, dragonflies and swans. Each one comes in a cloth covered box with ribbon ties, and cord handles.  The kites assemble easily in a few minutes, and just as easily come undone, to go back in their boxes.  They have bamboo frames, and each of many joints is tied with string wraps and glue. They are rather sturdy.

The plastic reel winder, with orange nylon flying line, screws, nuts, and satisfying tick-tick-tick sound while winding, is an old school toy all on its own.  I can imagine my own boy once upon a time standing on the bridge with something tied to the string letting it go downstream, until he wound it back.

Chartreuse & Some Bees

High summer, and my eyes can't get enough of what I see.  The bees have a surfeit of flowers, nectar is everywhere.  There is too much of everything good, all at once.  Everything is lush and ripe and overgrown, but the heat makes us sleepy and slow.

A piece of writing that I read nearly everyday, from Eva Zeisel, the exquisite designer:

"To me, beauty depends on one single person, on the person who looks at something and feels joy in looking at it because it pleases him without second thoughts, irrespective of whether is is useful, whether it is art, or whether it is in good taste.  It is the love affair of the eyes with the things they focus on.  As its enjoyment is immediate and spontaneous, it is quite impossible to put into words how to make beauty."   (italics, mine)

Flowery May

That time of the year again, when white cherry blossoms hang conspicuously,  here and there, on the hills,  among gray trunks of a leafless woods. Here I am,  back to my old barn loom, with a spaced linen warp of unbleached and half-bleach.  I'm weaving and rya-knotting  Finnish  paper yarn, and cut silk rags into flowery pieces to hang.   I'm still looking around for my plastic painting tarp to unweave for rya knots.

Country Store

My workshop is in one half of my building, on our farm, the store is on the other side.
I storekeep during my regular open hours Wed - Sat, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. I'm also usually open on Sundays, from 12 -4. I try to weave and work on other projects when there aren't customers. I should be getting the store ready for the coming Christmas season, but it still seems far off.

People travel through here in the summer, and it is often a busy time in the store, despite the economic decline, or, the not-so-great-Depression, as I call it.

I don't know who will come in to the store on any day, and I like that. To think that when we first moved out to the country, many years ago, I thought I was a recluse. I wanted to live at the end of a road in complete seclusion. What a surprise to realize that I really do like people, and having a store lets me meet so many different ones. An old friend may stop by, or someone I've never met before. It might be someone from Japan. It might be another artist, or weaver. It might be someone lost, looking for directions, or someone who lived in Avalanche many years ago. Sometimes it is someone who likes to stop in to visit me each summer. Sometimes it is Barb from Dell with some fresh eggs to sell me. Yes!

A little while ago a family of grown up sisters and their brother visited. They talked and laughed. They were enjoying each other's company so much, and I felt lucky to be included in their good time. Before they left, they asked if I'd like to hear them sing. I said, Yes, I would. They stood close together, and sang then, in beautiful 4 part harmony, a grace that their father had composed. Was it in Norwegian? Their beautiful voices filled my store. It was an amazing grace, a sudden beautiful thing they created, which I will never forget, wretch that I am.

The day clouded over. I was putting fabrics away downstairs in my sewing room when the door bell jingled again. It was almost time to close the store, and already raining outside, and quite dark. There, inside my door, stood a man in a dripping wet poncho, with a wet dripping brimmed hat, clutching a damp, canvas bundle. He wondered if I sold felt, or canvas for buggy tops. There was the smell of straw, and manure, and horses clinging to him. I said," No, but maybe the Amish carriage shop two miles up on the ridge would have some pieces." I thought he might be an Amish man, but looking at his feet, saw he was wearing modern sandals, and cargo pants. He decided to buy a chocolate bar, and then left in the rain. I took the open sign out of the door, and looked out to see him starting to walk through the rain up the road, with a little donkey and a cart along side. I think he was a vagabond.