something old, something new & some other things

 

Here is a little rag bench rug from the sauna, that I packed with a kitchen fork when I wove it years and years ago, that's still a favorite of mine.  Today I started a fresh scarf on the 22" Norwood loom.  Amy Arnold's summer kids look cute hanging out in the store.  When I cross the creek I stop to dip up water in that red plastic bucket  to pour on the nasturtiums in the flower pots and the gingko tree.  

Today an Amish man with a long gray beard walked in to the store and said he'd been looking around the neighborhood for some hay they could cut, since it's been so droughty. Could they cut in our field?

We haven't cut hay off that old field in years and years, I said. 

It is what it is, he said. 

It kills me when an old white bearded Amish guy says something like, It is what it is.

Foot bridge

   

The new little foot bridge is painted with fresh red and white stripes.  The last  flood washed away the 2-plank bridge.  This one should be easier to see on a foggy night, if I go back to work after supper.

I cross the creek many times each day, and hoped the stripes would give me a little energy each time I crossed. The bridge has a little bounce.  Possibly the stripes will cause a transformation to occur each time I leave my (humble) kitchen and cross to the workshop:  housewife to artist. 

 I'm attracted to bridges. I was married on an old bridge.  (It was dismantled a year later--the bridge, not the marriage).  Some bridges scare me. (The  steep, narrow bridge over the Mississippi at Lansing, Iowa). I miss them when they're gone.  (The old 8-span green bridge across the Wisconsin River at Spring Green was replaced this year.  I'll never be resigned to the modern highway bridge). When standing on a bridge I like to look upstream, to see what the water is bringing down.  A warp coming off the back beam of the loom is like a stream flowing toward me, the future, possibility. The fell is the present, the bridge, where I stand.  Downstream, the water under the bridge, is the woven fabric  winding on to the front beam,  the story of what happened.

The milk weed pods are still pale green outside, but I found these from last year on my shelf.
Cotton wood, poplar, and maple leaves have been falling into the creek behind the store, and there is a pyramidal rock at the edge that I never saw before today. When I scoop pitchers of water for the flower pots on the porch, I smell mint. The path is a mint path. My weaving can't
begin to compare to the least thing I see on the path outside my back door. But, I did finish a new wool rug. It's a good rug, and feels good on bare feet.

toys

I keep a store here, and besides weaving, I sell a small selection of toys, books, and household things. I'm always on the look for that elusive something to add to my shelves.

New oilcloth is a nostalgic summer item that reminds me of Wisconsin summer kitchens, small buildings separate from the farm house, where the canning was done, when the garden was ready. Big screen windows, oil cloth covered shelves, kraut cutters, canning kettles, and farm tables furnished these kitchens. Cotton rag rugs on the linoleum floors.

Today my order from Japan came up the driveway in the mail lady's truck. I've looked for plastic bird whistles, but this one is the best, and also the cutest. Filled with different levels of water, its pitch changes. Blow softly for sweet warbles, puff hard for strident chirping. What a wonderful toy! New animal paper balls also came in the box. A cross between a ball and a balloon, & made of crinkly paper that unfolds, and with a few puffs, inflates to this classic Japanese toy. Monkey, the most popular paper ball, Elephant, and Now--Blue jelly fish! Oh, happy day! When tossing and batting are done, gently refold them and put back in your pocket-- unless you have been playing with Sharp Claws the Cat. They also fit easily into an envelope to mail to amuse someone. Summer!

Cressday

Today is Sunday and everyone who comes into the store and workshop today can take home a white paper wax bag of fresh watercress. I cut it in the spring this morning and put it in the bowl from Finland that Ursula gave me. I also put in some ice cubes so it will stay fresh.

Earth tonic

Spring cress
Rock spring
Spring head


It occurred to me that when I weave a rug I am actually making a path, through the days it takes to weave it, through the ideas I keep and the ones I discard, and finally, a path on the floor, every time I or anyone else walks on it. A path shows where someone else has been, and is an invitation to try it out, to see where it goes.

I was raking grass and weeds, clearing the path up to the spring where the watercress is in season again, beautiful and delicious. I have a crazy appetite for it. In the aftermath of the flood last summer, there are all kinds of branch tangles and obstructions. There are shredded plastic bags, crushed beer cans, styrofoam cups, mud filled milk bottles and pill bottles trapped in the branches and litter. The stream is a warp, and I am untangling a haphazard weave of fence wires and debris.

If I was a little girl this would be play, to make paths through the weeds, fish stuff out of the creek, and sweep the ground under the swamp trees to make houses. When I accidentally stepped into water that filled up my shoe, I knew it was time to go home. Little leopard frogs leap from the creek bank and plop into the algae, and I know there will be schools of tadpoles in these pools, then peepers. Peppery watercress salad for supper tonight, and a feeling to make something good on my loom.