Snow For Your Valentine

A little more snow, a little more shoveling. We have not tired of it yet, but because the table is now covered with seed catalogs and lists of plants we’ve propagated for the coming season, we are feeling mindful of spring and the promise it brings. Next week, many of the classes we will offer in 2019 will be posted. I know that a hypertufa class will start the season off, I’m thinking April. For those wanting to sculpt some pots and have them cured and ready for planting, this is the class for you!
I have been spending lots of time in the studio, hoping to have some full baskets of handspun yarn to offer knitters this season. And just think, sheep shearing is right around the corner! More wool on its way!
I am including a photo of some socks I made from old sweaters and have now come to the point of needing repair. I really plan on getting the most out of the clothes I wear! Don’t discard…re-make, up-cycle, repair, mend, and patch, I say.

And, why not a poem to celebrate Valentines Day. Enjoy!

To have without holding
BY MARGE PIERCY

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch ; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

Gifted

These are the remains of a sewing basket that belonged to a dear and special friend of mine. Her name was Alva. She hemmed all of her own pants and fixed the holes in all of her older brothers work clothes. The last brother was Charles but everyone called him Peanut. She never married and she outlived them all. She sat on Saturday evenings in an old rocker who’s cushion was pieced together with collected remnants of cloth and she watched (religiously) the re-runs of the Lawrence Welk Show. She had also outlived her teeth, but her smile was the best most honest grin of anyone I knew. Her favorite foods were 35 cent ice cream sandwiches, fresh strawberries, and cream of wheat. She was kind, undemanding, and enjoyed life. She carried a huge old fashion pocketbook that was filled with essential things, like safety pins, and matches, and small notebooks for recording important information. She tucked a small wad of Kleenex up her sleeve just like my grandmother did. She remembered the dates of birthdays and deaths and weddings but never learned to drive, didn’t own a microwave, had never traveled out of the state of Maine, and didn’t own a cell phone. She wore two headscarves, one on top of the other…I don’t know why. When I sort through her little sewing basket, carefully and tenderly examining each little trinket, each little needle case, each little prize, I smile and feel glad and sad and privileged. Perhaps the thread will be used to make baby Violet a new pair of leggings. The fabric pieces will patch a pair of holey jeans. I’ll sharpen the scissors and line up her collection of thimbles on the sewing table. Maybe I’ll sit quietly in the evening, hand sewing and eat ice cream sandwiches.

Mending

Needles. Thread. Cloth. A favorite old shirt in need of repair. Cozy wool socks with a worn out heel. An heirloom quilt that required some patching. Our mending class was a big hit. Each person brought some beloved fabric to mend and went home with the skills and confidence to do so. We’ll definitely offer this class again!
Learning to make something…a loaf of bread, a pair of knitted socks, a raised bed, are all skills worth passing on.This class reminded me of the great worth and value of learning to repair. That’s a skill too. In this world of great abundance and a tendency to dispose or replace the things we need before considering how to fix them, the skill to repair can honor the maker and allow us to breath new life into things that we may deem obsolete or non-functioning. There is a virtue in repairing the torn or worn. There is satisfaction in fixing a problem or something broken. All of these things require us to look at the design and construction of an item and to recreate or repair the piece that no longer functions or operates. What a great way to sharpen and improve our critical thinking skills! Make. Fix. Repair. Mend. So, gather up all of your holey socks and frayed long johns, take out that favorite shirt from your mending basket, and watch here for posts about our next mending class!

Tears? Holes? Split Seams?

Two years ago, I met a fine young woman in the village of Liberty who has a passion for textiles. Maya is an accomplished designer, seamstress, printer, and maker of all kinds of things.Oh, the talent! I really appreciate Mia’s eye for detail and her style. She also has a deep affinity for breathing new life into old objects, particularly garments. Whether it be a battered civil war jacket or an old flannel shirt from her sweeties closet, Maya will mend it with precision and make it lovely once again.
I asked Maya if she’d come teach a mending class here in the studio. “Of course”, she said, “I’d love to”!
So, on Sunday, April 22nd from 1:00-3:00, Maya will be here at Fernwood for an afternoon of sewing instruction. If interested, bring along a project that needs mending and learn both sashiko and traditional darning methods. All of the materials and instruction will be provided…and, as with all classes here at Fernwood, tea and scones will be served.
Class size is limited, so please sign up in advance. You can visit our classes and more page for additional information or email us here at the nursery: fernwoodnursery@fairpoint.net.
Come join us! Afterall, it’s Earth Day, what better day to upcycle or recycle a favorite piece of clothing!!

Hand Work

One of the things I do to bring some balance to the very physical needs of our life here at Fernwood, is to knit. Well, first I spin, then I knit. This craft of being relatively still, allowing my mind to get lost in the making of stitches, and the methodical nature of needles twisting and clicking, is a gift onto the day. Slow. Restful. Restorative. I really like these words written by Naomi Nye, I’m impressed that she saw the humble craft of needle work worthy of a poem. The ending message, however, also made me feel grateful for the rural community I live in. Here, in the north east part of New England, knitting and crocheting….mending a patch in a flannel shirt, are a part of our language. Seeing someone take out their needles in public in order to make some gain on their knitting project, opens the door for conversation. “What are you working on?” “What kind of yarn are you using?” ” Oh, I love those colors!” , these are all things you might say when one handcrafter bumps into another. We can’t help ourselves, it’s a strong tie.
Yesterday, I spun some of the first angora collected from my friend Sally’s rabbit. I’ll be using that soft and silky yarn in the headband I’m knitting for a friend’s Christmas present. Oh, this wondeful art of sewing, knitting, and crocheting, …..spread the word!

Sewing, Knitting, Crocheting……

A small striped sleeve in her lap,
navy and white,
needles carefully whipping in yarn
from two sides.
She reminds me of the wide-angled women
filled with calm
I pretended I was related to
in crowds.

In the next seat
a yellow burst of wool
grows into a hat with a tassel.
She looks young to crochet.
I’m glad history isn’t totally lost.
Her silver hook dips gracefully.

And when’s the last time you saw
anyone sew a pocket onto a gray linen shirt
in public?
Her stitches must be invisible.
A bevelled thimble glitters in the light.

On Mother’s Day
three women who aren’t together
conduct delicate operations
in adjoining seats
between La Guardia and Dallas.
Miraculously, they never speak.
Three different kinds of needles,
three snippy scissors,
everybody else on the plane
snoozing with The Times.
When the flight attendant
offers free wine to celebrate,
you’d think they’d sit back,
chat a minute,
tell who they’re making it for,
trade patterns,
yes?

But a grave separateness
has invaded the world.
They sip with eyes shut
and never say
Amazing
or
Look at us
or
May your thread
never break.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Another Fox

No, not another fox hanging from the sheep fence in Ireland ( predator control). This Mr. Fox was a little whimsical creation I made yesterday, and I’m already on to a Mrs. Fox. I am imagining a Mr. and Mrs. Christmas fox as well, outfitted in red flannel and red velvet ribbon. Maybe adorned with a fluffy white muff or stole, but certainly not one made of fox fur! I have had a bit more time here before returning home to Maine….. and what do I spend my time doing while I have a few free moments? Hand sewing these little woodland creatures, that’s what. My grandmother could stitch wonderfully, and she was often making little gnomes or woodland fairies. I remember being amazed at how tiny and perfect her stitches were, you could hardly tell they were hand stitched. Her house was always filled with fabric and ribbon, buttons, beads, old lace, and all the material anyone would ever need to create something. She always encouraged me to ‘ make something’. I think she would be very happy to know that her granddaughter is following in her footsteps…….in love with fabric and fiber, and all things textile. Somehow I have a feeling, as I carefully sew a jacket or vest for one of my own woodland creatures, that she is not far way.