What happens when a weaver loves her salsa?!

in #art7 years ago

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See the lovely pink flesh of the tomatillos? Love the stuff, love to make it, love to buy it fresh and love to eat it. It's a dishtowel, of course because it belongs in the kitchen.

My mother once reminded me after I got into weaving as an adult of the summer I was eight years old, picture 1953 if you can, I actually had a ducktail as a haircut. I was helping her can peaches which means I probably ate more than I helped, I digress. I helped because I wanted the peach crate, had designs on it. I wanted to make a loom.
So, I went begging to my father for help. My folks owned a hardware store, Nelson's Hardware, in a small town of 5000 in the middle of Iowa. That always helps when what you are wanting is hardware. I wanted a box of brads. Little almost headless nails for those of you who didn't grow up in the back end of a hardware store. Dad had already talked to me about placing the brads randomly, not in a straight row on each end so I wouldn't split the wood. And they had to go pretty deep because there would be some tension on them.
Next day at the hardware store. What did I have to do to earn them? Dad had the projects all lined up. Take apart this vacuum that Mrs. Miller brought in and clean it up. Remember to put the screws in the dish here. That done dad took over with the vacuum, which had a fried belt.
Next, sweep the front walk. It always needed sweeping because just to the right of the hardware was the Cigar and News, plenty of discarded cigar wrappers and tobacco butts. But we were good neighbors so I often extended my sweeping to include the front sidewalk of the C & N, well because, after all they didn't have any children left at home to come help out. And they often brought me out a treat. I'm no dummy. "When are you gonna grow a little, that pushbroom is twice your size." Teasing was always a way of saying thank you.
Last, clear out the broken glass in this window that came out of old Frank's hog barn and then work on getting the old putty out. Be careful of the glazer points. Nasty, sharp little metal triangles that hold the glass close up next to the frame and are often buried in the old dried out putty. A smelly project but one I had done before many times. I already knew how to cut little pieces of glass and I was taking lessons on glazing. One day I would be able to do the whole project.
Now, I was the proud owner of my very own box of wire nails. He donated some string from an almost used up cone, loaned me his tack hammer and sent me with some change to the Five and Dime for some yarn. I bought bright multi-colored, of course.
And soon thereafter I began weaving. Threads are devious little things. But really you just begin by loving salsa. The weaving pattern was dubbed M's and O's by a woman whose three times great grand daughter who also became a weave dove in to the scraps of paper that were her grandmother's legacy, patiently put each pattern to the test on her own loom and then shared with us.
Thank you for letting me share my towel.
As ever, M
P.S. I've also got one called chocolate cake.

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Love your story and this journey back in a time which seems so different... I don't think a child today would work half that hard for a new iphone ;-)

Thank you for sharing that charming episode of your life :-)

Giving me jobs that I could do, or was learning to do was their way of valuing me, valuing the project that I was set to rush head long into. You might hear what I am trying to convey in the conversation when Old Frank came to pick up his window later in the afternoon of the day he had dropped it off.
"Hey, Howard, you got my window done yet.?"
"Wouldn't have but Marie got the first half done just when I had some time to work on it."
"Huh, you don't say. What are you working on there young lady with that peach crate?"
"My weaving loom."
Ten years later when I was 18 and riding on the back of a convertible in the parade as a homecoming queen candidate, there was Old Frank waving wildly at me. He was an auctioneer. I don't know if you have ever heard the "patter" of an American auctioneer but he began bidding me up as if I was the next item for sale. The crowd loved it. I loved it. We all applauded him. I blew him a kiss. He blew one back. We had a connection.

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