Tin Can Art

When I was in elementary school in Darien Connecticut, my favorite classes were Gym and Art. I was an extreme tomboy with such short hair, I was often called a little boy. Many times when “sides” were chosen – yup, gym teacher would assign two captains to pick students for teams – I would be one of the first picked. I was scrappy, tough and very fast. How times have changed! Not scrappy. Not very fast, and definitely not short hair. What hasn’t changed is my love of art.

The art teacher was a funky young woman who created all sorts of fun projects. As this was 1976, one group project was sewing red, white and blue quilt squares into a large quilt for a fundraiser for the school. I managed to sew my block right onto my pants, so my first foray into quilting certainly was not highly successful. Another project was using myriad supplies, scraps and junk the teacher collected, to build a sculpture. I built an Eskimo, using a large coffee can and fur fabric scraps. The art teacher liked it so much, she used it on the cover of a “catalogue” she created for the school-wide art show that Spring. I still regret it was long since thrown away –one of those things I wish I had kept as it was a charming “child” art project. I have kept many of my children’s projects, and some day they may appreciate having them. Or not – but at least they can decide.

When I saw this little guy at the thrift shop I had to bring him home. He reminded me of my missing Eskimo, and he is so clearly a child’s art project he makes me smile. Complete with the tin can body! Instead of using fabric for clothing, the child used papier-mâché, building up his body and hat in one go, and plunking a nose on his face. The swinging arms were added using a nail covered over with a button. The artist then painted the sailor, including his white scarf and pink cheeks. My favorite is the pins used for his eyes and mouth, and the snazzy blue ribbon hat brim. He has some sadnesses, including a crack down his front, but he fits right in my son’s childhood sailing theme bedroom, now a guest room.

Don’t give me a theme as my OCD nature means I hold onto them for ages, in this case over 25 years. While my son has moved to his own home, taking many of his childhood room’s items, I still find sailing themed treasures to add to the room. Thankfully he and his wife have created a sea theme bathroom with a kraken shower curtain, so some of my finds end up sailing to Colorado. My children are stuck with my memories of their childhood loves, and it is hard not to continue to give them packages full of treasures. As they are grown and married, I have to show some refrain, though any treasure that doesn’t speak to them is allowed to move on in the world. But, mind you, refrain is a comparative term. And my favorite adage? One man’s trash is another’s treasure. Thrift shops are amazing depositories that reflect this – and some of the items I come across, both art and quilts, astonish me. I understand holding onto all those family mementos isn’t always possible, but such a little guy as this? How could a mother part with him?!

Rorschach Test

While I sometimes find valuable treasures thrifting, other times I pick up something simply because it makes me smile. This object is a bit of a Rorschach Test – I know what the thing actually IS but I can’t get passed the funny pink face staring back at me. Not exactly clear what Hermann Rorschach (1884-1922) would make of this, but most of the folks at the thrift store gave me quizzical looks. Why in the world, they seemed to say, would I want to buy such a beat up, old, heavy item when things cost $1.62 per pound? I had it weighed – 5 pounds – and felt $8 was not a bad sum for such an amusing yard decoration.

The piece was made by the Perky Pet Company as a “squirrel-be-gone feeder” likely in the 1950s. The company, still in business in Denver, started in 1958 making humming bird feeders. This model was a bird feeder designed to stop those pesky squirrels from raiding the feed, as their weight would “shut the door” of the feeder. However, mine seems to have been transformed a tad. Someone sealed up the clear windows and door and added metal washers to resemble eyes. And then painted the whole thing pink. Not sure why, but I suspect the thing had stopped working and a creative soul decided to transform it into funny yard art. 

God knows I do not need to feed the myriad of squirrels and chipmunks running rampant on my property. They help themselves to all sorts of things, including anything stored in the barn. Oddly, they enjoy eating through electrical cords so the lighting in the barn loft has to be arranged such that they can’t get to the plugs. The charming holiday lights strung in the rafters by my son in high school are long since non functioning as the squirrels ate most of the wiring.

Early in our ownership of the property, I stored furniture and items awaiting a renovated kitchen in the barn attic. Bad idea. The furniture was destroyed, either through nesting or nibbling, including my mother-in-law’s charming old maple sewing cabinet. A vintage wood high chair used by my baby daughter apparently had food remnants on the tray – boy did the squirrels enjoy gnawing that to splinters. I also stored a treasured vintage cookie jar, picked up years ago at an antique store in Evanston for $30 – a Helene Hutula “tattle tale” jar from the 1930s. When I went to look for it after our kitchen was remodeled, I couldn’t find the box anywhere. Puzzled, I dug deeper into the creepy attic, only to discover PIECES of the cookie jar scattered over the floor – the damn squirrels had shredded the entire cardboard box to use for nesting and the poor jar smashed to the floor.  

Husband has often threatened to purchase a pellet gun and do in the squirrels that insist on sneaking into the barn, nesting and raising babies in comfort. And destroying things. Moth balls, dogs and patching holes doesn’t seem to stop them. As yet we’ve left them in peace and simply worked around them, out-smarting them when possible. And not storing anything shreddable. For now my pink “squirrel-be-gone” feeder sits at the backdoor, making me smile every time I see him. And I let my dog do all the squirrel chasing she likes.

A Grandmother’s (Thrifted) Flower Garden

Village Quilters Quilt Guild holds a quilt show every other year, with a show this year on October 24-25 at the College of Lake County. I bring this up to explain this little quilt, as it is for the upcoming show. One of the sections of my guild’s show is known as a “Quilt Challenge,” managed by a member who comes up with a creative theme. The finished quilt needs to be 12” square, and follow the guidelines given. This year the granddaughter-grandmother team running the challenge created the requirement of a quilt with a “3-D” element – meaning something pokes off the surface of the fabric. There are any number of ways to accomplish this, and if you attend the show you will likely see some remarkable ones.

Initially, I wasn’t particularly inspired. Nothing about origami quilt-making or dimensional applique was peaking my interest. On one of my thrift outings, I found a vintage lace doily with a yellow center that looked so much like a flower, I began to envision a collage quilt. As my brain began pinging about, I grew this imaginary garden with found items, including buttons, flowers, and lace. As with any garden, I needed to prepare the ground first, deciding in this case velvets would offer a tactile foundation. Off I went to locate some interesting clothing I could chop up. Modern fabrics – and the clothes made from them – tend to have a great deal of lycra in them which may make comfortable, stretchy clothing, but is not ideal for quilt projects. I needed to find vintage pieces, and luckily located some vintage green velvet and a 1980s child dress in dark blue velvet, with astonishingly awful lace around the collar. I’d dug up the foundation, now to plant the garden.

Digging around my sewing room, I uncovered a number of doilies and three dimensional flower pins. I don’t recall how I came to own the two larger ones, but they were perfect for my flowerbed. The small pink silk flower, however, was a Village Quilters Quilt Show award ribbon from 1995, and I sacrificed it to my garden. The leather flowers were purse doodads found while thrifting which I parted from their cheap (unloved) purses. They ended up causing a bit of annoyance as I had to fetch all sorts of tools to pry them apart from their keyring hooks. They had leaves as well, which I pried out of their irksome metal rings, and tacked down, but felt I needed more flowers sprinkled about.

Now is time for me to make a confession, all to introduce the fun crochet buttons in my flower garden, and likely the red buttons as well. My husband claims I am shameless - feeling the pilfering I am about to confess to is a bit of a questionable behavior. My side of the equation is that the thrifting Bins outlet is the final destination for myriad piles of clothing, and, if not sold, are heading out the door for recycling. Basically, while thrifting at the Bins, I keep teeny tiny scissors (pink naturally) in my pocket. When I come across clothing with fabulous buttons, I snip them off, much like taking a cutting of an unusual plant you find on a walk and want to plant in your garden. The snipped buttons are purchased by weight so realistically they cost pennies, but I am putting some part of the unloved clothing to use before it becomes landfill. Many times the item is already missing a button or two – it seems the vast majority of thrifting shoppers have no clue how to sew a button (or fix a seam, or patch a hole, or mend a hem). I will also confess that I often pick up amazing things because they are missing a button – which I can easily remedy. Given how expensive clothing – and crafting supplies – are, I don’t feel bad “reusing” old items or finding buried treasures I can repair to use or sell.

Once I had my garden designed, I used temporary glue and pins to hold the items in place. Basting the piece with a fun 1970s garden fabric remnant on the back, I was ready to tack everything in place. I used the quilting to adhere all the loose pieces of lace and the edges of the three dimensional flowers, though I did hand sew the buttons and leather pieces down. Such a fun project – both serendipitous for the fun it brought me making it, and the use of found treasures. As I am a grandmother, called Nana, I decided my ideal garden is one grown with fabric and thrifted treasures, not the one I should be tending to outside in my yard. Come to the show in October and decide for yourself which entry in the Quilt Challenge is the most successful.

A Place For Everything in 1947

I love things that are handmade or well designed –I cannot pass up treasures that speak to me, regardless of whether I need them or not. Sadly, some of the treasures have no place to reside, and over time, I decide to part with them. This trunk is not one of them. I picked it up at the local flea market 25 years ago. The piece was rough, the paint was chippy and it was dirty, but for $30 I carted it home. After a great deal of cleaning, sanding, and sealing, it has resided in the upstairs hallway ever since, a depository for childhood toys and laundry baskets making their way upstairs. The box is made of heavy plywood, charmingly painted to look fancy. It has “Sally” and “1947” written in the yellow ribbon, and proudly proclaims “A place for everything, and everything in its place”. “Sally” was either a very well organized child who made the trunk, or her mother who wished her daughter would clean up a bit more.

There are times when I struggle emotionally, when things are uncertain or upsetting, and I need to control my life somehow. For as long as I can remember, my go-to was to clean. Stressful situation? At least my closets are clean, my sewing room organized, my belongings parsed down to only those things that are important. My need to organize is deeply rooted in my need to understand emotions and shed unnecessary belongings – or distresses. There is something remarkably cathartic in schlepping bags of unneeded [fill in the blank] to a thrift store for someone else to take on. The more stressed, busy or upset I am, the more organizing and cleaning I do.

The moms of my childhood playmates adored me – I would happily clean and organize their rooms. For fun. Odd I know, but putting things in order comes naturally to my brain, an inherited trait from my father. Dad would literally make a job chart each year; a graph that was posted in the kitchen with all 7 kids assigned a rotating list of chores for the entire year. Mow lawn (4 acres mind you), clean pool (huge by the way), do dishes. Dad was an equal opportunity employer as jobs were not assigned as “girl” or “boy”. I rebuilt a furnace, fiber glassed a dilapidated car (vintage Pinto anyone?), installed electrical lines, seal coated our long driveway, and was a “gopher” for Dad’s myriad household projects (go for this tool, go for that tool…). Which was an assigned chore: help dad on weekend projects. My father was an engineer, likely autistic by today’s standards, highly driven and ridiculously busy with his career, house, writing books. Kids? I know he loved us in his way, but he was not well versed with emotions. He ruled us with control and punishment. Which made it difficult for a highly emotional child to learn how to manage stress, upset and difficulties. I cannot say I am “better” these days, but at least I am aware, and work to manage what I could not as a child. And clean my closets beautifully.

Recently we were visiting my son’s family for a quick hello. Our 3 year old granddaughter was having difficulty at bedtime. She was throwing a full on tantrum, and my son and daughter were working hard to manage her upset, while exhausted and upset themselves. Eventually the little one quieted down, and when my daughter in law came down stairs, she shared what happened. My granddaughter, over wrought and melting down with tears, whimpered to her mother “Mommy,  I am having a hard time with my emotions”. They turned to a tactile stuffed toy they use for managing upset and emotions, and proceeded to hug and talk. Dear god was I blown away by my granddaughter’s awareness, and her willingness to ask for help. And for the remarkable job my kids have done teaching their daughter how to manage emotions. Our world needs more parents like them – able to navigate emotionally turbulent children without resorting to control, punishment and restriction. I might need one of those emotional comfort toys. But, for now, I will keep cleaning my closets.

$25K Quilt

No, I did not actually pay $25,000 for this Civil War era cotton quilt. A friend found it at the Bins while we were thrifting, and gave it to me. Based on weight it cost $5.35, including tax, but not including the remarkable amount of dirt (now gone – didn’t think to weigh it dirty).  I decided to buy it anyway, mainly because I was curious what it looked like, but also I wanted to experiment with cleaning something so old. I typically wash old quilts in a bathtub, using shampoo as well as vintage cleaner (restoration-fabric-restorer/). This involves numerous rinses, lots of towels and an ability to drape the quilt to dry. Ideally, I do this on a sunny day so the quilt can dry outside in the sun. Not an option on the rainy cold March day I brought it home, so I put it aside to wait a few days for the weather to warm. And promptly lost water service to our property for 14 days.

The quilt sat in a laundry basket sadly rumpled awaiting its spa treatment, while we struggled through 2 weeks without running water. The ability to have water at whim is not something to take lightly. Sadly, being able to turn back on the water ended up costing $25,000 due to the need to create an entirely new water connection for our property. The process of rebuilding the water connection, when started, went remarkably quickly for all that was involved. Myriad men, mostly covered in mud, traipsed in and out of our houses: plumbers, excavators, inspectors. My husband – who, mind you, had shoulder surgery while all this was going on - is convinced my plying them all with cookies endeared them all to me, but baking cookies was a small price to pay. Not like the actual bill. Sigh.

The first thing I did once water was back on was rescue my Civil War quilt from its laundry detention and start the cleaning process. Dear lord I should have taken a photo of the FILTHY water. I have no idea how the thing got so dirty, but I suspect it had not been washed in 100 years. After drying in the sun, I could actually see the details of the quilt. The quilter used a “rough” fabric for the center green squares and first round of yellow in each block. This fabric was likely American-made as the cotton economy of slavery in the mid 1800s sent most raw cotton to England to be woven into fine fabrics. Fabrics made in the United States at that time were more utilitarian, like the green, yellow and other solid colored fabrics in the quilt. The remaining fabrics, used in the logs of the “log cabin” pattern are a variety of scraps. Some are  prints used “straight on the grain” like the blue check. Others are on a diagonal (bias) which is clear to see in the red shirting fabric in this block. The quilter likely used worn clothing as scraps, making due with what was available, particularly when she ran out of blue check and substituted blue bubble fabric! The setting blocks are all the same pink stripe fabric, and would have been a purchased yardage. A yard of fabric during the Civil War ran around 75 cents, comparable to $30 a yard today, which is very expensive, even by modern standards. Purchasing yardage in the 1860s was a luxury for wealthier households, or a splurge for a significant project.

This quilt is not fancy, uses up clothing scraps the maker had available, and was quilted quickly in a simple cross hatch design. It definitely has some sadness – a random hole on the front, and numerous fabrics that have not held up well. The back is much worse as that fabric was a very light-weight print that became threadbare over time. But the quilt was cherished. Many quilts from this era were made to send to soldiers fighting in the Civil War (1861-1865), sometimes for specific family members and sometimes for charities providing quilts to veterans. Given the cost of the yardage and the fact the quilt was held onto by a family for over 150 years, I suspect it was used by a particular family soldier who returned from the war, quilt in tow.

As I found the quilt in a thrift store in southern Wisconsin, I am guessing it was made by a family from the area. Settles arrived in Wisconsin beginning in the 1830s, with a much larger influx coming after 1848, when Wisconsin became a state. I do wish this quilt could talk – what I wouldn’t give to know who made it, how it came to be in Wisconsin, and the life events it witnessed. Those stories will never be told, though in my mind they are worth every bit of $25k.

Missing Mom’s Mary

As long as I remember, my mother (Barbara F. Humphrey 1/4/1928- 1/24/2021) had a small carved wood Virgin Mary statue on her dresser. I do not know where it came from, but sadly, I do know where it ended up. As her dementia had progressed, I moved Mom into the medical wing of her care facility in early March, 2020. A week later the pandemic lockdown hit, and she was isolated in the facility for months, though the staff cared for her with great kindness. Her dementia made “video” visits hard as she did not understand the technology. It was a very painful process, though her final decline in January of 2021 allowed me to enter the building to stay with her. The “rules” were such I was only to stay an hour, but I basically moved into her room and did not leave for 3 days.

The staff was supportive, bringing me food and helping as needed. My mother recognized me, calling out my name and the time spent was a blessing for both of us. When I left, she was not conscious, and died with my brother by her side the next day. After she had passed, I communicated with the facility about returning to gather her things. Turned out that due to the lockdown, I was no longer allowed in the building, and the staff would pack and move her belongings to the parking garage for me to retrieve. In Minnesota. In February. After driving there, hubby and I worked quickly to sort through randomly packed boxes. We pulled out items to save, piled things for the thrift store, and threw away unnecessary stuff. One box I put aside held my mother’s bible and the lovely wood sculpture of Mary. A few trips to the thrift store, and a Grinch-like packing of the car, and we turned around and drove home.

Sadly, when I got home and emptied the boxes, the one with the bible and statue was missing. In the frenetic frigid parking garage packing, the box ended up at the thrift store. I called, hoping the statue might still be there. The kind woman looked, but did not see the statue and said it likely sold already. I know it is a small thing, but it still caused a sad dent to my heart. While it was hard to say goodbye to Mom – and her lovely Mary statue – I know Mom would forgive me my mistake. The statue is still in my memory, and I often keep my eye out for one when I am thrifting. Losing that touchstone of my mother’s has made me recognize that “things” can offer us peace. But the reality is it is the memories imbued within them that are more important. Losing “things” is part of aging, and offers us baby steps to being at peace as we lose loved ones – a much more difficult process.

This terra cotta statue sits on my sun porch off our bedroom. She came from a friend who was downsizing and moving out of state. He did not know much about her, other than she was gifted to he and his husband from a friend who picked it up in Michigan at convent estate sale. She is remarkably heavy – likely 25 pounds, though some of that is the solid oak base she is attached to. The artist signed the piece but I cannot make heads or tails out of the signature. The woman sits with a piece of “fabric” in her lap, though it has lost whatever decorations were originally on it, as I suspect it spent a long time outdoors. The bird has a halo with heart shaped wings - a dove of peace or a representation of the “holy ghost” most likely.

She perches on a vintage wicker table gifted to me by a friend on the sun porch off our bedroom. I redid the room after my mother died, choosing the Anna French butterfly wallpaper and blue trim paint. Mom was often gifted dragonfly items, though dragonfly wallpaper is harder to locate than you might think. Butterflies, associated as they are with the Myth of Psyche and my college thesis, have more meaning to me. Often I will sit on the porch and take a moment, either reading, or just breathing in peacefulness. Watched over by my large Mary replacement. Knowing Mom understands.

Curmudgeon

Good grief – I understand that running an estate sale is likely challenging, as well as requires a good deal of energy, but the man running the sale where I picked up this painting was beyond grumpy. Downright unpleasant. “Curmudgeon” came to mind. I paid for my pile, including this artwork, shoved it all in the black garbage bag he was angry I was using, and headed home, wondering about the word “curmudgeon”. The word cropped up in writings in the 1500s, though its origin is much debated. The term describes an ill-tempered older man, full of stubborn ideas or opinions…wow is that a useful term these days.

Oddly, the word curmudgeon applies only to men- a women is a termagant. The origin of termagant is also murky, and there are 23 proposed theories, though the term was applied to both sexes as far back as the 1400s. Chaucer picked up the term and used it as a female descriptor – though to be fair, Chaucer was writing a parody so we cannot blame him. Shakespeare’s plays, with only male actors, created the idea that a “termagant” was a woman who acted in a masculine way -overbearing, loud, nasty - and created our modern version. My favorite definition is from Wikipedia: termagant is used in modern English to mean an overbearing, turbulent, brawling, quarrelsome woman. I would much prefer to be a termagant than a curmudgeon, since, as far as I can tell, the opposite of all those traits is to be passive – and I am not likely to ever be so. And being awake to the needs and care of human beings sometimes requires standing your ground. I suspect my 1970s girl feels the same way, given her frowning mien.

The painting is a stylized image of a young woman, painted on a wood board, and signed “White” with no date. The framing, colors, hairdo, and eye makeup scream 1970s. The wood “canvas” is carved, allowing the brown glazing to settle in cracks and crevices, creating wonderful texture on the surface. The design of the work pays homage to Egyptian art’s stylized “aspect view”: the girl’s body and eye are turned toward the viewer, but her head is shown in profile.  Ancient Egyptians believed a person’s essence, or “ka”, could reside in their visual representations. The profile representation “allowed artists to highlight recognizable features…while also depicting the torso and eyes from the front to emphasize the heart and gaze, which they considered the core of soul and consciousness. “(https://historicaleve.com/why-did-the-ancient-egyptians-depict-themselves-in-profile/) If having a soul and consciousness is considered someone’s core, I will stick with my termagant ways and avoid all curmudgeons.

Flight of Fancy

This little woman spoke to me at an estate sale back in 2022. She spoke of thoughtfulness, calm and flights of fancy. She was a bit pricey by thrifting standards, but I suspect I purchased her due to withdrawal symptoms. By 2022 we were starting to emerge from our Covid slumber, all a bit stir crazy. Certainly those of us addicted to thrifting and estate sales were struggling with the lockdown restrictions. Which, of course, were extensive and caused all sorts of other – more significant – issue in our lives. But come April, 2022, it seems the estate sale business started up again, likely with masks, and I purchased this art piece for no other reason but the joy of finally being able to see art again!

The piece was designed to be a pin, but I brought her home and put her on my dressing table. The artist is Karen Halt (b. 1946) though the piece is not signed. When I purchased her, there was a booklet with some other pieces about Halt’s work and thank goodness I took a photo of it, as I most certainly would not have recalled her name otherwise. Ms. Halt’s website (https://www.karenhalt.com/) indicates she often uses birds in her art: “they are gracious visitors who bring joy and dazzle me with their beauty, inspiring work and images that attempt to bridge the gap between what is natural and what is civilized. Their feathers…seek to soften the hard edges of our dwelling places and our fact-filled lives.” The leaves on my sculpture’s body reflect the growth and renewal nature provides. The woman sits contemplatively, with eyes closed, while a small bird sits perches on her head. The bird, connected as it is to trees, reflects a brief moment of touching nature’s beauty; the inspiration that comes from our head and flits off into the clouds.

Better a bird than a dog. While walking a few days ago with hubby, I had twisted my long and thick hair into a clip on top of my head. My hair often causes me to get rather hot, and the day was remarkably warm for a March weekend. As we walked our 70 pound dog, a couple was heading towards us on the path. The woman laughed as they passed, calling out “Oh! I thought you had a dog on your head!” Seriously. A dog on my head? Why of course, doesn’t everyone sit a small dog on the top of their head while walking on a sunny afternoon?! Flights of fancy indeed!

A Paul Tazewell Mystery

I was visiting Minneapolis recently and ventured to a local Bins thrift store with a friend. I didn’t find the facility all that impressive, though I did find a few treasures, a large black artist portfolio among them. My 3-year-old granddaughter loves “doing art” so I thought the portfolio might be fun for her. I flipped through the portfolio while I waited for my friend to finish her Bins shopping, pitching various papers and saving anything that looked interesting, this page among them.

I surmised the original portfolio owner was a costume designer, but I did not spend time researching. I paid for my haul, portfolio included, and moved on. When I returned home, I began cleaning and sorting my treasures. Unclear if I can part with the stunning Louis Vuitton shawl I snagged, and my daughter claimed the pristine 1950s applique quilt, so a successful outing for sure. I began to puzzle over the prior owner of the portfolio.

It was difficult as the only name I could find was “Jean” and “Jeannie”. Sorting through pages, I eventually realized Jean had been a dressmaker, though no address or last name was to be found. There were images from different costume designers thanking “Jeannie” for her work, and I began to read the various notes. Some were high quality prints of characters while others were original sketches. Many were signed, though illegibly. This one, however, had a very clear signature: Paul Tazewell. The sketch, dated 1995, was for a “Claudine” character.

Off to the internet I went, hunting for a “Claudine” in a play or movie. I did not get particularly far. Claudine was a movie, released in 1974, starring Diahann Carroll and James Earl Jones, both of whom won Academy Awards for their roles. The movie’s costume work was done by Bernard Johnson, and most obviously, my 1995 sketch was not related to the 1974 movie. While I have not watched the movie, some of the reviews make it clear it was a landmark film. The lead was a black woman, the producer was a woman, Hannah Weinstein, and the screenplay was created by a married couple, Tina and Lester Pine. The work depicted the pain, limitations and responsibilities of black motherhood, as well as the problems of raising 6 kids within Harlem and the welfare system. These themes are depicted with love and understanding rather than censure. (An interesting 1974 newspaper review: https://aadl.org/node/197115.)

I should point out I am not much of a television or movie watcher. Oddly, and for reasons I cannot explain without therapy, I simply do not turn on television, preferring instead to sew, read or do a myriad of other things. On occasion, if I do want to watch something, I end up calling one of my kids to walk me through how the heck to turn things on with all the remote controls scattered about. I do love theater, and will attend plays and musicals when possible. In fact, my trip to Minnesota was to see a stage production of Life of Pi, as I had read a fascinating review of the puppetry for the production (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/21/theater/life-of-pi-tiger-puppet.html). The Bins outing was a fun extra.

Unfortunately, my internet research did not help me discover any play created from the Claudine story line, and so my 1995 sketch remained a mystery. Nor was I any closer to figuring out who “Jean” was. Since I had a name, Paul Tazewell, I decided to research him and see if I could find Jean that way. Well damn. 

Paul Tazewell, born in 1964, is a contemporary costume designer, who began his work on Broadway in 1996 for Bring in 'Da Noise, Bring in 'Da Funk. He received a Tony Award for Best Costume Design of a Musical for Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton (2016). I found his website (https://www.paultazewelldesign.com/) and decided to send him an email to see if he could provide any insight into “Jean” and Claudine. After sending the email with an image of the Claudine work, I dug a bit further into Mr. Tazewell.

Whelp, not being much of a television watcher, I had not watched the Academy Awards the night before. I suspect my email will be remarkably low on Mr. Tazewell’s “to do” list: he won an Academy Award for his work designing the costumes for the movie Wicked, the first black man to do so. Claudine may remain a mystery but Mr. Tazewell’s sketch will have pride of place on my art display wall!

p.s. a dear friend figured out Mr. Tazewell worked at The Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis in 1995. So it makes a bit of sense that a dressmaker from the area would have worked on a design he created. Still unclear who our Jean was or what the play might have been, but I”m working on it!

Pins And Needles

This charming cross-stitch work, done by CWK in 1995, came home with me from a thrift store outing. It reminded me of our town, with all the quaint old buildings lining a busy main street. The work is remarkably detailed, but what made me laugh is that every storefront on this lively street is selling needle work: lace making, quilting, smocking, weaving, knitting, embroidery and millinery! Living in a charming turn of the century community is not without its challenges, however, even ones selling pins and needles.

“Libertyville” was an official town in 1837, and incorporated in 1882. The community was a sleepy farming town, and Quaker Oats arrived in 1922 to create a research farm. The 30-acre property on Lake Street QA acquired had a large barn and two houses, with water provided by a well. The village installed water service on Lake Street, though we do not know when nor when the QA farm was connected since no documentation is available 

Oh that it was! We have learned that modern building code and charming 100-year-old houses are not particularly compatible. For those of you unaware, Quaker Oats sold the property in 1965, and the buildings were rented to a myriad of tenants - German consulate, Montessori school, laser manufacturer, turkey breeder, and, apparently, lion owning hippies! Families rented the houses, as well as one infamous group of college-aged boys (we have heard about ruckus parties). The large barn, used by QA for its research business, was transformed into 2 apartments which is a bit cringe worthy.

While the water lines to the houses are below ground, the one attached to the barn was run outside the structure; not a particularly wise idea. It burst in the 1980s, and the village disconnected the water, rendering the barn uninhabitable. The farm was subdivided by a local developer in the early 1980s, and we purchased the remains of the farm in 1999. Thus began a labor of love. We rented out the small cottage and started extensive renovations.

When a long legal tangle with the prior owner was finally resolved, we promptly received a “cease and desist” letter from the village regarding the rental. It seems the prior owner learned the village wouldn’t allow rental of the cottage, and she wanted to cause us trouble. At this point I called the village administrator who was apparently moved by weeping new moms (my baby was 8 months old, and the boys aged 6 and 8).

A meeting was called with the powers that be to inform us of the zoning issues. The cottage, they felt, did not qualify for “grandfathering” because the prior owner had stopped renting it to families and used it for her decorating business. Essentially, the zoning rules now applied and we could not have multifamily on our property. Why was it okay, I asked, for a business to be run in a residential area? One rather pompous administrator literally turned to a page in the zoning manual and read the code – you may  run one commercial business out of your single-family dwelling place. Well, I said, if you can only run a business in a residential area if it is in a single-family dwelling place, then our cottage had to be a single-family dwelling place for the prior owner’s business to be allowed, and thus it remained a single-family dwelling place. And so it did NOT lose its grandfathering and we can rent it.

Turns out, their attorney grudgingly agreed with me. Now, however, neither the cottage nor our house have water since the water line sprung a leak and the water was turned off . On Friday at 3:00. When my children were arriving home, including an infant and 3-year-old. All plans were ditched, and the weekend was enjoyed sans water. Come Monday morning, however, we began the journey to resolve the water crisis.

There is currently one water line for the property, but code now requires each house to have a separate metered waterline. Since our old system was broken, we were told we had to comply with the code and excavate two new water lines, one for each house. Mind you, I could buy a nice new car for what installing ONE waterline would cost.

Into the village I went. Turns out, senior engineers are moved by weeping grannies. He was sympathetic to our plight, and started researching solutions. After he consulted with the village attorney, we were advised to request a variance to the code – which could take weeks. The village would issue a temporary permit to allow a new watermain to be installed, but if the variance was not approved by the Village Board, we would comply with the code requirements. This did not strike me as an attractive gamble.

While hubby was undergoing surgery, I reviewed the engineer’s emailed request. Due to the Village Board schedule, we only had a day to decide to start the variance process, and then to decide about digging or waiting for the board’s decision. Without water. I was to write an email requesting the variance and explain why.

Instead I read the ordinance: “Single family detached, single family attached and two-family dwellings…shall have a separate water service pipe…for each dwelling…Water service design for all other structures shall be as approved by the director.” After a bit of online definition research, I called the engineer. Well, I said, according to common definitions, a single family detached dwelling has its own property while our cottage does not. The two houses are not “attached” nor are they a single 2-family dwelling. Therefore, the property does not meet the code’s specifications and thus can be “approved by the director”. After a day to consult with the village attorney, the engineer called back. It  seems the same attorney who proposed the variance requirement now agreed the wording was vague and thus no variance was needed. 

That was the high point of the week. We are on day 10 sans water, and are struggling with unknown pipes. If the underground pipes are copper, we can excavate and have them repaired, roughly for the cost of an engagement ring. However, repairs can’t be done on lead or old galvanized pipes. If the excavation reveals those, we just flushed that “diamond ring” down the drain. At that point we would be facing “brand spanking new car” level excavation expenses. Single Family Dwelling Places are highly overrated. I think I will walk up to town and look for more pins and needles. Can never have enough.

Over The River and Through The Wood

“Over the River and Through the Wood” was originally published in 1844 as a poem written by Lydia Maria Child (originally titled “The New-England Boy’s Song about Thanksgiving Day.”)  A few things changed over time: wood became woods, Thanksgiving became Christmas, and the journey now is to Grandmother’s house, rather than the original Grandfather’s house. Child wrote the poem about visiting her grandfather’s house, known as the Paul Curtis House in Massachusetts. This green dollhouse is a gift for my granddaughters, and while their drive to visit me is sans river and woods, it does include awful Chicagoland traffic.

This past weekend was to be the big “reveal” while all my children arrived home for a long overdue reunion. Sadly, the weekend plans went sideways, and while the dollhouse was loved, it remains here for another day. Owning an old house is not without challenges, including 100-year-old water mains. Ours is complicated by the subdividing of the property over the years, so now our water main access is hundreds of feet across a neighbor’s yard in a six-foot-deep meter pit. Oh, and ours services two houses, so when it ruptured, both our house and our rental house became waterless. Of course this occurred on a Friday afternoon…right when all my children were arriving home. The complications of repairing, as well as the Village’s new requirements, have left us a bit numb, and as I write this we still have no water and no resolution from the Village. Hopefully today will bring good news.

Thankfully this miniature “Grandmother’s House” does not include plumbing. The house was one I spotted on Marketplace and was thrilled as it is exactly the same 1940s structure as the dollhouse I made for my daughter 25 years ago (see blog post ericas-heirloom-treasures/thehousethatjackbuilt). The house was sad, needing a major overhaul, and I set to work.

The white paint had to go since I knew the wood underneath was charming vintage pine. I pulled off the contact paper and stripped the paint on two floors. Sadly this mucked up the fireplace a tad and I had to touch it up, as well as create a new “fire” to cover old glue from the prior “fire”. I sanded the heck out of the house, and added pre-painted white baseboards to clean up the not so great edges.

Two of the windows were missing their muntins – a funny word that I thought was “muttins”. Muttin, of course, is the meat of sheep – and being a bit of a Miss Malaprop, I often mix up words based on sounds. The term 'muntin' is also confused with 'mullion' (elements that separate complete window units). Many companies use the term 'grille' when referring to a decorative element of wood placed over a single pane of glass to resemble muntins which actually do separate multiple panes of glass. Some etymology for us word geeks: the word muntin comes from the French word “montant” which is the present participle of “monter” meaning “to rise”.  The word was used as far back as the 13th century.

All of which is to say I cut small bits of wood to size, painted and then glued them in place. I added “glass” in the form of a plastic sheet, and hot glued it in place after painting the window framing. The flowers in the flower boxes came from stems picked up thrifting. I used a sweet brass button from my button box as the front door knob, and shingled the roof with mini cedar shakes. The exterior of the house was painted using our house paint so the dollhouse resembles “Grandmother’s House” which should really be “Nana and Pop’s House”.

The vast majority of the house was sourced cheaply. I bought the wallpapers in the pink bedroom and kitchen (chickens duh), though the living room paper was free and the small bedroom “paper” was actually from a thrifted book about clothing artwork that I cut up (as is the mirror in the bathroom). I sourced the vintage wood kitchen set off eBay as I could not stand the cheap stuff available these days. The remainder of the furniture and knick-knacks came from estate sales – including the sweet artist easel for a granddaughter who loves to do “art”.

The house’s artwork was a fun project – the two framed pieces in the living room are actually small photos of both sets of grandparents, with ours showing the date 2025 and the other including the two girls. The pink bedroom art is a reduced sized copy from a feminist calendar I received at Christmas from my daughter, and I had to include the “girl power” imagery for my two granddaughters from their aunt. I made the curtains, bed coverings and pillows and was thrilled to find the little plastic teddy bear in a bin of estate sale dollhouse stuff. The vintage rug in the children’s room was handmade needlepoint work also in that bin. I cleaned and re-backed it so it would survive many years of play. The little metal horse on the mantel, also from the bin, is to remind the girls of their aunt’s “horse” room in our home. And I could not forget to include a small metal sewing machine – also found in my estate sale bin – for my granddaughters to remember me by.

The joy of my granddaughter exploring the treasures will sustain me through the stress of this week. Thankfully I don’t need to excavate a water main line for the dollhouse!

Rainbow Dictionary

I am a sucker for vintage books, especially children’s, and this one came home with me from a thrift outing recently. The author, Wendell W. Wright, was the Dean of the School of Education at Indiana University, and wrote this book in “MCMXLVII.” As I am not fluent in Roman numeral dates this required an internet search: 1948. A New York friend was visiting when I found the book and was appalled I did not place old books in the freezer. Seriously? It had never crossed my mind, but, after a quick wipe down, this book chilled overnight to appease her. Apparently, according to an article I found

book lice are tiny and generally a dark white or brownish color. They are rather fond of book glue, moisture and mold, which is why you often find them living their best life within the pages of an old book. Silverfish are bigger and easier to spot, and, worse still, bedbugs sometimes find their way into the spines of hardcover books. The problem isn't just that these bugs can chew and damage your books; it's that once they are in your home, they can make their way into other areas such as your furnishings and cause further damage. Freezing books can kill off any living insects and their eggs. (https://www.newsweek.com/woman-explains-immediately-puts-thrifted-books-freezer)

The same article quotes a scientist who is not so sure freezing will kill off unwanted bugs: "In the lab, we tend to preserve microbes at freezing temperatures and, if they are dry, they tend to survive for months, if not years." I hate to point out that “scientists have resurrected viruses dormant for tens of millions of years in Siberian permafrost” so I am not highly optimistic that 1948 critters would be done in by a brief freezer sojourn. (https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov)

The book itself is a treasury of vintage images and thoughts. The illustrations, done by Joseph Low, combine “imagination, freshness, vivacity, joyousness…and an effort has been made to draw upon the gay and happy experiences of children.” When I came across the large illustration for “Playground” I laughed out loud. My parental brain started yelling warnings, and I wondered how the heck those of us old enough to recall all these playground games survived childhood.

Even in the 1970s these worrisome playground toys were still in use. Teeter-totter anyone?! I absolutely loved playing on teeter-totters, and getting stuck up high was the best part – 6 feet off the ground, clinging to the handle and jumping about to get your weight to shift the leverage. And that metal jungle gym: yup, we had those too – creating challenges to playmates to scale past to stand on the top…oh maybe 8 feet in the air. Not a worry about the metal causing harm when falling, much less being rather hard on body parts. While my childhood playgrounds did not include a “may pole” (this one allowing the children to cling to a handle and swing in the air - dear lord), ours had a teether ball pole. I was ruthless at tether ball, smashing the ball to smack my opponent in the face was hands down the best part. I wasn’t much for the open sandbox, though my husband built one for our young boys back in the early 1990s in our yard. We did have a cover on it to keep the sand clean, and also keep neighboring cats – and the toxoplasmosis they carry – away.

Oddly, the artwork is lacking parents. There is one woman pushing a baby stroller and a woman riding by on a horse (even in 1948 that seems odd), glancing over her shoulder at all the activity. There are 37 children cavorting about – including 3 in the wading pool. Nary a lifeguard or parent in sight. The other thing I realized is how homogeneous the children are. Do you have Native American ancestry? Asian? Black? Possibly you are handicapped and need accommodations to enjoy playgrounds? No luck here – these children are all Caucasian. While I cannot speak for the diversity of the U.S. population in 1948, I am fairly confident there were Native American children, Black children, Asian children, not one of which are depicted in this scene. According to the 2022 census, 60% of the current population of our country is Caucasian. As such, 14 of these children should reflect a different heritage. And what about the physically disabled children? Children represent 6% of the 42.5 million Americans with disabilities, over 250,000 children. That would  be the same as half the population of the city of Atlanta being disabled.

Our country is quite literally a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities – yet there seems to be a political desire to “return” to the glory days depicted in this playground. I for one do not believe that is either possible or beneficial. The joy of growing older is opening your eyes to knowledge, to learning viewpoints beyond your own. If everyone in your life is identical to you, the experiences of your life narrow, not expand. As I stress about our current political dynamic, with this idea of “returning” our country to a mythic past, I  find comfort in the deep freeze my book went through. Yes, the idea is to “kill off” all those bugs and restore the book to its former clean glory. But the reality is those darn bugs – and most everything else – will survive a deep freeze, and grow back. My childhood memories are my own, reflecting the lily-white world I lived in. But I recognize the beauty of diversity and appreciate all the contributions other cultures, ideas and ethnicities offer us. When the deep freeze is over, our little bugs will repopulate and offer us some solace.

Ten Dollar Table

I do feel dreadful for BAF. Some time back in the 1970s she completed a charming needlepoint canvas with pink flowers and butterfly design. She knew what she was doing, and the work is done as “petit point” – a canvas with a very tight weave requiring tiny stitching. The entire work is filled in with stitching, the cream as well as the floral design. I do not know if she started with the wood table designed to display the canvas under glass or if she decided to make her piece fit inside it. There is a bit of canvas on the back that is not stitched, so I suspect the latter. The octagon wood trim is narrow and is not glued to the wood backing. When the piece was assembled in 1975, someone used small nails to secure the pieces together, and over time the wood framing popped loose, with one of the octagon joints detaching.

I came across the work at a local estate sale. Due to the “damage” they priced it at $10. Ten Dollars. Needlepoint projects are expensive – mainly because the canvas is typically hand-painted with a design and can be very pricey. For reference, a local store, The Forest Needle in Lake Forest, has a small pillow canvas for sale for $185, and that does not include the yarn or the labor to complete the piece. Here I came across a completed work, well executed and framed on a very practical small table and it set me back $10. Still can’t get over it as you can tell.

However, I did need to recruit hubby for yet another project. He grumbles when I show up with a piece that requires repair, but he too appreciates the hard work someone put into these charming hand-made works. My initial “repair” of the table was remarkably ineffective – I think it promptly broke apart again - so he took it apart. Ended up using small metal brackets on the underside to adhere the backing to the narrow mahogany edging. Once nice and sturdy, the side table ended up in our sitting room, sitting next to a Midcentury Scandinavian rocking chair I like to use when working on needle projects (knitting, crochet, hand sewing). My mother, Barbara F. Humphrey, had a small rocker all my life where she sat knitting away, and it is remarkably calming to sit in one while reading or working. If you have never sat in a rocker, I suggest you try one. They are not just for grannies, even though I am one. BAF as well as my mother BFH would approve.

Dandelion Dreams

Yes, I know dandelions are “weeds”, but they are also lovely and remarkably resilient. And have a fascinating history. Not the least of which is how often people capture them in art. This photograph is one I took this past summer in the field by our home. The seed head was huge, about the size of a softball. And I loved the details of the unopened flowerhead and splashes of pink clover. Thankfully I captured the plant when I did as the utility company mowed the field down the next day. There are few plants that are as tenacious – or resilient – as the dandelion; they thrive in most any climate, will seed in rough terrain or disturbed areas, and offer a charming symbol in the process.

Dandelions originated in Eurasia, popping up on disturbed habitats after the last Ice Age. The name came from their French name: ‘don de leon’ (tooth of the lion) referring to the plant’s jagged leaves. They traveled to Europe from Asia, being used for medicinal reasons, treating liver and digestive issues predominately. The plant is also entirely edible. Interestingly, dandelions then traveled on the Mayflower, landing in North America along with the pilgrims. So the dandelion is an immigrant to our country, and its comfortable adaption to its new region is the predominate reason American gardeners use herbicides on lawns.

Children are endlessly attracted to dandelions, and the plant is a symbol of hope, healing and resilience.  I suspect I am not the only one who spent childhood – and my children’s childhood – blowing on dandelion seeds to make a wish. Of course, that does a lovely job of spreading those pernicious seeds, resulting in yet more plants. But symbolism-wise, the idea is to spread hope and positivity. There was also the childhood game of holding a sunny yellow dandelion flower under your chin, similar to the buttercup. In my childhood, this would divine if you liked butter – and not a clue how or why this mattered, but the process was fun, especially as we didn’t have buttercups handy. In the 18th century, the stronger the yellow glow on the chin, the kinder and sweeter the child. The yellow flower as the sun, reflecting joy and happiness on a child is a sweet image, slightly more logical than concerns about butter consumption. Though in my case, I suspect I had a rather strong buttery yellow glow as a child.

My children happily collected bouquets of the flowers – not hard to do on our property with the open utility company fields east of us. I did discover an old superstition about those bouquets, however. It said that bringing dandelions into the house can cause you to wet your bed! The leaves are known to be a diuretic, thus their use for medicinal purposes for centuries. But, given that dandelions have more vitamin A than spinach, more vitamin C than tomatoes and have a great deal of iron, calcium and potassium, maybe harvesting those plants would be better than herbicides? As my gardening leaves a lot to be desired, I am thinking Spring salads of dandelion greens may be in the offing.

Quirky Girl

I have friends who often say they hate shopping – they couldn’t imagine spending time hunting through a thrift store. I get it – it can take time and can be fruitless. That said, there are many reasons I appreciate the process. Take, for example, my outing yesterday. I have been constructing a doll house for my granddaughters over the last few months, and needed, as one does, finials for 3 curtain rod. I stopped at a craft store to look at beads and there were a number of strikes against those I found: they were dang ugly; they were sold in bags of 100; and the cheapest bag was $6. In addition, they all were made in China and I have an allergy to disposable, cheaply made things from China. It dawned on me I should just go to the thrift store so off I went.

Not all thrift stores carry jewelry, though my local one has a ridiculous amount of it. Over the years I have found remarkable pieces, some used as gifts, some to be resold and a few I’ve kept. One I could not part with: a stunning Georg Jensen “Fusion” necklace designed by Nina Koppel and handmade in Denmark in 18k white gold with 0.5 carats black diamonds. In fact, my granddaughter has commented on liking the necklace…and she is three!

Shopping at the thrift store meant I was able to pick from numerous options for my finials, I only spent $1.50, an item was repurposed instead of just thrown away, and a charity benefited from my purchase. Those all seem like wins to me – and the beaded bracelet let me decorate 3 dollhouse curtains with charming finials . (I can hear you grumbling, wanting a photo of said dollhouse, but you will have to wait with bated breath for another blog post.) Not one to waste a thrift store outing, I did a quick walk through as I never know what I might find.

This quirky woman called out to me from the crowded shelves, making me smile. I  sensed she was unique, but did a quick image search with my phone to make sure she wasn’t massed produced junk - the things filling the shelves at HomeGoods etc. Sure, I could buy her even if she was, but personally I don’t see the point as noted above: allergy to China junk. Turns out my instinct was correct – she is by Judie Bomberger, a California artist active back in the 1990s. Interestingly, when I did the search I realized I have a number of Christmas ornaments by the same artist, some gifted to hubby and me years ago and some picked up thrifting. The ornaments are all circus themed and thus fit our Calder family room vibe. This piece, however, required a bit more research.

It was remarkably difficult to discover much about Judie Bomberger on the internet. All the art sites and Wikipedia pages said the same terse, useless sentences: “Judie Bomberger is an American Postwar & Contemporary artist who was born in the 20th Century. Judie Bomberger’s work has been offered at auction multiple times, with realized prices ranging from 15 USD to 140 USD, depending on the size and medium of the artwork” (AI at its finest no doubt). It took some digging to track down more information (https://thegiggleguide.com/brand/judie-bomberger-inc), though even that is limited.

Judie Bomberger started making sculptures in the 1990s, collecting metal from scrap yards in California, using a blow torch to form designs, and painting them. Her works all have names, and the “resonating theme is strong, joyful, whimsical and just for the fun of it.” She was licensed to create a “collectible” series reflecting the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine movie, and also “worked for nine years in collaboration with Cirque Du Soleil creating steel sculptures and ornaments depicting their performers”. I suspect she is still alive, living in California, but could not find out much more about her.

My found treasure depicts “Babette” and was created in 1996. While the base steel shape was laser cut, creating multiples of each shape, Judie hand painted each piece. There are other Babettes – some facing the other way, and some painted in different colors. I would love to know if Babette was an actual performer with the Circus back in the 1990s, but I could not figure that out. Typically Judie signs her work on the back, though this my Babette is unsigned. Her art has such whimsy and joy, and Babette speaks to me of Springtime, was well as the joy of found treasures. When my husband saw her, he said she definitely “was me” with her fly away hair and wild pink outfit, adding I couldn’t sell her as she is quirky – just like me.

Tangled Roots

Some pieces of art bring with them complicated feelings. Why they inspire such is beyond me, but I sense a bit of kismet from art at times. This pottery work is a good example: it arrived in my life at a time of introspection. The piece is remarkably heavy, over 3 pounds, and measures 17” x 6”. I pulled it out of a bin of clothing during a thrifting outing the other week. My friend thought it dang ugly and could not imagine buying it. I was intrigued all the same, and purchased it by weight for $4.86.

I was not sure what the work depicted when I picked it up. After scrubbing it clean, I realized it was a flower, built up with pottery on a plaque-style base. I suspect it is made with stoneware clay due to its weight. Potters use 3 main types of clay: earthenware, porcelain, and stoneware. Earthenware is often terra cotta in style. Porcelain is used for dishware and fine pieces. “Stoneware is a dense, strong, and impermeable clay that is normally only partially vitrified (fired to the point that it is not porous)…Stoneware is fired at temperatures ranging from 2,000° to 2,400° F. These high temperatures partially or completely vitrify the clay. Unlike porcelain, which is almost always white, stoneware is usually colored gray or brownish because of impurities in the clay.” (https://seattlepotterysupply.com/pages/the-types-of-pottery-clay)

My mystery potter did not sign or date the work, and I am guessing by its vibe it’s late 1970s. The sunflower design is made from a “rope” of clay, with added leaves. Overlaying the stem is a swirling vine which has broken in a number of places. Not surprising given it ended up in a bin of thrift store merchandise. The fact it survived without further damage is a testament to the density of the clay. The missing vines don’t bother me terribly, and when I showed it to Hubby he thought it remarkable (clearly I have trained him well!).

This work makes me think of the resilience of human beings and the tangled lives we build for ourselves. The internal monologues we listen to, often a product of childhood dynamics, which impact us long after those early days. Those monologues are like train tracks, laid down with shoddy materials, and yet we expect the train of our life to run smoothly on that bumpy foundation. It is no wonder people – not just me – struggle, as it is so easy to jump aboard that train. While we can see the flowers growing along the railway, we can’t stop the train to explore them, so entrenched are we in our commitment to that darn track. How that track manifests in our lives becomes the challenge – not just because addictions can take over, but because those monologues send us on painful journeys, impacting ourselves and those we love. For me, it is time to realize the clay underneath those tracks is strong, and I can skip the darn trip down the shoddy rails. Things may have chipped off, vines may have swirled around unnecessarily, but the basic foundation is made of stoneware. And dang it, I want to explore the flowers.

The analogy to this artwork is apt – it survived unknown travails along its journey. And yet none of those matter - what matters is the flower is still there, intact in its 3-dimensional glory. The vine, chipped and disconnected, still shows growth and movement. The why, where, when don’t make a damn bit of difference. Either you accept today and turn to the sun. Or you wallow in the deep history and forget that blooming takes work.

Tree of Life

Ferreting through the Bins recently, I came across this piece. It is large, 19” x 23”, made of padded silk and mounted to a wood frame. The piece is not signed nor dated, and, given its weight, cost less than $3. Miraculously the silk was not torn, stained, or damaged. If you have been to a Bins thrift store, you understand how remarkable that is. If you have no clue what I’m talking about, here’s a photo I took recently of my two friends getting into the spirit of the place:

Thankfully, I found a card tucked into the wood framing which informed me the artist was Mary Jo Scandin, and her art medium was batik fabrics. Batik is an unusual art form, using wax and dye instead of paints to create works. She describes her process on the card:

“Each batik begins with a pencil drawing directly on a piece of white natural fabric. The area to remain white is then painted with a melted beeswax and paraffin mixture. The wax acts as a resist to the dyes which are to follow. The first dye bath is a light color and after it has dried, new areas will be painted with wax. The fabric is then dyed again, and the process repeated several times until the number of colors desired is obtained. Each piece is individually designed so no two pieces are ever alike.”

While I could not find much information about Mary Jo online, I learned she and her husband Jim ran an art studio and gallery in Sister Bay, WI, from 1983 until 2002. Blue Dolphin Gallery, also in Door County, now carries some of her work, and confirmed she is still alive. While the individual at the gallery was rather terse, their website has a quote from Mary Jo:

“Through my work I attempt to integrate my various identities of woman, mother, friend and artist with my associations to those women in our history who also spent time sewing, quilting, knitting and handling fibers…I am inspired in my work by the spirits of those who came before me, those whom I know presently and all others still to come. It is my desire to express my concern for truth, justice and peace and to challenge some of the stereotypes concerning the human condition and its relationship to the universe. My final hope is to express hope.” (https://www.bluedolphinhouse.com)

I have a sense of kinship with Mary Jo Scandin, as I too love the imagery of trees, and respect women’s needlework as an art form. I learned my sewing skills the old-fashioned way, from my mother, as well as quilting teachers and friends, and one of my early quilt projects paid homage to this. I “remembered” this quilt having a tree of life block in the center, but after looking at it, realized the tree imagery is in an outer border. The center block is actually a “feathered star”, composed of 164 pieces. The quilt was created through a workshop I took 30 years ago from Muriel Douglas, a remarkable quilt artist. The year-long class focused on the medallion-style quilts Muriel favored, and was held once a month at a quilt shop in Woodstock, IL. There were no patterns, we simply started with a block of our choosing, and built on it outward, border by border. The darn thing got huge, measuring 94” square. The 24 trees, in the second to last border, were pieced using a lovely Liberty fabric. As I only had so much of the green fabric, and couldn’t make more trees, I offset them with basket blocks using another red Liberty print. When I began the final swag border using that same red Liberty print, I realized I did not have enough fabric to complete the design. I contacted the archive at Liberty of London (didn’t actually know there WAS an archivist at Liberty until I started that process), and they sent me all they had of the fabric so I could complete my work. Heaven forbid some future Liberty of London archivist goes looking for that red fabric – it is now all embedded in my quilt!

I love the huge old trees on our property, and feel I am a caretaker to these living beings. I often transplant saplings - oaks, basswood, maples, redbuds, junipers - that pop up on our property, sometimes sharing them with friends. I plant them where they can thrive, with sun and protection from critters (who I have learned enjoy munching on many types of little trees). I schlep hoses to water the trees in hot weather, and spend much time pruning and shaping them to foster healthy growth. Sometimes I have to take down trees, especially those that grow too close to the house or get damaged in a storm. Sadly, many trees get attacked by bugs or fungi and that is yet another care taking project – providing chemicals to help them withstand the infestation. Watching an old tree succumb, no longer sprouting growth each Spring, is actually remarkably sad when you’ve lived with their beauty for so many years. It is not hard to recognize caring for trees is much like raising a child, with the hope you can provide enough care while they are young and growing strong roots, so they can stand on their own and thrive.

For me, the tree image represents our human connection, the ancestry that came before us, the branching of our “family tree”. I too have concern for truth, justice and peace in our lives. I see trees dying from a damaged environment, and worry the roots of our trees may not be strong enough to offer hope to future generations. But pessimism doesn’t do me any good, and I look to art, family and nature for comfort. Mary Jo Scandin was a serendipitous discovery, offering beauty and inspiration and reminding me that trees – like humans – have strong roots.

Nicks and Dings

My mother, Barbara Fallon Humphrey (1928-2021) treasured this hat form and it was in her sewing room throughout my childhood. Now it sits in my sewing room, often displaying a charming hat. It originally belonged to my grandmother, Friederica Hermes Fallon (1898-1961),“Nanny” to my 5 older siblings, but called Frieda by everyone else. I was named for her as she died of ovarian cancer at the age of 63 before I was born. Frieda did not have an easy life. She had little formal education, married at the “old maid” age of 29 and was left a single mother of two daughters by age 37. Mom always spoke of her mother’s ridiculously fancy taste, often using the adage “champagne taste with a beer pocketbook”. Our joke was that this was clearly an inherited trait as Mom, too, enjoyed beautiful things, and “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” applies here to me as well. I have very few things from Nanny, and the hat form reminds me that while Nanny’s life was difficult, she used her talents to add beauty in the world, and supported her girls while doing so.

Hat forms were used to mold material into a specific style hat, and workshops would have many different sizes and shapes of hat forms, some quite elaborate. My grandmother’s form is a fairly plain one, carved from a single piece of wood. The traditional material used for hats was felted animal fur, a process developed in the 17th century. Hatters used mercuric nitrate to separate animal fur from skin, creating a felted fabric. This process was called “carroting” because mercury, often derived from cinnabar, turned orange when liquid. By the 1800s it was known this resulted in “mad hatter disease” - essentially mercury poisoning, medically called “erethism”. Mercury use for hat production was banned in Europe by 1900, but hat production in United States involved mercury up until 1941. It was stopped “mainly due to the wartime need for the heavy metal in the manufacture of detonators”. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erethism). The main risk for hatters was the absorption of the vapor, as mercury’s relative chemical inertness makes it unlikely to be absorbed through contact. Which is certainly a good thing for owners of old hats, and possibly old hat forms pre-dating 1941. As my grandmother only had the one hat form, I suspect she was a “milliner” not a “hatter”. Hatters made the actual hats but a milliner did more decorating of hats – adding lace, feathers and other embellishments to an existing hat. The nicks and dings in my grandmother’s hat form would have come from her using pins to hold things in place as glue dried or needles from sewing bits and pieces together. I do wonder, however, if her early death from cancer may have been attributed to working with hats during the 1930s, with the corresponding mercury exposure.

I also have a set of 8 needlepoint chair seat covers done by my mother and grandmother in the 1950s – thankfully mercury free. A brother, who inherited the dining room set, removed the covers recently, “modernizing” the chairs with new upholstery. He planned to throw out the set and I paid $14.55 to have him ship them to me. Having been in use for over 60 years, they desperately need to be washed. This requires a blocking form – another project for hubby! (see prior blog post: catawampus-framing). While I could ask my husband to create something for me to use, the basic issue is I don’t have a use for 8 seat covers at present. Hopefully they will be put to use someday as they are a testament to my mother’s and grandmother’s needlework skill, done on a very fine canvas with tiny stitching. Accomplishing one of these would likely cause me to lose my eyesight – finishing eight boggles the mind.

I also have a rose applique quilt made by Nanny, which was from a 1950s era “kit”. Nanny started 3 of them – one for each of my 3 elder sisters, but only finished one before her death. My mother stored the tops in her bedroom closet during my childhood. I recall this specifically because our Siamese cat could often be found curled up on the pile on the closet shelf! Eventually Mom cleaned off the accumulated dirt and cat hair and finished the applique work, sending them out to be “professionally” quilted in the 1970s. 

When hubby and I were newly married in the late 1980s, we would go antiquing in Chicago - shops filled with treasures snagged in the rural areas of Illinois, Wisconsin and Indiana. At one store we found a lovely iron bedframe designed with circles of roses. The frame became our guest bed, displaying my grandmother’s quilt for years. Sadly, guests outgrew double beds in the prior century, so the iron bed was set up in our daughter’s room for a spell, though getting that old wood box spring up our staircase involved some serious engineering. Adult daughters with significant others do not like double beds any more than prior-century guests. So out to the barn it went, with the darn box spring being chopped up and thrown out. In case anyone is worried, Mom gave the remaining two quilts to a different brother for his two daughters. Unclear what happened to them, but I hope they were saved.

While there is no paperwork from Frieda, and very few photographs, I do have my Mom’s birth certificate from Chicago. The document says her father, Martin Fallon, was from England, and was 34 when Mom was born. He had been in Chicago since 1921 and he and Frieda married in 1927, though I do not know how or where the couple met. In truth, Martin was from Boston, and was wanted for some insurance fraud he skip town to avoid. He left behind a wife and 3 children (including another daughter named Barbara), who all moved in with his mother, my great grandmother Julia Fallon, when he disappeared. Julia Fallon hired an investigator to find her missing son. As he had served in WWI, driving ambulances in France, his name was entered in a federal data base for veterans registering for benefits. My mother suspected her father’s actual name may have been George Fallon, though upon arriving in Chicago in 1921, he went by Martin Fallon, which was his father’s name (my great grandfather).

Eventually the 1930’s depression hit, and money became an issue. When Frieda insisted her husband sign up for benefits from the veteran organization, she had no way of knowing those benefits would not benefit her in the slightest. Once he did, the investigator in Boston was notified. Soon some communication was sent, though I do not know how this transpired. At this point Frieda learned her husband had another family in Boston. She begged him to divorce the wife, allowing him to stay if he did so. He said he could not as she was Catholic, which is a bit ironic as my grandmother – his “second” wife – was as well.  He left soon thereafter, and my grandmother moved with her two young daughters to live with her eldest sister Frances (1888-1952) and her family. Besides the financial impact, and social stigma, Frieda was distressed her daughters were “illegitimate”. While the label is not as devastating, nor really used much in our day, in her era it was significant. Frieda’s brother, Joseph Hermes, a Chicago judge, arranged for his two nieces to be legally “legitimate”. No clue what that would have entailed, but it was important to my grandmother and my mother.

To support herself and her daughters, Frieda got a job teaching sewing at a high school, and had a side business decorating hats for clients. I suspect Frieda learned to sew from her mother, Katherine Becker Hermes (1834-1931), a  woman who arrived in this country from Germany with a sewing machine (see prior blog post: hemming-my-history). It seems a creative sewing talent runs through this line of women. Frieda was very talented, making all the family’s clothing and using her skills to earn money. Mom was also a remarkable seamstress, but her creative art form was knitting. I turned my focus to quilting, and it suits my brain which loves to “organize” and fit things together. My grandmother’s hat form, sitting by my side while I work in my sewing room, reminds me that life can be a struggle, full of nicks and dings, but creating beauty helps brighten any difficulty. And a little financial input never hurts.

Spirit of Ecstasy

I picked up this willowy woman at an estate sale and was told she was an automobile hood ornament. She is cast brass, with no date or signature. I have done a whole lot of research – heading down some cool rabbit holes - but her purpose remains unclear. The unknown artist referenced Botticelli’s Birth of Venus -same elongated shape, similar arm placement, similar canted body stance - but her Art Deco vibe dates her to the 1920s. I am skeptical that she was for an automobile mainly due to the base. It is unclear how the odd shaped platform would have been attached to anything; the holes do not have threading and the bottom is puzzling. At some point I decided she was a radiator mascot leading me to the Spirit of Ecstasy. But now I am not so sure.

In our family papers are two photo albums created by my grandmother Kat as a teen (Katharine Strong Humphrey Osborne 1905-1987). She took snaps documenting trips and visits with friends and family, and thankfully penciled in identifying information. This one, from 1922, shows an automobile owned by “Dot and Katie”. It is unclear who Dot and Katie were, but they arrived in their car, and a group outing ensued complete with picnic and flat tire (a scene caught by Kat’s camera). Their auto was a Model T Ford Coupe, and I suspect an expert could identify the specific year, falling between 1919 and 1922 (https://modeltfordfix.com/the-1919-1922-model-t-ford/).  Automobiles in the early days were vastly different vehicles from what we call “cars”. Cranks had to be turned. Various gages had to be monitored, and spare tires were frequently put to use. They had external radiators, covered with a radiator cap at the front of the hood, allowing water to be added as needed. Notice the door on the side – it’s in the middle! Dot or Katie had to climb to get into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t until 1926 that Ford had a functional driver door.

There is some speculation that my Art Deco brass woman was a car’s radiator mascot, and I loved the idea. Her tall curvy form would certainly make an impression as she is enveloped in steam escaping through the holes. Sadly, I could find nothing like her, and none of the antique radiator “mascots” had a similar base. Almost all had round bases, such that they would be twisted onto the radiator filler cap. As much as I would love her to be one, I don’t think she is. That said, “radiator mascots” are fascinating.

According to the Studebaker Museum: “radiator mascots turned the basic radiator filler cap into a renowned work of art. Mascot designs varied widely, including mythological figures, brand iconography, animals, human figures…As radiator filler caps retreated under the hood during the 1930s, the radiator mascot evolved into the hood ornament.” In 1911 Rolls-Royce vehicles started using the “Spirit of Ecstasy” on the radiator and then eventually as a hood decoration. (https://studebakermuseum.org/exhibition/radiator-mascots-art-style-story-2/)

According to Rolls-Royce, the Spirit of Ecstasy was modeled on Eleanor Thornton (1880-1915), a vibrant woman who was part of an early automobile club in England, working at an automobile magazine. By age 22, she was secretary to Baron John Montagu, a wealthy supporter of the automobile industry in England. The original statue was commissioned by Baron Montagu to be placed over the radiator of his 1909 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. That statue had a finger on her lips, a reference to the secret love affair between Eleanor Thornton and Baron Montagu. Beginning in 1911 the company commissioned the same artist, Charles Robinson Sykes, for a variation of the original Spirit of Ecstasy to use on all its automobiles. Spirit of Ecstasy, also called  Eleanor, reflects her dreams, energy, grace and beauty. (https://www.rolls-roycemotorcars.com/spirit-of-ecstasy).

Eleanor was accompanying Lord Montagu to India in 1915 on the S.S. Persia when a German U-boat torpedoed it in the Mediterranean, killing her and 342 others. Baron Montagu and 175 others survived. The boat sank in 10 minutes, and only four lifeboats had time to launch.  (https://www.pandosnco.co.uk/persia.htm)

I remain puzzled by my brass lady, but appreciate that sometimes there are not answers to questions. Hard to believe in this internet-handy day that something can remain a mystery, but I will have to leave this one unsolved. The circuitous journey I took in researching her led me to Eleanor Thornton and the Spirit of Ecstasy. Eleanor was a woman who defied the conventions of her day, who made her way in the world and has been immortalized for over a century. The artist described the statue as "a graceful little goddess…who has selected road travel as her supreme delight… she is expressing her keen enjoyment…her sight fixed upon the distance." (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spirit_of_Ecstasy). Eleanor did not live long, and her only (illegitimate) child was given up for adoption. And yet, here she is inspiring me and offering up her story all because of a radiator cap. Or not, as the case may be.

Present On The Counter

This dainty Art Deco statue came home with me from a sale at an antique dealer’s house. The house was chock full of “collectibles”; some lovely and some not so much (vintage brass bullet shells anyone?) I had stopped a prior week and saw this little lady, but she was priced out of my budget at $295. As the house remained stuffed, the company held a “fire sale” the next week, and I swung by again. Needless to say, I did not spend anywhere near that much, and happily carted her home, along with a few other treasures. (A $5 handmade Native American basket because I can never leave one of those behind.)

As I drove home from the sale, my audio book had a character say “I am present and accounted for” – a phrase that recalls a very specific memory for me. When hubby and I were newly engaged we purchased a charming gingerbread brick house in Rocky River, OH. I lived in New York City at the time, and thus ensued a significant change in my life. I left a corporate banking job, packed up my east side apartment and moved via U-Haul to our new home in suburban Cleveland. Hubby was working at a trading firm and I anticipated getting a banking job. The future did not turn out that way, and our lives abruptly changed again after Black Friday in October, 1987. The banking industry in Ohio crashed and hubby lost his job. With no incomes and one puppy, we needed to renovate the house, sell it and move yet again to find jobs. Oh, and there was our wedding during all of that. Thankfully we made a good sum on the house even though we owned it less than 6 months.

During one of  those early months, Hubby had come home and headed upstairs. I called up to him and heard him say “There’s a present on the counter for you”. Oh my, what a charming husband! Like a little girl, I dashed into the kitchen and looked about. This was not too time consuming as there was literally one counter in said charming (tiny) kitchen. No present. Huh. No downstairs bath so no other counter. Went back to the stairs and called up to ask where exactly?

“Where’s what?” he yells back down.

“You said there’s a  present on the counter for me.”

“No,” he says, “I said: I am present and accounted for”.

37 years later it still makes me chuckle. The term “present and accounted for” is from the military. Interestingly, the US version is redundant – if  you are present, you’re also accounted for. The British version is “all present and correct” which doesn’t roll off the tongue, but makes more sense. Honestly to that point in my 24 years I don’t think I had ever heard the term. Clearly, being a newlywed had me thinking romantically – and not hearing what was actually being said. Having now been married for 37 years, I can honestly say we would respond almost exactly the same. He is present. And I am off in the clouds, hopelessly romantic or lost in thoughts. And, as my children would point out, not listening so well. So now every time I see this little statue, I perk up thinking of a possible present on the counter. But honestly, the real present is that for 37 years hubby has been present and accounted for, even if he’s not much of a gift giver.