I vowed to never sit at home on a weekend night. The Barn and The Peg were so boring, and I was not about to let that happen to me. It was pathetic: by the time they were in their forties, they would wave good-bye as we headed for basketball games at the gym or dances at the Coliseum. The Peg would read or sew, and The Barn would work in his office on one of his many ongoing projects – something for the church, usually. But, they sat at home, for crying out loud.
It never occurred to me that my friends’ parents were sitting at home, too. Offspring tend to be more hyper-sensitive to the weird habits their own begetters, while those of their friends get off fairly easy under the microscope. The father of one high school friend bowled on Friday nights, which is notable only because he wasn’t at home.
I was able to sustain my stand against boring lifestyles through college and into our early years of marriage. When The Dot made her appearance, I slowed down a little, still trying to keep my social calendar full. There was one fly in that ointment; I absolutely hated calling around for babysitters. By the time T-man was born, I was down to important community events and the pre-paid parties at the golf course where we were members. Other than that, forget it.
My bosom buddy Ann and I cooked up an excellent New Year’s Eve celebration that we adopted for a few years. We would gather together as families at alternating homes. The kids would play together, and we would entertain ourselves as they looked out for each other. No sitters to call in this plan, and the parents were just a scream away. Sometimes you just gotta be smarter than the status quo.
We spent several years at home alone with our own two, once they hit the double-digits. We would declare New Year’s Eve “Junk Food Night”, and lay in a disgusting supply of wasted calories. It sounded like a good idea, but we always over-bought and lost interest in the junk within a half-hour. Those are fond New Year’s Eve memories with just the four of us, watching videos and eating crap.
Somewhere in my forties, my idea of celebrating holidays by having fun on the town went kind of Barn-Peg wacko. Boring was redefined as “having a relaxing evening”. Scurrying was only done in daylight, and relaxing was for after sundown.
New Year’s Eve was my last holdout. I may have sat at home having a relaxing time on most nights of the year, but I usually got my groove back for New Year’s Eve. Eventually, I discovered I was forcing myself to have fun, when I could have been at home relaxing. I made the official switch from the New Year’s Eve reveler crowd to the New Year’s Day brunch crowd. We would invite a few friends in for a holiday hot dish, and we’d relax and gab for several hours.
This year I wanted New Year’s Eve to be special again, so Hubba and I bit the bullet and decided we’d compromise and entertain at home. We celebrated New Year’s Eve with a small group of family and friends by roasting a lovely pork loin stuffed with prunes, apricots, Swedish rye bread and red onion. One person brought a beautiful spinach salad, and another brought my favorite bread, which she bakes herself. I took the opportunity to test drive a new cake recipe and we kept at it until well past twelve o’clock. I don’t think everyone got out of here until nearly five o’clock!
We were able to do that because we celebrated at mid-day. The dishes were all done and the leaves were out of the table by six o’clock. P.M., that is. As I write this, I plan to be horizontal and unconscious at midnight, when the ball will fall and 2006 makes her debut. I am totally prepared to wake up in the morning and take down the old calendars, putting up the new ones that were special gifts to me from the Fund for Widows and Children of fill-in-the-blank. I am so okay with that. I am beyond being ready to pass the baton.
Happy 2006 to everyone! I hope you get to celebrate in your own special way, whether you ring in the New Year with a clang, or just tinkle it in with a gulp and a snore.
I need to go to bed now. If I don’t, I may accidentally be awake at midnight...
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2005
The Peace of Christmas in 2005
The miracle of a white Christmas has appeared in the upper Midwest. As a matter of fact, it seems the blessings of snow run down to the Bible belt portion of our region, meaning school-age children are ecstatically building snow forts while their parents search the ‘Net for driving tips.
Christmas Eve is a good time to hang up the hang-ups along with the stockings, and to declare peace on earth, good will towards all creatures. If you didn’t get the last of your shopping done, try to think beyond the power of the dollar and consider the power of the spirit. Write a few of your thoughts down for a loved one, and gift them with your sentiment, your love, and your wish for their fulfillment. It’s Christmas – give from the heart.
I woke up early today to get the annual 18-hour roast into the oven. I put some bread-making ingredients in the bread machine, set the table, and polished the flatware for this evening’s extended-family meal. Tomorrow we have a second meal for the blood relatives, another feast of one another’s company.
Christmas heralds in the season of people-to-people, and after the busy months of bidding farewell to milder temperatures and preparing for the holiday push, this time to be together, face-to-face and unavoidably aware of each other, is winter’s gift. The hoopla of the holidays only lasts for a few more days, then we hunker down, reach out and pull in cherished people, and we do our winter duties of rejuvenating our souls and our friendships.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. The Barn and The Peg read the Christmas story to us each year from Luke, before we opened a single gift from under the tree. It’s not that we appreciated delaying the things that we believed held more promise, because we didn’t. We only wanted to know which of the five of us The Barn would assign to play Santa Claus, and if we could get all the unwrapping done before bedtime, so as not to delay the real Santa from making his stop. I always hoped just one year they would forget to drag out the Bible and read the dang story, but it never, ever happened.
Once the story got going, it was quite wonderful to hear the picture it painted. Poor little baby Jesus, in the cold of an uncomfortable stable. As the story unfolded, we learned of his doting and trusting parents, and the answer he brought to a world in search of peace. The Barn and The Peg knew that the gift of that story would see us through the cold and uncomfortable stops in our lives, and that there would be meaning for us in our lessons as we searched to regain our peace.
I hope everyone enjoys the smells, the sounds, the hugs, the tastes, the togetherness, and The Gift – our baby Christ child, here to make a way to peace for us.
Merry Christmas!
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2005
Christmas Eve is a good time to hang up the hang-ups along with the stockings, and to declare peace on earth, good will towards all creatures. If you didn’t get the last of your shopping done, try to think beyond the power of the dollar and consider the power of the spirit. Write a few of your thoughts down for a loved one, and gift them with your sentiment, your love, and your wish for their fulfillment. It’s Christmas – give from the heart.
I woke up early today to get the annual 18-hour roast into the oven. I put some bread-making ingredients in the bread machine, set the table, and polished the flatware for this evening’s extended-family meal. Tomorrow we have a second meal for the blood relatives, another feast of one another’s company.
Christmas heralds in the season of people-to-people, and after the busy months of bidding farewell to milder temperatures and preparing for the holiday push, this time to be together, face-to-face and unavoidably aware of each other, is winter’s gift. The hoopla of the holidays only lasts for a few more days, then we hunker down, reach out and pull in cherished people, and we do our winter duties of rejuvenating our souls and our friendships.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. The Barn and The Peg read the Christmas story to us each year from Luke, before we opened a single gift from under the tree. It’s not that we appreciated delaying the things that we believed held more promise, because we didn’t. We only wanted to know which of the five of us The Barn would assign to play Santa Claus, and if we could get all the unwrapping done before bedtime, so as not to delay the real Santa from making his stop. I always hoped just one year they would forget to drag out the Bible and read the dang story, but it never, ever happened.
Once the story got going, it was quite wonderful to hear the picture it painted. Poor little baby Jesus, in the cold of an uncomfortable stable. As the story unfolded, we learned of his doting and trusting parents, and the answer he brought to a world in search of peace. The Barn and The Peg knew that the gift of that story would see us through the cold and uncomfortable stops in our lives, and that there would be meaning for us in our lessons as we searched to regain our peace.
I hope everyone enjoys the smells, the sounds, the hugs, the tastes, the togetherness, and The Gift – our baby Christ child, here to make a way to peace for us.
Merry Christmas!
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2005
The Bells of Christmas
If it involves sleigh bells, silver bells, or cardboard bells, it’s probably a Midwestern Christmas. For those of us who are lucky enough to call the Midwest our home, living here is mostly like having Christmas all year ‘round. Therefore, the Christmas season itself crystallizes memories from one year to the next, and nostalgia about traditions takes hold almost immediately. It’s unique. Some “traditions” last only a year or two, but their legacies are long-remembered as an established pattern of celebrating together, for whatever the duration. We happily become our traditions.
Midwestern families don’t turn inward during the holidays. It’s completely normal to purchase and wrap gifts for people we don’t even know, and about whom we have the sketchiest of information. We will pick a tag off any number of trees found at many locations, and use the information provided as a starting point.
“Mom. Family # 23. Underwear, Size 9.” What we get her is Underwear, Size 9, a sweater, and a bottle of good-smelling body lotion.
“Boy, age 8. Family #14. Pajamas.” That package will probably hold the pajamas, a set of racing cars, and some Silly Putty.
We shop, we wrap, and we wish we could do more, so we pray and we give thanks.
Sharing the Spirit of Christmas is as expected as the bottomless cup of coffee at an Iowa restaurant. Churches are busy with Sunday School programs, and the public schools in our hometowns unabashedly spread Christmas cheer in halls decked with holly. People have always greeted one another in any number of ways, so we don’t get all bent out of shape about feeling happy and expressing it in what ever form it comes from our mouths.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Season’s Greetings!”
“Happy Holidays!”
In my hometown in Southeast Iowa, the season started when the city crews put up the decorations right after Thanksgiving. There were silver-tinseled garlands with plastic red, green, and yellow Season’s Greetings signs that spanned the center sections of the major downtown thoroughfares. The light posts were fitted with more garland-and-plastic forms – candy canes, wreaths, candles, all done in the weatherproof technology of the era – more plastic. I suppose the city budget allowed these public displays to be updated every twenty-five years or so. I don’t know when ours were new, but I can provide an eyewitness account for some of the fifties, all of the sixties, and most of the seventies. The plastic cases housed light bulbs, and they lit up to accelerate the unbearable anticipation of whatever requests had been made of the department store Santa.
My sister Lora and I were both allergic to evergreen trees. We were blissfully ignorant that an artificial tree was outside the norm until our early Christmases at Wildwood Elementary. The Peg told me years later that when I was in the first grade, I came home with my eyes nearly swollen shut in response to the classroom Christmas tree. Lora had a similar experience down the hall in Mrs. Carlson's kindergarten class. Every classroom had its own tree, and the one in Mrs. Opal Smith’s room had to be removed because of moi. The PTA sprang into action and bought two artificial silver Christmas trees, one for my classroom and one for my sister’s. You remember them. The ones with the revolving color wheel. How utterly embarrassing! They could have at least gotten the green ones, like we had at home, but silver stuff was space-age in the 1960’s, and the decorating committee of the Wildwood Elementary Parent Teacher Association had made their decision. The things followed us as we ascended the grades, and were finally put into moth balls after our 6th grade years. Junior high ended our December disgrace.
I was chatting with a Calmarite (a resident of Calmar, Iowa) recently, asking about some of the holiday traditions that dot the memories of past Calmar Christmases. There are too many to recount, because things would change from year to year and everyone expressed themselves differently. One group would do this, another would do that. Memories of activities tend to blend together, and the misty edges of Christmases remembered seem to include everyone.
At one time in the late ‘50’s or early ‘60’s, a few Calmar friends gathered to go Julebukken. Julebukken (pronounced "YEW-la-bokken" around here) is a Scandinavian Christmas tradition where children will dress up like the elves of St. Nicholas, and go about singing carols. Similar to Halloween here, in exchange for singing, the children are given candy for their effort. This is usually done between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve.
Julebukken has been Americanized somewhat, and it is mostly adults who carol each other through the night, accumulating more carolers at each stop as the evening progresses. Some residents may remember a time when several couples would julebukk, warming themselves with coffee or cocoa at each home, and ending the night with breakfast together at nearly 4:00 a.m. One event had nearly sixty people at an early morning call, and the last family made bacon and eggs for the entire crew.
Another Calmar memory came during a time of national mourning. The mood was glum during the Christmas season right after the Kennedy assassination, and it was hard to get into the spirit. A few friends were assessing the situation and decided everyone needed a little holiday cheering-up. They called Jim Huber, who had a hay wagon fitted with sleigh runners. Jim agreed to hook up his team to his hay wagon/sleigh, and he took around forty people on an impromptu hay/sleigh ride on the outskirts of Calmar. It was a family affair, and afterwards everyone gathered for chili and cocoa. It did the trick, and that holiday had one bright spot in an otherwise emotionally barren season.
Outdoor Christmas decorations were made, not bought, in Calmar Christmases past. There was one word for it: cardboard. The competition for large chunks of cardboard was keen, as imaginations went wild with what could be made from the booty behind the hardware store. Once the forms were cut from the cardboard, out came the tin foil, glue, and glitter. Apparently the craze for things silver at Christmas was regional during this time in history. Encasing just about any shape in tin foil created The Look, and sprinkling glitter over glue gave the final piece the detail it needed. One home had a beautiful display of a musical page, and the words and notes of “Silent Night” were done in blue glitter on a backdrop of Reynolds Wrap. A light shone on the simple message for all to contemplate, because the focus of the season then was obvious. For children, Calmar Christmases always revolved around the Christmas story; the angels outnumbered the Santas in those days.
Precious memories will be made again this year. People come home to Calmar during Christmas, whether in person or in spirit, and the tenacity of local retailers allows residents to shop locally for hometown treasures and foodstuffs to share. Calmar-made cookies will no doubt be eaten by our service men and women. Digital videos of St. Al’s students will most likely be cyber-shared from one coast to the other, because being Midwestern doesn’t mean being backwards. It means quality. It means memories worth retelling. It’s the Silent Night, Holy Night of our Midwestern hearts.
So, let the sleigh bells jing-a-ling, the silver bells ting-a-ling, and remember those cardboard-and-glitter bells when you stick that white-lighted deer in your front yard. White lights, after all, are this millennium’s answer to the silver tinseled everything of another era, and the basis for your children’s memories-in-the-making. Believe me, it’ll be a fair trade.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2005
Midwestern families don’t turn inward during the holidays. It’s completely normal to purchase and wrap gifts for people we don’t even know, and about whom we have the sketchiest of information. We will pick a tag off any number of trees found at many locations, and use the information provided as a starting point.
“Mom. Family # 23. Underwear, Size 9.” What we get her is Underwear, Size 9, a sweater, and a bottle of good-smelling body lotion.
“Boy, age 8. Family #14. Pajamas.” That package will probably hold the pajamas, a set of racing cars, and some Silly Putty.
We shop, we wrap, and we wish we could do more, so we pray and we give thanks.
Sharing the Spirit of Christmas is as expected as the bottomless cup of coffee at an Iowa restaurant. Churches are busy with Sunday School programs, and the public schools in our hometowns unabashedly spread Christmas cheer in halls decked with holly. People have always greeted one another in any number of ways, so we don’t get all bent out of shape about feeling happy and expressing it in what ever form it comes from our mouths.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Season’s Greetings!”
“Happy Holidays!”
In my hometown in Southeast Iowa, the season started when the city crews put up the decorations right after Thanksgiving. There were silver-tinseled garlands with plastic red, green, and yellow Season’s Greetings signs that spanned the center sections of the major downtown thoroughfares. The light posts were fitted with more garland-and-plastic forms – candy canes, wreaths, candles, all done in the weatherproof technology of the era – more plastic. I suppose the city budget allowed these public displays to be updated every twenty-five years or so. I don’t know when ours were new, but I can provide an eyewitness account for some of the fifties, all of the sixties, and most of the seventies. The plastic cases housed light bulbs, and they lit up to accelerate the unbearable anticipation of whatever requests had been made of the department store Santa.
My sister Lora and I were both allergic to evergreen trees. We were blissfully ignorant that an artificial tree was outside the norm until our early Christmases at Wildwood Elementary. The Peg told me years later that when I was in the first grade, I came home with my eyes nearly swollen shut in response to the classroom Christmas tree. Lora had a similar experience down the hall in Mrs. Carlson's kindergarten class. Every classroom had its own tree, and the one in Mrs. Opal Smith’s room had to be removed because of moi. The PTA sprang into action and bought two artificial silver Christmas trees, one for my classroom and one for my sister’s. You remember them. The ones with the revolving color wheel. How utterly embarrassing! They could have at least gotten the green ones, like we had at home, but silver stuff was space-age in the 1960’s, and the decorating committee of the Wildwood Elementary Parent Teacher Association had made their decision. The things followed us as we ascended the grades, and were finally put into moth balls after our 6th grade years. Junior high ended our December disgrace.
I was chatting with a Calmarite (a resident of Calmar, Iowa) recently, asking about some of the holiday traditions that dot the memories of past Calmar Christmases. There are too many to recount, because things would change from year to year and everyone expressed themselves differently. One group would do this, another would do that. Memories of activities tend to blend together, and the misty edges of Christmases remembered seem to include everyone.
At one time in the late ‘50’s or early ‘60’s, a few Calmar friends gathered to go Julebukken. Julebukken (pronounced "YEW-la-bokken" around here) is a Scandinavian Christmas tradition where children will dress up like the elves of St. Nicholas, and go about singing carols. Similar to Halloween here, in exchange for singing, the children are given candy for their effort. This is usually done between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve.
Julebukken has been Americanized somewhat, and it is mostly adults who carol each other through the night, accumulating more carolers at each stop as the evening progresses. Some residents may remember a time when several couples would julebukk, warming themselves with coffee or cocoa at each home, and ending the night with breakfast together at nearly 4:00 a.m. One event had nearly sixty people at an early morning call, and the last family made bacon and eggs for the entire crew.
Another Calmar memory came during a time of national mourning. The mood was glum during the Christmas season right after the Kennedy assassination, and it was hard to get into the spirit. A few friends were assessing the situation and decided everyone needed a little holiday cheering-up. They called Jim Huber, who had a hay wagon fitted with sleigh runners. Jim agreed to hook up his team to his hay wagon/sleigh, and he took around forty people on an impromptu hay/sleigh ride on the outskirts of Calmar. It was a family affair, and afterwards everyone gathered for chili and cocoa. It did the trick, and that holiday had one bright spot in an otherwise emotionally barren season.
Outdoor Christmas decorations were made, not bought, in Calmar Christmases past. There was one word for it: cardboard. The competition for large chunks of cardboard was keen, as imaginations went wild with what could be made from the booty behind the hardware store. Once the forms were cut from the cardboard, out came the tin foil, glue, and glitter. Apparently the craze for things silver at Christmas was regional during this time in history. Encasing just about any shape in tin foil created The Look, and sprinkling glitter over glue gave the final piece the detail it needed. One home had a beautiful display of a musical page, and the words and notes of “Silent Night” were done in blue glitter on a backdrop of Reynolds Wrap. A light shone on the simple message for all to contemplate, because the focus of the season then was obvious. For children, Calmar Christmases always revolved around the Christmas story; the angels outnumbered the Santas in those days.
Precious memories will be made again this year. People come home to Calmar during Christmas, whether in person or in spirit, and the tenacity of local retailers allows residents to shop locally for hometown treasures and foodstuffs to share. Calmar-made cookies will no doubt be eaten by our service men and women. Digital videos of St. Al’s students will most likely be cyber-shared from one coast to the other, because being Midwestern doesn’t mean being backwards. It means quality. It means memories worth retelling. It’s the Silent Night, Holy Night of our Midwestern hearts.
So, let the sleigh bells jing-a-ling, the silver bells ting-a-ling, and remember those cardboard-and-glitter bells when you stick that white-lighted deer in your front yard. White lights, after all, are this millennium’s answer to the silver tinseled everything of another era, and the basis for your children’s memories-in-the-making. Believe me, it’ll be a fair trade.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2005
Winery Weekend
I am being kept away from the keyboard this weekend by another of my lives. There is a beautiful fledgling winery in northern Winneshiek County, and they are having an open house on Saturday, December 10, from 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. They have invited me, in my Cake Mistress incarnation, to be there serving samples of two of my cakes and selling slices to the interested. The Winneshiek Wildberry Winery is owned by Ken and Yvonne Barnes, and along with the talents of daughters Darla Jones and Beth Barnes-Guzman, they will soon be known as one of the Midwest's premiere wineries. It will be exciting to see them grow and expand their operation, and always interesting to be on the periphery of the development of the continual progress promised by such an endeavor.
Besides the winery hullabaloo, Hubba and I got a new computer, so I'm in the process of moving all our stuff over from the old one -- and I do mean old. It was about one degree up from writing on cave walls, but it got us to where we are now, and we're giving it a peaceful retirement. By next week I hope to have everything moved over, she said with all the hope of the Christmas season. If anyone wants to put me on a prayer chain, it would probably help.
Enjoy! Keep warm if you're in the Midwest or the Northeastern U.S. For the rest of you, no sneering. We like winter -- refer to last week's post.
Besides the winery hullabaloo, Hubba and I got a new computer, so I'm in the process of moving all our stuff over from the old one -- and I do mean old. It was about one degree up from writing on cave walls, but it got us to where we are now, and we're giving it a peaceful retirement. By next week I hope to have everything moved over, she said with all the hope of the Christmas season. If anyone wants to put me on a prayer chain, it would probably help.
Enjoy! Keep warm if you're in the Midwest or the Northeastern U.S. For the rest of you, no sneering. We like winter -- refer to last week's post.
A Patchwork of Winter People
Between the months of November and April, Upper Midwesterners fall into one of two camps -- we either like winter or we hate it. These early season, snow-packed days are filled with conversation that distinguishes which line we'll stand in when we register for camp membership.
Camp Rosy Cheeks is inhabited by those who love to be outdoors doing things, especially things that involve snow and/or ice. There are skiers (both cross-country and downhill), snow shoe enthusiasts, ice skaters, hockey players, horseback riders, snow fort builders, ice sculpture artists, sledders, ice fishing zealots, and the list goes on. Even the motorized set has organized to maximize their enjoyment of the winter's snow -- snow mobile traffic signs dot the ditches along many state highways and county roads.
Camp Rosy Cheekers look askance at any notion that life would slow down for the mere lack of a warm day. They wait all year to get out into nature, into the hushed cover and muffled sounds of a snowy day. Animal lovers delight in seeing our fellow creatures sustain themselves happily, and without summer's green to camouflage their movements, our furry and feathered friends can be observed searching for food and playing together against nature's white mat.
Camp Cuddle Up is where the indoor winter people gather. Inhabitants of Camp Cuddle Up prefer to stay out of the cold as much as possible, but aren't ready to go so far as to move to a warmer climate. They figure cold and snow is a fair trade for spring and autumn. They love to look out their windows at the snowy beauty draping their views – crystal icicles and sequined snow clinging to branches and bushes, geometric tracks of bunnies and deer, the “smoke” of warm air escaping from chimneys, and the crunch of snow beneath tires on a cold, sunny January day.
Activities at Camp Cuddle Up include reading, snuggling with a pet/offspring/spouse, quilting, nesting, reading, baking, quilting, knitting, making paper, reading, quilting, and reading. And looking out the window. As opposed to snow suits, Cuddle Uppers wear indoor fleece, oftentimes fleece that has been altered with fabric to look less like fleece and more like clothes. Some just stay in their jammies when they're inside.
Believe it or not, this system is totally free from political fallout. There is no implication of evildoing, regardless which of these two factions one aligns oneself with, and I have yet to hear anyone be criticized from the other camp for their preferences. It's so refreshing! No one is blaming America for having winter and not doing anything about it, or calling someone a racist because they like to play in the snow. Rosy Cheekers are as apt to enjoy a blazing fire on a cold winter's night as a Cuddle Upper will enjoy a day of snowman building with the kids or grandkids. These aren't warring camps.
I should probably interview a member of Camp Rosy Cheeks, just to be fair. I am the head counselor at Camp Cuddle Up. Winter. Ick. But I mean that in a good way. I don't really like to be cold, but once I get bundled up, it isn't too bad. Some days I get cold and can't warm up on my own, so I run a hot bath in our old cast iron clawfoot tub. The cast iron keeps the water warm for a long time, and I can soak until I am pink and warm. Of course, then I pass the suffering on to my skin, and if I don't slather myself in lotions, it gets all itchy and dry. Once I apply the lotions, wouldn't you know, they make my skin cool, and I get cold again. But, it's winter. Whatcha gonna do about it? Some people love it, and they're entitled to their fun, too.
It is beautiful, but I wouldn't mind if it only lasted a month. I'd be happy if it did nothing but snow for that duration, with temps hovering around zero. That's a huge concession on my part. I'm fine with temps down to 25° Fahrenheit, as long as the sun is out and the wind isn't blowing. If the thermometer gets any lower, and with any breeze at all, I find it best to stay in my own camp and commiserate with my homies there. I don't really want to debate the obvious: it is cold. Either you like it or you don't, but cold is cold.
Yet, where would I be without the cold weather to naturally round out my life? In “my” weather, I happily flit to and fro, awhirl in activity and complaining about there not being enough time. I don't fro as much when it's cold, and flitting is a seasonal term. I cuddle up -- this is when I spend real time with friends and loved ones. I establish almost all of my close ties with people in the coldest part of the year. It's a time to lavish attention on each other, accidentally exploring how we fit into each other's lives, and consequentially strengthening the bridges that connect us.
Last year I had a couple of coffees at my house, one in January and one in February. There was third, a neighborhood morning set aside to welcome a new neighbor. It was great to get together with some of the people we usually see outside. The other two coffees were with women I have always wanted to have coffee with, but never had the opportunity. There are literally hundreds of women like that in my Iowa town, women I just want to spend a little more time with. That's what winter is for.
I don't know if I invited Cuddle Uppers or Rosy Cheekers to my coffee times, but it didn't really matter. These women all wanted to spend time connecting with other women, too, and no one cared who else was invited. None of them questioned, “Who else is coming?”, because whomever they met here would warm their winter. It's cliqueless -- independent women don't ask who else is coming. Some of them even bring along a friend of their own to add to the mix. It's winter! That's what we do!
Sometimes an afternoon with a new friend is called for. Hubba and I spend one every now and then with some of our younger friends. We've adopted a couple of transplants from Oklahoma, who left both sets of grandparents behind. They only have one aunt, so Hubba I do a hybrid aunt/uncle/really young grandparents with them. It's my kind of winter blast -- we fake them into thinking we're cool, then we let them do whatever they want. When we send them back to their parents, all four of us are looking forward to another mutual winter reprieve. The transplanted Oklahoman parents need it, too, now that the real family is far away. I think they call that a win-win, or in this case, a win-win-win.
I'm planning a new set of winter gatherings for 2006. I will host some old-fashioned Midwestern think tanks, huddling with women of all ages, maybe in transition, who own their lives and are reluctant to concede control of them to other forces. These are women who bring value to their families and community, and who know it, and who are willing to flaunt it. It's exciting to be on the cusp of a new adventure, perhaps addressing a nagging itch beyond the reach of a satisfying scratch. Together we can search out the source of the itch, and discuss its treatment. Maybe it needs a cooling lotion, a deep massage, or a devoted kiss. We'll think-tank about it.
I will fit the think tanks in among a few coffee coffees, the chat-a-thons that heated my home last year. They are the best after the busy Christmas season, after the New Year relaxes us into looking for each other. Planning them brings peace to the season of peace, joy to the season of joy, rebirth to the season of birth. It's the Happy of a Happy New Year.
Ah, winter. Personally, I hate it, but I'm so ecstatically glad it's here.
Copyright © December 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Camp Rosy Cheeks is inhabited by those who love to be outdoors doing things, especially things that involve snow and/or ice. There are skiers (both cross-country and downhill), snow shoe enthusiasts, ice skaters, hockey players, horseback riders, snow fort builders, ice sculpture artists, sledders, ice fishing zealots, and the list goes on. Even the motorized set has organized to maximize their enjoyment of the winter's snow -- snow mobile traffic signs dot the ditches along many state highways and county roads.
Camp Rosy Cheekers look askance at any notion that life would slow down for the mere lack of a warm day. They wait all year to get out into nature, into the hushed cover and muffled sounds of a snowy day. Animal lovers delight in seeing our fellow creatures sustain themselves happily, and without summer's green to camouflage their movements, our furry and feathered friends can be observed searching for food and playing together against nature's white mat.
Camp Cuddle Up is where the indoor winter people gather. Inhabitants of Camp Cuddle Up prefer to stay out of the cold as much as possible, but aren't ready to go so far as to move to a warmer climate. They figure cold and snow is a fair trade for spring and autumn. They love to look out their windows at the snowy beauty draping their views – crystal icicles and sequined snow clinging to branches and bushes, geometric tracks of bunnies and deer, the “smoke” of warm air escaping from chimneys, and the crunch of snow beneath tires on a cold, sunny January day.
Activities at Camp Cuddle Up include reading, snuggling with a pet/offspring/spouse, quilting, nesting, reading, baking, quilting, knitting, making paper, reading, quilting, and reading. And looking out the window. As opposed to snow suits, Cuddle Uppers wear indoor fleece, oftentimes fleece that has been altered with fabric to look less like fleece and more like clothes. Some just stay in their jammies when they're inside.
Believe it or not, this system is totally free from political fallout. There is no implication of evildoing, regardless which of these two factions one aligns oneself with, and I have yet to hear anyone be criticized from the other camp for their preferences. It's so refreshing! No one is blaming America for having winter and not doing anything about it, or calling someone a racist because they like to play in the snow. Rosy Cheekers are as apt to enjoy a blazing fire on a cold winter's night as a Cuddle Upper will enjoy a day of snowman building with the kids or grandkids. These aren't warring camps.
I should probably interview a member of Camp Rosy Cheeks, just to be fair. I am the head counselor at Camp Cuddle Up. Winter. Ick. But I mean that in a good way. I don't really like to be cold, but once I get bundled up, it isn't too bad. Some days I get cold and can't warm up on my own, so I run a hot bath in our old cast iron clawfoot tub. The cast iron keeps the water warm for a long time, and I can soak until I am pink and warm. Of course, then I pass the suffering on to my skin, and if I don't slather myself in lotions, it gets all itchy and dry. Once I apply the lotions, wouldn't you know, they make my skin cool, and I get cold again. But, it's winter. Whatcha gonna do about it? Some people love it, and they're entitled to their fun, too.
It is beautiful, but I wouldn't mind if it only lasted a month. I'd be happy if it did nothing but snow for that duration, with temps hovering around zero. That's a huge concession on my part. I'm fine with temps down to 25° Fahrenheit, as long as the sun is out and the wind isn't blowing. If the thermometer gets any lower, and with any breeze at all, I find it best to stay in my own camp and commiserate with my homies there. I don't really want to debate the obvious: it is cold. Either you like it or you don't, but cold is cold.
Yet, where would I be without the cold weather to naturally round out my life? In “my” weather, I happily flit to and fro, awhirl in activity and complaining about there not being enough time. I don't fro as much when it's cold, and flitting is a seasonal term. I cuddle up -- this is when I spend real time with friends and loved ones. I establish almost all of my close ties with people in the coldest part of the year. It's a time to lavish attention on each other, accidentally exploring how we fit into each other's lives, and consequentially strengthening the bridges that connect us.
Last year I had a couple of coffees at my house, one in January and one in February. There was third, a neighborhood morning set aside to welcome a new neighbor. It was great to get together with some of the people we usually see outside. The other two coffees were with women I have always wanted to have coffee with, but never had the opportunity. There are literally hundreds of women like that in my Iowa town, women I just want to spend a little more time with. That's what winter is for.
I don't know if I invited Cuddle Uppers or Rosy Cheekers to my coffee times, but it didn't really matter. These women all wanted to spend time connecting with other women, too, and no one cared who else was invited. None of them questioned, “Who else is coming?”, because whomever they met here would warm their winter. It's cliqueless -- independent women don't ask who else is coming. Some of them even bring along a friend of their own to add to the mix. It's winter! That's what we do!
Sometimes an afternoon with a new friend is called for. Hubba and I spend one every now and then with some of our younger friends. We've adopted a couple of transplants from Oklahoma, who left both sets of grandparents behind. They only have one aunt, so Hubba I do a hybrid aunt/uncle/really young grandparents with them. It's my kind of winter blast -- we fake them into thinking we're cool, then we let them do whatever they want. When we send them back to their parents, all four of us are looking forward to another mutual winter reprieve. The transplanted Oklahoman parents need it, too, now that the real family is far away. I think they call that a win-win, or in this case, a win-win-win.
I'm planning a new set of winter gatherings for 2006. I will host some old-fashioned Midwestern think tanks, huddling with women of all ages, maybe in transition, who own their lives and are reluctant to concede control of them to other forces. These are women who bring value to their families and community, and who know it, and who are willing to flaunt it. It's exciting to be on the cusp of a new adventure, perhaps addressing a nagging itch beyond the reach of a satisfying scratch. Together we can search out the source of the itch, and discuss its treatment. Maybe it needs a cooling lotion, a deep massage, or a devoted kiss. We'll think-tank about it.
I will fit the think tanks in among a few coffee coffees, the chat-a-thons that heated my home last year. They are the best after the busy Christmas season, after the New Year relaxes us into looking for each other. Planning them brings peace to the season of peace, joy to the season of joy, rebirth to the season of birth. It's the Happy of a Happy New Year.
Ah, winter. Personally, I hate it, but I'm so ecstatically glad it's here.
Copyright © December 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Bijou-ism and Other Myths
I don't know if it was Petticoat Junction or Green Acres that did it, or if it rests on the fact that there isn't an ocean within a day's drive, but we Midwesterners have learned to accept our yokel status. Some of us have even learned to enjoy it!
My very favorite part of being labeled a yokel is what I call “Bijou-ism”. If you remember, Sam Drucker's General Store and the Shadey Rest Hotel often hosted discussions about whatever Clara Bow or Wallace Reid movie was playing at The Bijou, while the rest of the country was exploring the sexual mores of the 60's with Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate and Franco Zeffirelli's bawdy depiction of Romeo and Juliet. Land o' Joshin', those high fallutin', ankle-showin', painted-faced floozies of the silent era were enough to give a good girl from Hooterville the vapors, even though Billie Jo's, Bobbie Jo's, and Betty Jo's hooters were the reason half of their viewers tuned in weekly.
Relocated Midwesterners are similar to reformed smokers. Reformed smokers are frequently more sensitive to the smell and health hazards of secondhand smoke than folks who never smoked at all. The remoteness of past smoking habits causes them to transpose their sensitivity into insensitivity of the smoking rights of others. Yin/Yang on that one, as far as I'm concerned. A reformed smoker having an insensitivity contest with a smoker borders on entertainment.
Relocated Midwesterners, over time, develop Stockholm Syndrome in their non-Midwestern neighborhoods. They begin to adopt the attitudes and stereotypical non sequiturs that have misled residents in other parts of the country for years. Here's an example of a conversation between a non-Midwesterner and me.
(Circa 1995) “Are you on the Internet?”
It's hard to resist milking these situations.
“The what?”
“The Internet. It's a big system where you can connect to other people by electronic mail, and look for information on just about any subject.”
“Get out. What's this called again?”
“The In-ter-net. I-n-t-e-r-n-e-t. Tell your friends about it. You'll probably hear more about it in your area in a few years.”
“How much hay can you fit into the In-ter-net?”
“Very funny.”
“I know. You're funny, too. I was calling because I wanted your e-mail addy. I've done a little cyber-research and have a few things to forward to you.”
You can Google “Bijou”, you know. It comes up as a University of Iowa site that has served as a source for independent, art house, foreign, and classic films since 1972. Of course.
It's sort of eerie, but transplanted Midwesterners and others believe there are special editions of Vogue and Time for Midwesterners. They think we get the ones featuring the latest in pantaloons and gee-gaws, and details of how the Tennessee Valley Authority promises new hope to our remote rural areas. Following this train of thought, we get grainy black and white installments of World News Tonight, with anchors like Walter Cronkite and Chet Huntly keeping us up-to-date on starving children in China and how to stock a fallout shelter. Thank heavens for The Bijou, where for ten cents we can escape the pressures of The Cold War.
When we learned the happy news that The Dot would be added to our nest, we called to tell Hubba's sister Jan the good news. Jan had been living in L.A. for several years by then, and no, we didn't have to yell into the phone like an old Jimmy Stewart movie.
“H-h-h-hello...? Can..can...you hear me?”
We shared our information, breathlessly happy over the event only eight months hence. As she and I exchanged pregnancy symptoms (her daughter was under two at the time), she asked, “Would you like me to send you any books about being pregnant? I can get all sorts of them here.”
“Gee, Jan. Let me check.” (turning away from the phone) “Hubba? When does that Wells Fargo Wagon come through again?”
I didn't need any help with that, anyway. My parents signed the card and put it back in the plain white envelope so I could see the movies they showed in the fourth grade. The ones in high school were a little more explicit. Finger-snapping boys were gathered around a juke box, while the voice-over warned good girls of the possibilities of being picked up by a “hood”. It was Bijou-quality, I tell you.
One of my favorite Bijou-isms occurred during a phone conversation with my own sister, now living in North Carolina. We were discussing possible Christmas gifts for The Barn and The Peg. Being quaint Midwesterners, and with The Barn's Norwegian heritage to boot, she had a no-brainer gift idea for them. Perhaps they would enjoy a copy of Lake Wobegon, and apparently, she felt that needed some 'splainin'.
“Have you ever heard of The..Prarie...Home...Companion?”
They always slow down their speech, elementarizing their enlightenment for the benefit of the inbreeds back home. It was as if Garrison Keillor didn't broadcast from the Midwest, at the former World Theater (now the renovated Fitzgerald Theater), just a three-hour drive from my house. Even some Midwesterners get caught up in the stereotype. The Twin Cities of Minneapolis/St. Paul have been called “The Manhattan of the Midwest.” Pathetic. I sure hope that wasn't Garrison's fault. He briefly lived in New York, and everyone there thought he was, well, hip. Go figure.
On one visit to Decorah, my sister actually asked that we venture into the country so she could photograph pigs and take the photographs back to her friends. I think she was living in Boston at that time. No pigs in Massachusetts, you know. Gotta show 'em how funny it is that the yokels have them in Iowa. Arnold Ziffel would have been embarrassed. It turns out you can Google Arnold Ziffel, too, which brings us back to Hooterville. There is an urban legend that the cast of Green Acres actually roasted Arnold up to celebrate the last episode of the series.
Which reminds me...
Decorah is one fabulous place to eat. Hubba and I prefer foods cooked from fresh, and we have many fresh foods available to us for home preparation. There are numerous organic and good ol' country gardeners who keep us well-stocked, not to mention the size of our local frying hens, the marbled leanness of our angus beef, the juiciness of our pork-the-other-white-meat, the youngness of our veal, and the tenderness of our lamb. We also eat (get this) tofu. Uh-huh. We do.
We have four chef-staffed kitchens in Decorah, where the food is cooked from fresh. There are no stomach aches after one of those meals, and the proportions belie the fact that there's plenty more where that came from. My brother from the Pacific Northwest was here over Thanksgiving, and we took him to La Rana for dinner. La Rana, a chef-staffed Mediterranean bistro, serving up small plates of quality fresh ingredients at decent prices. If he would have been able to stay longer, we would have had lunch at Hart's Tea & Tarts or The Dayton House, and another dinner at The Victorian Rose in The Hotel Winneshiek (http://www.hotelwinn.com/). Yum E.
My brother didn't have any incredulous quotes to add to my list, but he conceded that none of the diners there were concerned with the volume of hay we could fit into La Rana.
At the table next to us sat Ellen Dolan, the soap opera actress who plays Margo Hughes on As The World Turns. Ellen was visiting her hometown of Decorah for the Thanksgiving holiday with her husband and daughter. Her brother Kerry moved back here about ten years ago and married his high school sweetheart (and my bosom buddy) Pat. I betcha Ellen could haul 'em in down at the local Bijou, as she did in New York when she appeared in Graceland while simultaneously bringing Margo to life on the small screen.
We could just as well have eaten at Ruby's Country Kitchen or The Family Table Restaurant. Both of them specialize in the comfort foods of the Midwest, which usually means mashed potatoes and gravy and, of course, pie. I know how to guarantee that The Barn will say, “Yes”. All I do is ask him:
“Do you want ice cream or whipped cream on your pie?”
"Yes."
See? Some yokel behaviors serve us well. They are the habits of our region, and they distinguish us as being level-headed and unconcerned with putting on airs. Even those Midwesterners who put on airs are accepted in spite their foolishness -- everyone sees them sneak in for a piece of pie at The Family Table, anyway. They may think the Joneses are judging them for their less than down-home habits, so we pretend not to notice their clandestine behavior. We don't want to embarrass them if they ever come to their senses. After all, everyone here stands in the same line down at The Bijou.
My very favorite part of being labeled a yokel is what I call “Bijou-ism”. If you remember, Sam Drucker's General Store and the Shadey Rest Hotel often hosted discussions about whatever Clara Bow or Wallace Reid movie was playing at The Bijou, while the rest of the country was exploring the sexual mores of the 60's with Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate and Franco Zeffirelli's bawdy depiction of Romeo and Juliet. Land o' Joshin', those high fallutin', ankle-showin', painted-faced floozies of the silent era were enough to give a good girl from Hooterville the vapors, even though Billie Jo's, Bobbie Jo's, and Betty Jo's hooters were the reason half of their viewers tuned in weekly.
Relocated Midwesterners are similar to reformed smokers. Reformed smokers are frequently more sensitive to the smell and health hazards of secondhand smoke than folks who never smoked at all. The remoteness of past smoking habits causes them to transpose their sensitivity into insensitivity of the smoking rights of others. Yin/Yang on that one, as far as I'm concerned. A reformed smoker having an insensitivity contest with a smoker borders on entertainment.
Relocated Midwesterners, over time, develop Stockholm Syndrome in their non-Midwestern neighborhoods. They begin to adopt the attitudes and stereotypical non sequiturs that have misled residents in other parts of the country for years. Here's an example of a conversation between a non-Midwesterner and me.
(Circa 1995) “Are you on the Internet?”
It's hard to resist milking these situations.
“The what?”
“The Internet. It's a big system where you can connect to other people by electronic mail, and look for information on just about any subject.”
“Get out. What's this called again?”
“The In-ter-net. I-n-t-e-r-n-e-t. Tell your friends about it. You'll probably hear more about it in your area in a few years.”
“How much hay can you fit into the In-ter-net?”
“Very funny.”
“I know. You're funny, too. I was calling because I wanted your e-mail addy. I've done a little cyber-research and have a few things to forward to you.”
You can Google “Bijou”, you know. It comes up as a University of Iowa site that has served as a source for independent, art house, foreign, and classic films since 1972. Of course.
It's sort of eerie, but transplanted Midwesterners and others believe there are special editions of Vogue and Time for Midwesterners. They think we get the ones featuring the latest in pantaloons and gee-gaws, and details of how the Tennessee Valley Authority promises new hope to our remote rural areas. Following this train of thought, we get grainy black and white installments of World News Tonight, with anchors like Walter Cronkite and Chet Huntly keeping us up-to-date on starving children in China and how to stock a fallout shelter. Thank heavens for The Bijou, where for ten cents we can escape the pressures of The Cold War.
When we learned the happy news that The Dot would be added to our nest, we called to tell Hubba's sister Jan the good news. Jan had been living in L.A. for several years by then, and no, we didn't have to yell into the phone like an old Jimmy Stewart movie.
“H-h-h-hello...? Can..can...you hear me?”
We shared our information, breathlessly happy over the event only eight months hence. As she and I exchanged pregnancy symptoms (her daughter was under two at the time), she asked, “Would you like me to send you any books about being pregnant? I can get all sorts of them here.”
“Gee, Jan. Let me check.” (turning away from the phone) “Hubba? When does that Wells Fargo Wagon come through again?”
I didn't need any help with that, anyway. My parents signed the card and put it back in the plain white envelope so I could see the movies they showed in the fourth grade. The ones in high school were a little more explicit. Finger-snapping boys were gathered around a juke box, while the voice-over warned good girls of the possibilities of being picked up by a “hood”. It was Bijou-quality, I tell you.
One of my favorite Bijou-isms occurred during a phone conversation with my own sister, now living in North Carolina. We were discussing possible Christmas gifts for The Barn and The Peg. Being quaint Midwesterners, and with The Barn's Norwegian heritage to boot, she had a no-brainer gift idea for them. Perhaps they would enjoy a copy of Lake Wobegon, and apparently, she felt that needed some 'splainin'.
“Have you ever heard of The..Prarie...Home...Companion?”
They always slow down their speech, elementarizing their enlightenment for the benefit of the inbreeds back home. It was as if Garrison Keillor didn't broadcast from the Midwest, at the former World Theater (now the renovated Fitzgerald Theater), just a three-hour drive from my house. Even some Midwesterners get caught up in the stereotype. The Twin Cities of Minneapolis/St. Paul have been called “The Manhattan of the Midwest.” Pathetic. I sure hope that wasn't Garrison's fault. He briefly lived in New York, and everyone there thought he was, well, hip. Go figure.
On one visit to Decorah, my sister actually asked that we venture into the country so she could photograph pigs and take the photographs back to her friends. I think she was living in Boston at that time. No pigs in Massachusetts, you know. Gotta show 'em how funny it is that the yokels have them in Iowa. Arnold Ziffel would have been embarrassed. It turns out you can Google Arnold Ziffel, too, which brings us back to Hooterville. There is an urban legend that the cast of Green Acres actually roasted Arnold up to celebrate the last episode of the series.
Which reminds me...
Decorah is one fabulous place to eat. Hubba and I prefer foods cooked from fresh, and we have many fresh foods available to us for home preparation. There are numerous organic and good ol' country gardeners who keep us well-stocked, not to mention the size of our local frying hens, the marbled leanness of our angus beef, the juiciness of our pork-the-other-white-meat, the youngness of our veal, and the tenderness of our lamb. We also eat (get this) tofu. Uh-huh. We do.
We have four chef-staffed kitchens in Decorah, where the food is cooked from fresh. There are no stomach aches after one of those meals, and the proportions belie the fact that there's plenty more where that came from. My brother from the Pacific Northwest was here over Thanksgiving, and we took him to La Rana for dinner. La Rana, a chef-staffed Mediterranean bistro, serving up small plates of quality fresh ingredients at decent prices. If he would have been able to stay longer, we would have had lunch at Hart's Tea & Tarts or The Dayton House, and another dinner at The Victorian Rose in The Hotel Winneshiek (http://www.hotelwinn.com/). Yum E.
My brother didn't have any incredulous quotes to add to my list, but he conceded that none of the diners there were concerned with the volume of hay we could fit into La Rana.
At the table next to us sat Ellen Dolan, the soap opera actress who plays Margo Hughes on As The World Turns. Ellen was visiting her hometown of Decorah for the Thanksgiving holiday with her husband and daughter. Her brother Kerry moved back here about ten years ago and married his high school sweetheart (and my bosom buddy) Pat. I betcha Ellen could haul 'em in down at the local Bijou, as she did in New York when she appeared in Graceland while simultaneously bringing Margo to life on the small screen.
We could just as well have eaten at Ruby's Country Kitchen or The Family Table Restaurant. Both of them specialize in the comfort foods of the Midwest, which usually means mashed potatoes and gravy and, of course, pie. I know how to guarantee that The Barn will say, “Yes”. All I do is ask him:
“Do you want ice cream or whipped cream on your pie?”
"Yes."
See? Some yokel behaviors serve us well. They are the habits of our region, and they distinguish us as being level-headed and unconcerned with putting on airs. Even those Midwesterners who put on airs are accepted in spite their foolishness -- everyone sees them sneak in for a piece of pie at The Family Table, anyway. They may think the Joneses are judging them for their less than down-home habits, so we pretend not to notice their clandestine behavior. We don't want to embarrass them if they ever come to their senses. After all, everyone here stands in the same line down at The Bijou.
Capturing Zen
Ah. Sweet relief.
There is a beveled excitement in life, so many things to try, to learn, to be about. And yet, I maintain the odd belief that I can fit more into a day than the clock allows. Though the absurdness of this is proven daily, I can't seem to learn the simple lesson of the boundaries of time.
Every morning is a misty map of possibilities, dawning into focus. I hit the deck at five bells and proceed directly to an hour of exercise. I seldom repeat the calisthenic routine; “rut” and “Kari” do not dwell in compatible universes.
My brain is wide awake in the early hours of the day, and exercising allows me to flexicate both mind and body. I frame the order in which the day will evolve. I get the general outline right, but quickly slip into a variation of preconceived notion-sickness, something akin to magic thinking.
For instance, ignoring any limitation, I envision cutting out a quilt before lunch. In my mind's eye everything is all set up, ready to go. The fabrics in my fantasy are without wrinkles or folds. What a marvelous think-way to start the day! I seriously like where I am, both mentally and physically, between five and six in the morning.
Then the phone rings and one of my schools needs a sub. I need to put away the pile of stuff on top of the sewing machine. My PDA alarm warns me of an appointment. Oops! I'd better get out of these workout clothes and into the tub. Whatever the interruption, I'm either not geographically located near a sewing machine or a quilt, or I am tending to other duties as they arise before me. It's noon, and I didn't get the quilt cut out.
The beauty of this system is, I can fantasize the whole, peaceful, spirit-renewing scene like clockwork. The five a.m. folly. When the day actually produces some quilting time, I am all the more appreciative of it. My heart rate, breathing, mental acuity, and spiritual strength are in synch. Enlightened. Intuitive. Meditative. Zen.
I recently anointed and knighted myself The Cake Mistress. As most people around me know, cake is my favorite food, and I don't even think it's officially a food. The ingredients in cake are certainly related to food, but the combination that makes them cake tends to remove them from the realm of sustenance and into the realm of near licentiousness. Well, not all cakes can make that claim, but The Cake Mistress's cakes can!
I don't dawdle in false modesty when it comes to my cakes. I'm a picky cake eater, so if I think it's good, it's good. Crowning myself The Cake Mistress seemed obvious to me. I created The Cake Mistress as a vehicle by which I can coo over and compliment the chef, that being me, whenever I get a taste of one of my own really, really good cakes. Admittedly, this braggadocio is a little awkward for the initiate.
Cake Taster: OoooOoo! MmmmMMM! That is soooooo good!
Me: I know.
Cake Taster: Wow, I think that's the best cake I've ever tasted!
Me: The Cake Mistress knows what she's doing.
Cake Taster: The Cake Mistress? Where is she?
Me: You're talking to her.
The history of The Cake Mistress comes from my authentic need to occasionally eat a piece of divinely good cake. About fifteen years ago, I acquired a nagging urge for a dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate icing, and I was often disappointed by what I found in my regional cake-world. I didn't want to have to leave the Midwest over cake.
But I'm just being silly. We have the cakes of my dreams in the Midwest, but they're usually in big cities. Potluck cakes often come from The Cake Doctor cookbook. Lots of times they're fabulous fakes, like some of my diamond-wink-wink jewelry. I wanted real-food, made-from-scratch cakes at my disposal. Guess I'll just have to make 'em myself, I reasoned.
I went in search of a recipe for chocolate cake. I found one, and after I made it several times and toyed with the balance, I got it right. Rich, moist, dense, it was my first stop on a trip to paradise.
The next rich, moist, dense cake was a winner the first time around. I found a recipe for carrot cake from a very reliable source. I tried it out on friends we'd invited for dinner, and the smacking sounds around the table when dessert was served bordered on the grotesque. I've never had to alter that recipe one iota, and with the dark chocolate cake and the carrot cake successes, I had uncovered the heretofore undocumented cake-baking gene.
I began voraciously reading cake recipes. I've always been partial to non-fiction anyway, so I wasn't alarmed. I would try some of the recipes, and found a pattern in the ones that weren't just good, they were stupid-good. Stupid-good is my description for how perfect some cakes can be. Rich, moist, dense. Stupid-good.
This sort of surprised me. I am a child of the 60's cartoons and television shows, where the virtues of light, airy cakes were extolled. Beaver or Opie could get into big heck if they slammed a door at the wrong time near June's or Aunt Bea's ovens. There went another 60's sitcom falsehood to wad up and trash. My cakes aren't light. In fact, the recipes I've tried for cakes that are light are boring, boring, boring. Why would you waste your cake calories on some light and airy impostor?
Self-taught and tutored by The Peg, I can now scan a recipe and decide whether it's a keeper or a bore. Most of the time, that is. I recently had a cake-tasting session for a lemon cake I was auditioning, and it wasn't up to snuff.
So, as my repertoire of rich, moist, dense cakes grew, so did my need to unload a few of the leftovers on friends. No one complained, like, ever. I soon discovered I didn't want a whole cake around the house, I just wanted to eat one good piece of cake a couple of times a month. A routine developed where I would make birthday cakes for whomever told me they had a birthday coming up. I figured if I gave them a cake, they'd feel obligated to give me just one piece. All I really wanted was one piece, or maybe two, so Hubba could have one. I kept getting better and better. Again, pardon the lack of modesty, but we've covered that ground already.
Someone, and I truly don't remember who, suggested I sell my cakes. Really? I mean, I know they're good, but I have no desire to start decorating cakes, which may be what people would expect. I don't even have a desire to eat decorated cakes. Rich, moist, dense is my idea of cake, and I don't require buttercream roses or carrots, unless they're on top of a rich, moist, dense cake.
I tested the concept. I picked out a few people and events and made cakes. I fed cake to the unsuspecting, and before they had a chance to compliment the cake (which they would do for the presence of the fat and calories alone), I asked them if they would buy a cake like that. I got a unanimous, euphoric thumbs-up. I told them the cakes are labor intensive and the ingredients are expensive, so would they pay extra for that in a cake? It's not like people can't get cake around here. They just couldn't get one of these. The usual response was, “I just want to know I can get one of these when I get a nagging urge for one.”
Déjà VU, Baby! I feel that pain!
I thought about it. I researched the market for good cakes made by home bakers. I talked to Shirley, the local cheesecake guru, who has been selling cheesecakes for a number of years. She was encouraging, and we agreed we'd cooperate and send each other business. If someone asks me for cheesecake, I give them Shirley's number, Shirley does likewise with requests to her for layer cakes.
The next step into this madness was finding a supplier for Hollywood bakery boxes. You know the boxes, the pink bakery boxes for “The Hollywood Touch”. I scu-reamed in delight, and the decision was made. I would sell cakes.
More specifically, The Cake Mistress decided to sell cakes. I have no idea where I came up with the name of my alter ego, but when I was writing a brochure with cake flavors and descriptions in it, I got all third-person and bashful. When I say braggy things about my cakes, they just come from my mouth and float invisibly in the air. When I get them out of my head and into black and white (or in the case of my brochures, black and pink), it's different. It's better to just blame The Cake Mistress.
So, here I go again. I now have a state-licensed, cake-baking kitchen. I'm getting busier, baking and subbing and doing all the other fun stuff I think I can do. I hope to get it narrowed down to baking cakes and quilting, which means I'll get to quilt -- the cake baking is just the icing, so to speak. A life of rich, moist, dense cakes, and vibrant, provocative, functional quilts. Zen.
Even this busy life presents moments to capture Zen. When I'm handing out samples of cake at the Co-op, sharing the little treats is a bonus to seeing friends work together, or meet there for Kristin's noon-time special. I capture Zen. When the home schoolers ring my doorbell, bringing in a whirl of lint, laughter, and learning, I capture Zen. This evening, a quiet time to work on T-man's quilt, will envelope me in my Zen, where my soul rejoices and I give thanks for my busy life. The memory of flute choir rehearsals and children's singing voices will accompany my reverie, and I'll thank God for the blessings this busy life brings.
Ah. Sweet relief.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
There is a beveled excitement in life, so many things to try, to learn, to be about. And yet, I maintain the odd belief that I can fit more into a day than the clock allows. Though the absurdness of this is proven daily, I can't seem to learn the simple lesson of the boundaries of time.
Every morning is a misty map of possibilities, dawning into focus. I hit the deck at five bells and proceed directly to an hour of exercise. I seldom repeat the calisthenic routine; “rut” and “Kari” do not dwell in compatible universes.
My brain is wide awake in the early hours of the day, and exercising allows me to flexicate both mind and body. I frame the order in which the day will evolve. I get the general outline right, but quickly slip into a variation of preconceived notion-sickness, something akin to magic thinking.
For instance, ignoring any limitation, I envision cutting out a quilt before lunch. In my mind's eye everything is all set up, ready to go. The fabrics in my fantasy are without wrinkles or folds. What a marvelous think-way to start the day! I seriously like where I am, both mentally and physically, between five and six in the morning.
Then the phone rings and one of my schools needs a sub. I need to put away the pile of stuff on top of the sewing machine. My PDA alarm warns me of an appointment. Oops! I'd better get out of these workout clothes and into the tub. Whatever the interruption, I'm either not geographically located near a sewing machine or a quilt, or I am tending to other duties as they arise before me. It's noon, and I didn't get the quilt cut out.
The beauty of this system is, I can fantasize the whole, peaceful, spirit-renewing scene like clockwork. The five a.m. folly. When the day actually produces some quilting time, I am all the more appreciative of it. My heart rate, breathing, mental acuity, and spiritual strength are in synch. Enlightened. Intuitive. Meditative. Zen.
I recently anointed and knighted myself The Cake Mistress. As most people around me know, cake is my favorite food, and I don't even think it's officially a food. The ingredients in cake are certainly related to food, but the combination that makes them cake tends to remove them from the realm of sustenance and into the realm of near licentiousness. Well, not all cakes can make that claim, but The Cake Mistress's cakes can!
I don't dawdle in false modesty when it comes to my cakes. I'm a picky cake eater, so if I think it's good, it's good. Crowning myself The Cake Mistress seemed obvious to me. I created The Cake Mistress as a vehicle by which I can coo over and compliment the chef, that being me, whenever I get a taste of one of my own really, really good cakes. Admittedly, this braggadocio is a little awkward for the initiate.
Cake Taster: OoooOoo! MmmmMMM! That is soooooo good!
Me: I know.
Cake Taster: Wow, I think that's the best cake I've ever tasted!
Me: The Cake Mistress knows what she's doing.
Cake Taster: The Cake Mistress? Where is she?
Me: You're talking to her.
The history of The Cake Mistress comes from my authentic need to occasionally eat a piece of divinely good cake. About fifteen years ago, I acquired a nagging urge for a dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate icing, and I was often disappointed by what I found in my regional cake-world. I didn't want to have to leave the Midwest over cake.
But I'm just being silly. We have the cakes of my dreams in the Midwest, but they're usually in big cities. Potluck cakes often come from The Cake Doctor cookbook. Lots of times they're fabulous fakes, like some of my diamond-wink-wink jewelry. I wanted real-food, made-from-scratch cakes at my disposal. Guess I'll just have to make 'em myself, I reasoned.
I went in search of a recipe for chocolate cake. I found one, and after I made it several times and toyed with the balance, I got it right. Rich, moist, dense, it was my first stop on a trip to paradise.
The next rich, moist, dense cake was a winner the first time around. I found a recipe for carrot cake from a very reliable source. I tried it out on friends we'd invited for dinner, and the smacking sounds around the table when dessert was served bordered on the grotesque. I've never had to alter that recipe one iota, and with the dark chocolate cake and the carrot cake successes, I had uncovered the heretofore undocumented cake-baking gene.
I began voraciously reading cake recipes. I've always been partial to non-fiction anyway, so I wasn't alarmed. I would try some of the recipes, and found a pattern in the ones that weren't just good, they were stupid-good. Stupid-good is my description for how perfect some cakes can be. Rich, moist, dense. Stupid-good.
This sort of surprised me. I am a child of the 60's cartoons and television shows, where the virtues of light, airy cakes were extolled. Beaver or Opie could get into big heck if they slammed a door at the wrong time near June's or Aunt Bea's ovens. There went another 60's sitcom falsehood to wad up and trash. My cakes aren't light. In fact, the recipes I've tried for cakes that are light are boring, boring, boring. Why would you waste your cake calories on some light and airy impostor?
Self-taught and tutored by The Peg, I can now scan a recipe and decide whether it's a keeper or a bore. Most of the time, that is. I recently had a cake-tasting session for a lemon cake I was auditioning, and it wasn't up to snuff.
So, as my repertoire of rich, moist, dense cakes grew, so did my need to unload a few of the leftovers on friends. No one complained, like, ever. I soon discovered I didn't want a whole cake around the house, I just wanted to eat one good piece of cake a couple of times a month. A routine developed where I would make birthday cakes for whomever told me they had a birthday coming up. I figured if I gave them a cake, they'd feel obligated to give me just one piece. All I really wanted was one piece, or maybe two, so Hubba could have one. I kept getting better and better. Again, pardon the lack of modesty, but we've covered that ground already.
Someone, and I truly don't remember who, suggested I sell my cakes. Really? I mean, I know they're good, but I have no desire to start decorating cakes, which may be what people would expect. I don't even have a desire to eat decorated cakes. Rich, moist, dense is my idea of cake, and I don't require buttercream roses or carrots, unless they're on top of a rich, moist, dense cake.
I tested the concept. I picked out a few people and events and made cakes. I fed cake to the unsuspecting, and before they had a chance to compliment the cake (which they would do for the presence of the fat and calories alone), I asked them if they would buy a cake like that. I got a unanimous, euphoric thumbs-up. I told them the cakes are labor intensive and the ingredients are expensive, so would they pay extra for that in a cake? It's not like people can't get cake around here. They just couldn't get one of these. The usual response was, “I just want to know I can get one of these when I get a nagging urge for one.”
Déjà VU, Baby! I feel that pain!
I thought about it. I researched the market for good cakes made by home bakers. I talked to Shirley, the local cheesecake guru, who has been selling cheesecakes for a number of years. She was encouraging, and we agreed we'd cooperate and send each other business. If someone asks me for cheesecake, I give them Shirley's number, Shirley does likewise with requests to her for layer cakes.
The next step into this madness was finding a supplier for Hollywood bakery boxes. You know the boxes, the pink bakery boxes for “The Hollywood Touch”. I scu-reamed in delight, and the decision was made. I would sell cakes.
More specifically, The Cake Mistress decided to sell cakes. I have no idea where I came up with the name of my alter ego, but when I was writing a brochure with cake flavors and descriptions in it, I got all third-person and bashful. When I say braggy things about my cakes, they just come from my mouth and float invisibly in the air. When I get them out of my head and into black and white (or in the case of my brochures, black and pink), it's different. It's better to just blame The Cake Mistress.
So, here I go again. I now have a state-licensed, cake-baking kitchen. I'm getting busier, baking and subbing and doing all the other fun stuff I think I can do. I hope to get it narrowed down to baking cakes and quilting, which means I'll get to quilt -- the cake baking is just the icing, so to speak. A life of rich, moist, dense cakes, and vibrant, provocative, functional quilts. Zen.
Even this busy life presents moments to capture Zen. When I'm handing out samples of cake at the Co-op, sharing the little treats is a bonus to seeing friends work together, or meet there for Kristin's noon-time special. I capture Zen. When the home schoolers ring my doorbell, bringing in a whirl of lint, laughter, and learning, I capture Zen. This evening, a quiet time to work on T-man's quilt, will envelope me in my Zen, where my soul rejoices and I give thanks for my busy life. The memory of flute choir rehearsals and children's singing voices will accompany my reverie, and I'll thank God for the blessings this busy life brings.
Ah. Sweet relief.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
How Many Quilters Does It Take To Screw In A Lightbulb?
Q: How many quilters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None. We like to press on (in) the dark side.
Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. Quilt humor. Okay, so I admit it is weak quilt humor, but it's intended to remind us that quilting isn't a solitary experience. We even drag non-quilters into the mix, and we benefit from their naive wisdom.
“This needs something. Any suggestions?”
“I need you to pick out the backing fabric. I'm stuck among these choices.”
“Can you draw a cricket for me? I need one for this quilt.”
As I consider the number of times I have asked Hubba or the offspring for help when making a quilt, I am reminded how much nicer the outcome is when a quilt has bits and pieces of my family in it. The poor souls who live with me certainly have a lot of lint shoved in their faces, and perhaps osmosis shouldn't be dismissed out of hand. They seem to understand the task when I ask for help.
It was Hubba's unsuspecting comment, “Oh, a bee for Burns,” that brought about the embroidered bees on all succeeding quilts. Now, the first thing recipients of my quilts look for is the bee. In fact, when I show a quilt I made to just about anyone, they say, “Now to find the bee -- I know it's here someplace!”
The Peg wasn't a quilter, but she was wonderfully creative with the garments she made. What's more, she guided us to creative functions, and my sisters and I designed most of the clothes we wore from a fairly early age. The challenge was before us with every garment; we had yards and yards of fabric to choose from, and boxes and boxes of different patterns.
“Can you get a vest and a skirt out of this fabric. I'd like the vest from this pattern here only longer, but please make the neckline from this pattern, not the rounded one on the the first vest pattern. And I'd like the skirt to have gores, not an A-line. This gore skirt pattern is too small for me now. Can you make it work?”
She could. Her results taught us how many possibilities there are in the world of design, and how ordinary people like the Onerheims at 415 Quincy Avenue could make our own ideas into something beautiful.
What's more, it was fun! The Peg always seemed up for the task. When simple shifts and “tent” dresses were in vogue, she could make us something new to wear in one evening.
“Kari, if you make dinner and do the dishes, I'll make you a dress for school tomorrow.”
Once she made me a psychedelic mini-dress in a loosely woven, hopsack-type fabric that bore a large geometric pattern in carrot orange, grape juice purple, and lime green. That same evening, I made meat loaf, baked potatoes, and a green bean casserole, and loaded the dishwasher after dinner. We joked about that dress for the rest of her life, saying it as the first time she put a green zipper in a purple dress with orange thread.
My sister Jeanie was voted “Best Dressed” in high school. Small wonder. She created very stylized designs, and The Peg and she would sew them up together. For instance, the movie Bonnie and Clyde was released about this time, and she designed an outfit inspired from the film. In a twist, it was a Clyde-like outfit – a vest and skirt in navy pin-stripe, a dark blood-red blouse, and a necktie made from the same pin-striped fabric. They pulled it off flawlessly. Jeanie always looked impeccable, tall and slender, hair down to her waist, and dressed to the nines.
When I got carried away with one of my prom dresses, The Peg told me she wouldn't work that hard on another dress until it was my wedding dress. Yes, I did design my wedding dress, and the The Peg made it. I intend to make a quilt out of it someday.
The group of home schooled children I'm teaching are learning similar lessons of design and quilting. They are making quilts from recycled and reclaimed fabric, and gathering that fabric was a design challenge in itself. Lydia's mom has sewed in the past, so the two of them went through her mother's stash and selected a few whole pieces of cloth for consideration in her quilt. Lydia has a very good eye, and understanding scale and color is instinctive with her. She appears able to see the big picture, even as a ten-year-old, as she comprehends how once piece relates to another, and that the finished quilt will be a composite of how each piece functions within the scheme. At our last meeting, Lydia had her pieces all cut out and numbered into rows, ready for sewing. In doing so, she spontaneously incorporated her own personality into the process. She clearly grasps the concept of being an important part of the whole scheme of life.
I called Lydia's house one day, and her paternal grandma was there with her. Lydia's mom was gone for a few days to help her own mother recover from an accident, and when I called, Lydia and her grandma were working on arranging her cut squares. They were moving them around, finding the pattern they found pleasing, and sharing quilt and fabric thoughts with one another. I flashed back to the times The Peg and I spent together on similar pursuits, and I mentally thanked her soul in heaven for teaching me.
Boy Aidan has an eye for detail, and he likes big, splashy prints with lots of contrast between dark and bright colors. Boy Aidan brought some of the most luscious, textured fabrics along with him the day we shared fabric choices. It seems Boy Aidan's mother is a bit of a closet fabriholic herself, and she will buy used clothing at The Depot (Decorah's version of Good Will or The Salvation Army) strictly for the sensuousness of the cloth. In our fabric-sharing session, Boy Aidan unfurled the most divine blue velvet choir robe, and everyone in the room gasped! It was just his size, and many children his age would have hoarded that piece for a Harry Potter costume. Boy Aidan saw it differently – it was perfect for a quilt to nap under, keeping precious spots of this heavenly softness within arm's reach, to comfort the user from a demanding world.
When we started cutting out fabric, we dug through a very large collection of fabric, still in the incarnation of clothing, to see what was useful there. Chris from The Depot had donated these items for the home schoolers, and our children were more than delighted with what they found. I encouraged them not to overlook the elements unique to the fabric source. For example, you can't buy fabric off the bolt that has buttons or collars or pockets, any of which would make marvelous, creative additions to a quilt. Boy Aidan got it. He was as eager to look for buttons and embroidered or appliquéd treasures as he was for the more obvious explosions of colorful fabrics. Each find was a new treasure, but as he did with the Harry Potter/choir robe, he didn't hoard them. Gentle Aidan shared his finds with the others, negotiating and distributing this bounty as he saw fit by the lights in the eyes of his friends. The tranquilness I observed as he rationed his precious discoveries was contagious.
Girl Aidan and Anna came to the fabric-sharing session with an intergenerational collection of fabrics that gave me goosebumps. They had clothing from grandparents and mom, and even a darling baby outfit from their little brother Kai. Girl Aidan knows herself, and she tempers her choices for joy rather than conflict. She is guided by an inner unselfishness that allows her to see the beauty in the meaning of things, not just in the surface design. When she was examining Kai's baby outfit for a place in her quilt, she chose an area with a small figure that she hoped he'd eventually recognize as being from his infancy. Elsewhere she found a clever little pocket that looked about blocksize for her quilt, and together we carefully measured and cut it out. When she showed Anna there were two pockets, we repeated the process for her little sister.
Girl Aidan and Lydia share an awareness of their own awakening strengths. They both recognize that they are capable of making the quilt they are working on, and they want to be responsible for its completion. Their families respect their claim to the process, and jump in where they are needed and stand back when they aren't. The Quilt Dance, we could call it. And while they're dancing, they are also singing. Both of them have powerful voices, strong and true, and they sing while they work, entertaining themselves and the rest of us with melodies they find pleasing to repeat.
Anna is amid it all. If her middle name isn't Lark, it should be. Or maybe her nickname could be The Starling, as described in the book King Solomon's Ring by Konrad Z. Lorenz. The starling is a happy and gentle bird that will follow wherever a loving soul leads. Anna isn't so much a follower as she is trusting, and to borrow a saying from a plaque at a craft show, she will bloom where she is planted. The next time we meet, I'm going to spend most of my time with Anna. She is a bud in the spring, a cocoon in the fall. She is definitely Anna, and she is percolating her personality, waiting for the blend to become distinct. She knows she will have a quilt when she's done with the group. She will work on it and learn new things, and I predict the importance of her quilt project will fade in and out for a few years, until she can appreciate her efforts. Then, it will change from a showpiece to a descriptor of Anna, and she will wonder how she ever made it happen. When that moment occurs, she will know if she wants to make another, and if she does, it will be spectacular.
Some experiences and emotions are difficult to relate. It's much easier to repeat a humorous exchange of conversation, and then editorialize on its key points. But what word can I use to describe a learning atmosphere filled with peace and excitement, rambunctious serenity and satisfied bewilderment? It's the sum of members of a family, of a community of shared dreams, of a place where everybody matters. That's where I teach people to make quilts.
Q: How many quilters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: At least one family, but it's open to anyone who wants to share the light.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
A: None. We like to press on (in) the dark side.
Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. Quilt humor. Okay, so I admit it is weak quilt humor, but it's intended to remind us that quilting isn't a solitary experience. We even drag non-quilters into the mix, and we benefit from their naive wisdom.
“This needs something. Any suggestions?”
“I need you to pick out the backing fabric. I'm stuck among these choices.”
“Can you draw a cricket for me? I need one for this quilt.”
As I consider the number of times I have asked Hubba or the offspring for help when making a quilt, I am reminded how much nicer the outcome is when a quilt has bits and pieces of my family in it. The poor souls who live with me certainly have a lot of lint shoved in their faces, and perhaps osmosis shouldn't be dismissed out of hand. They seem to understand the task when I ask for help.
It was Hubba's unsuspecting comment, “Oh, a bee for Burns,” that brought about the embroidered bees on all succeeding quilts. Now, the first thing recipients of my quilts look for is the bee. In fact, when I show a quilt I made to just about anyone, they say, “Now to find the bee -- I know it's here someplace!”
The Peg wasn't a quilter, but she was wonderfully creative with the garments she made. What's more, she guided us to creative functions, and my sisters and I designed most of the clothes we wore from a fairly early age. The challenge was before us with every garment; we had yards and yards of fabric to choose from, and boxes and boxes of different patterns.
“Can you get a vest and a skirt out of this fabric. I'd like the vest from this pattern here only longer, but please make the neckline from this pattern, not the rounded one on the the first vest pattern. And I'd like the skirt to have gores, not an A-line. This gore skirt pattern is too small for me now. Can you make it work?”
She could. Her results taught us how many possibilities there are in the world of design, and how ordinary people like the Onerheims at 415 Quincy Avenue could make our own ideas into something beautiful.
What's more, it was fun! The Peg always seemed up for the task. When simple shifts and “tent” dresses were in vogue, she could make us something new to wear in one evening.
“Kari, if you make dinner and do the dishes, I'll make you a dress for school tomorrow.”
Once she made me a psychedelic mini-dress in a loosely woven, hopsack-type fabric that bore a large geometric pattern in carrot orange, grape juice purple, and lime green. That same evening, I made meat loaf, baked potatoes, and a green bean casserole, and loaded the dishwasher after dinner. We joked about that dress for the rest of her life, saying it as the first time she put a green zipper in a purple dress with orange thread.
My sister Jeanie was voted “Best Dressed” in high school. Small wonder. She created very stylized designs, and The Peg and she would sew them up together. For instance, the movie Bonnie and Clyde was released about this time, and she designed an outfit inspired from the film. In a twist, it was a Clyde-like outfit – a vest and skirt in navy pin-stripe, a dark blood-red blouse, and a necktie made from the same pin-striped fabric. They pulled it off flawlessly. Jeanie always looked impeccable, tall and slender, hair down to her waist, and dressed to the nines.
When I got carried away with one of my prom dresses, The Peg told me she wouldn't work that hard on another dress until it was my wedding dress. Yes, I did design my wedding dress, and the The Peg made it. I intend to make a quilt out of it someday.
The group of home schooled children I'm teaching are learning similar lessons of design and quilting. They are making quilts from recycled and reclaimed fabric, and gathering that fabric was a design challenge in itself. Lydia's mom has sewed in the past, so the two of them went through her mother's stash and selected a few whole pieces of cloth for consideration in her quilt. Lydia has a very good eye, and understanding scale and color is instinctive with her. She appears able to see the big picture, even as a ten-year-old, as she comprehends how once piece relates to another, and that the finished quilt will be a composite of how each piece functions within the scheme. At our last meeting, Lydia had her pieces all cut out and numbered into rows, ready for sewing. In doing so, she spontaneously incorporated her own personality into the process. She clearly grasps the concept of being an important part of the whole scheme of life.
I called Lydia's house one day, and her paternal grandma was there with her. Lydia's mom was gone for a few days to help her own mother recover from an accident, and when I called, Lydia and her grandma were working on arranging her cut squares. They were moving them around, finding the pattern they found pleasing, and sharing quilt and fabric thoughts with one another. I flashed back to the times The Peg and I spent together on similar pursuits, and I mentally thanked her soul in heaven for teaching me.
Boy Aidan has an eye for detail, and he likes big, splashy prints with lots of contrast between dark and bright colors. Boy Aidan brought some of the most luscious, textured fabrics along with him the day we shared fabric choices. It seems Boy Aidan's mother is a bit of a closet fabriholic herself, and she will buy used clothing at The Depot (Decorah's version of Good Will or The Salvation Army) strictly for the sensuousness of the cloth. In our fabric-sharing session, Boy Aidan unfurled the most divine blue velvet choir robe, and everyone in the room gasped! It was just his size, and many children his age would have hoarded that piece for a Harry Potter costume. Boy Aidan saw it differently – it was perfect for a quilt to nap under, keeping precious spots of this heavenly softness within arm's reach, to comfort the user from a demanding world.
When we started cutting out fabric, we dug through a very large collection of fabric, still in the incarnation of clothing, to see what was useful there. Chris from The Depot had donated these items for the home schoolers, and our children were more than delighted with what they found. I encouraged them not to overlook the elements unique to the fabric source. For example, you can't buy fabric off the bolt that has buttons or collars or pockets, any of which would make marvelous, creative additions to a quilt. Boy Aidan got it. He was as eager to look for buttons and embroidered or appliquéd treasures as he was for the more obvious explosions of colorful fabrics. Each find was a new treasure, but as he did with the Harry Potter/choir robe, he didn't hoard them. Gentle Aidan shared his finds with the others, negotiating and distributing this bounty as he saw fit by the lights in the eyes of his friends. The tranquilness I observed as he rationed his precious discoveries was contagious.
Girl Aidan and Anna came to the fabric-sharing session with an intergenerational collection of fabrics that gave me goosebumps. They had clothing from grandparents and mom, and even a darling baby outfit from their little brother Kai. Girl Aidan knows herself, and she tempers her choices for joy rather than conflict. She is guided by an inner unselfishness that allows her to see the beauty in the meaning of things, not just in the surface design. When she was examining Kai's baby outfit for a place in her quilt, she chose an area with a small figure that she hoped he'd eventually recognize as being from his infancy. Elsewhere she found a clever little pocket that looked about blocksize for her quilt, and together we carefully measured and cut it out. When she showed Anna there were two pockets, we repeated the process for her little sister.
Girl Aidan and Lydia share an awareness of their own awakening strengths. They both recognize that they are capable of making the quilt they are working on, and they want to be responsible for its completion. Their families respect their claim to the process, and jump in where they are needed and stand back when they aren't. The Quilt Dance, we could call it. And while they're dancing, they are also singing. Both of them have powerful voices, strong and true, and they sing while they work, entertaining themselves and the rest of us with melodies they find pleasing to repeat.
Anna is amid it all. If her middle name isn't Lark, it should be. Or maybe her nickname could be The Starling, as described in the book King Solomon's Ring by Konrad Z. Lorenz. The starling is a happy and gentle bird that will follow wherever a loving soul leads. Anna isn't so much a follower as she is trusting, and to borrow a saying from a plaque at a craft show, she will bloom where she is planted. The next time we meet, I'm going to spend most of my time with Anna. She is a bud in the spring, a cocoon in the fall. She is definitely Anna, and she is percolating her personality, waiting for the blend to become distinct. She knows she will have a quilt when she's done with the group. She will work on it and learn new things, and I predict the importance of her quilt project will fade in and out for a few years, until she can appreciate her efforts. Then, it will change from a showpiece to a descriptor of Anna, and she will wonder how she ever made it happen. When that moment occurs, she will know if she wants to make another, and if she does, it will be spectacular.
Some experiences and emotions are difficult to relate. It's much easier to repeat a humorous exchange of conversation, and then editorialize on its key points. But what word can I use to describe a learning atmosphere filled with peace and excitement, rambunctious serenity and satisfied bewilderment? It's the sum of members of a family, of a community of shared dreams, of a place where everybody matters. That's where I teach people to make quilts.
Q: How many quilters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: At least one family, but it's open to anyone who wants to share the light.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Where Quilt Ideas Come From
I was born a dork. When I was growing up in Ottumwa, Iowa, Allen Chickering down the block didn't only call me a dork, he added a last name.
“Hey, Dork McFork! What's new?”
Sometimes he'd come out of his house, look up the block, see me, and call out, “Doooo-rk McFoooooo-rk!” In the case of Allen Chickering, it was clearly an it-takes-one-to-know-one situation. I'm sure I earned the nickname as a result of the Clubhouse Incident.
We neighborhood kids were building a clubhouse in the Chickering's back yard. The Crick was only a block away, and occasionally people would dump stuff there. The Crick is actually a creek, but for some Southeast Iowa twangy reason, we had a different pronunciation of the word.
We'd hear the grown-ups talking about how disgusting it was that some people would dump things in The Crick, but we never really understood their beef. We thought most of what we found to be quite useful. It took us some time, but we were able to retrieve a supply of discarded boards, with nails already in them, and stacked them behind the bushes (that's booshes to the natives) near the alley at the back of the Chickering property. We had nail removal sessions, when we would carefully whack and pull the nails out the way they went in, and save them in a Velveeta® box for our own future use.
We acquired some roofing shingles, but I doubt those came from The Crick. They were nice and new, and not a dumpable commodity in the 1960's. We probably just stole those from someone's garage. Most of us had parents who had been through The Depression, so discarding perfectly good things was unheard of. The Peg re-used “tin foil” many times over, and would wash out the baggies she used for the half-sandwich lunch she brought when she taught Home Ec at Charles D. Evans Junior High. Today's recycling efforts have nothing over The Barn and The Peg.
The clubhouse idea wasn't a front burner issue. We would fit it in between whiffle ball games in the street in front of the Chickering house; or, the massive, hours-long, multi-block Hide 'n Seek team events; or, our “spying”, which meant running around after dark, hiding in booshes, and creating a world of intrigue from looking into the windows of our neighbors, as they sat, unsuspecting, in their living rooms watching TV or reading. You have no idea the number of murdered bodies we surmised had been hidden under front porches or in The Crick, as part of either a JFK assasination conspiracy, or a KGB plot to determine the location of all the Fallout Shelters within the city limits.
We didn't have a club anyway. We just wanted a clubhouse because some of the kids our ages on TV had them. We'd organized a few neighborhood General Stores whenever someone got a new refrigerator and we had the big box. We sold candy to each other from inside, after we laid it down longwise and cut a service window into one “wall” of it. That was fun, but cardboard couldn't withstand the wear and tear of the Quincy Avenue neighborhood kids. It got hot in there, too, which melted the Popsicles and the Hershey bars. A well-built clubhouse was the only way to go. Maybe we'd even air condition it, we dreamed.
This was during the years when Jimmy Carter was peanut farming in Georgia, and was perhaps gearing up for a run for the governor's office. I don't think Habitat for Humanity was even a twinkle in his eye. Our marathon clubhouse building sessions, and others like it all over Baby Boom America, no doubt prepared the country for contributing our rudimentary carpentry skills for the common good.
The final design of our clubhouse was impressive. It had two single-file rooms and a front porch, and would sit six kids comfortably. I say “sit” because we couldn't stand in it. There was at least one open, glassless window, possibly designed for potential use as a General Store. We built the whole thing ourselves, but the process was not without pitfalls.
I was up on top of the clubhouse roofing when I hollered out my need for more shingles, or boards, or nails, or whatever I needed. Everyone was occupied, so I jumped down from the roof to fetch what I needed.
EEEEEEE-YYOOOOOOOWW! The pain shot through me like a knife, which makes sense, because I landed on a nail, a long old rusty nail that had been overlooked during Phase One of the operation. It had been sticking out of a board, pointing up, until I covered it with my right white gym shoe, which had been converted to “street shoes” now that the school year was over. When I picked up my foot, the whole board was attached to the bottom of it, like a horrible farcical snowshoe of torment. All the other dorks were too shocked to know what to do, but someone finally yanked it out, and then everyone helped me limp home, as I wailed in pain and fear.
The Barn called the doctor, and we immediately went to the emergency room to have it checked out. They cleaned it up and bandaged it, but said we'd better keep an eye on it for awhile. The Barn must have been worried, because his sister Margarette had suffered a fate that lasted a lifetime when a bicycle ran over her toe. Within days the pain worsened, which necessitated a return visit to the doctor. Most of the bones in my right leg had become infected, which was what the doctor had hoped to avoid.
They admitted me to St. Joseph's Hospital, where I stayed for a week. They wrapped my right foot in endless gauze bandages, then covered it with two hot water bottles, and wrapped several towels around that to keep in the heat. They changed these bandages three or four times a day, which was a lengthy process. Because of the weight of this dressing, I couldn't move very much on my bed, but the pain in my left hip from the recent tetanus shot kept me still, too. The shots I got in my other hip each morning weren't fun, either, but didn't have the pain of that tetanus bomb.
After four or five days, the hot water bottles came off and I was allowed to explore the pediatric floor in a wheel chair. I hung out with another kid who was in for a broken leg, and we got yelled out by the nuns for having wheel chair races in the halls and leaving skid marks. Since I was Lutheran, I didn't understand the level of sin to which I had sunk, but my opponent was Catholic, and he advised me to do some concentrated praying over the matter. The fact that his dad was one of our doctors didn't seem to have earned him any indulgences. I had incorrectly assumed both his religious and genealogical heritages would have some pull when he talked me into the lark.
As far as Allen Chickering and the Dork McFork moniker, it was a traveling trophy. We returned it to Allen right after he got the headphones for his new stereo. Headphones were new to the home entertainment world in the 1960's, and we were all up in Allen's room trying them out. You could wear them while the music blared for everyone else in the room, or you could listen to music without bothering others. I'm sure Allen's mom had insisted on purchasing them the minute they came out. We were passing them around while the music blared, enjoying how far technology had come.
When it was Allen's turn, we turned off the sound in the room and let him sing loudly while air-guitaring and head banging, 1968-style, to Joe Cocker singing, “A Little Help From My Friends”. We pretended to be enthusiastically enjoying the music along with Allen, but Mark Weatherstone was secretly recording the spectacle on a hidden cassette recorder for our future entertainment. It was hilarious. Dork McFork, at the pinnacle of bufoonery. What was even dorkier was all of us little McFork wannabes replaying it for months, laughing uproariously. We were one big neighborhood of dorks, but not just any kind of dorks. We were dorks with a last name.
I haven't made a quilt to commemorate any of these events. There is no clubhouse quilt, no hospital quilt, no spying quilt. There is no Dork McFork quilt, or Allen Chickering quilt, or Crick quilt. It's only because I haven't made them, not because they aren't good ideas for quilts. These stories tell a personal history to my descendants who may never travel to Ottumwa, Iowa, but they also tell the story of what life was like at that point in history, in the Midwest, perhaps all over the country.
Stories such as these that can inspire quilts. Quilts themselves are stories, and I encourage you to think of your personal stories when you plan your designs. They are worth the telling, and the chance to be told and retold for many lifetimes.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
“Hey, Dork McFork! What's new?”
Sometimes he'd come out of his house, look up the block, see me, and call out, “Doooo-rk McFoooooo-rk!” In the case of Allen Chickering, it was clearly an it-takes-one-to-know-one situation. I'm sure I earned the nickname as a result of the Clubhouse Incident.
We neighborhood kids were building a clubhouse in the Chickering's back yard. The Crick was only a block away, and occasionally people would dump stuff there. The Crick is actually a creek, but for some Southeast Iowa twangy reason, we had a different pronunciation of the word.
We'd hear the grown-ups talking about how disgusting it was that some people would dump things in The Crick, but we never really understood their beef. We thought most of what we found to be quite useful. It took us some time, but we were able to retrieve a supply of discarded boards, with nails already in them, and stacked them behind the bushes (that's booshes to the natives) near the alley at the back of the Chickering property. We had nail removal sessions, when we would carefully whack and pull the nails out the way they went in, and save them in a Velveeta® box for our own future use.
We acquired some roofing shingles, but I doubt those came from The Crick. They were nice and new, and not a dumpable commodity in the 1960's. We probably just stole those from someone's garage. Most of us had parents who had been through The Depression, so discarding perfectly good things was unheard of. The Peg re-used “tin foil” many times over, and would wash out the baggies she used for the half-sandwich lunch she brought when she taught Home Ec at Charles D. Evans Junior High. Today's recycling efforts have nothing over The Barn and The Peg.
The clubhouse idea wasn't a front burner issue. We would fit it in between whiffle ball games in the street in front of the Chickering house; or, the massive, hours-long, multi-block Hide 'n Seek team events; or, our “spying”, which meant running around after dark, hiding in booshes, and creating a world of intrigue from looking into the windows of our neighbors, as they sat, unsuspecting, in their living rooms watching TV or reading. You have no idea the number of murdered bodies we surmised had been hidden under front porches or in The Crick, as part of either a JFK assasination conspiracy, or a KGB plot to determine the location of all the Fallout Shelters within the city limits.
We didn't have a club anyway. We just wanted a clubhouse because some of the kids our ages on TV had them. We'd organized a few neighborhood General Stores whenever someone got a new refrigerator and we had the big box. We sold candy to each other from inside, after we laid it down longwise and cut a service window into one “wall” of it. That was fun, but cardboard couldn't withstand the wear and tear of the Quincy Avenue neighborhood kids. It got hot in there, too, which melted the Popsicles and the Hershey bars. A well-built clubhouse was the only way to go. Maybe we'd even air condition it, we dreamed.
This was during the years when Jimmy Carter was peanut farming in Georgia, and was perhaps gearing up for a run for the governor's office. I don't think Habitat for Humanity was even a twinkle in his eye. Our marathon clubhouse building sessions, and others like it all over Baby Boom America, no doubt prepared the country for contributing our rudimentary carpentry skills for the common good.
The final design of our clubhouse was impressive. It had two single-file rooms and a front porch, and would sit six kids comfortably. I say “sit” because we couldn't stand in it. There was at least one open, glassless window, possibly designed for potential use as a General Store. We built the whole thing ourselves, but the process was not without pitfalls.
I was up on top of the clubhouse roofing when I hollered out my need for more shingles, or boards, or nails, or whatever I needed. Everyone was occupied, so I jumped down from the roof to fetch what I needed.
EEEEEEE-YYOOOOOOOWW! The pain shot through me like a knife, which makes sense, because I landed on a nail, a long old rusty nail that had been overlooked during Phase One of the operation. It had been sticking out of a board, pointing up, until I covered it with my right white gym shoe, which had been converted to “street shoes” now that the school year was over. When I picked up my foot, the whole board was attached to the bottom of it, like a horrible farcical snowshoe of torment. All the other dorks were too shocked to know what to do, but someone finally yanked it out, and then everyone helped me limp home, as I wailed in pain and fear.
The Barn called the doctor, and we immediately went to the emergency room to have it checked out. They cleaned it up and bandaged it, but said we'd better keep an eye on it for awhile. The Barn must have been worried, because his sister Margarette had suffered a fate that lasted a lifetime when a bicycle ran over her toe. Within days the pain worsened, which necessitated a return visit to the doctor. Most of the bones in my right leg had become infected, which was what the doctor had hoped to avoid.
They admitted me to St. Joseph's Hospital, where I stayed for a week. They wrapped my right foot in endless gauze bandages, then covered it with two hot water bottles, and wrapped several towels around that to keep in the heat. They changed these bandages three or four times a day, which was a lengthy process. Because of the weight of this dressing, I couldn't move very much on my bed, but the pain in my left hip from the recent tetanus shot kept me still, too. The shots I got in my other hip each morning weren't fun, either, but didn't have the pain of that tetanus bomb.
After four or five days, the hot water bottles came off and I was allowed to explore the pediatric floor in a wheel chair. I hung out with another kid who was in for a broken leg, and we got yelled out by the nuns for having wheel chair races in the halls and leaving skid marks. Since I was Lutheran, I didn't understand the level of sin to which I had sunk, but my opponent was Catholic, and he advised me to do some concentrated praying over the matter. The fact that his dad was one of our doctors didn't seem to have earned him any indulgences. I had incorrectly assumed both his religious and genealogical heritages would have some pull when he talked me into the lark.
As far as Allen Chickering and the Dork McFork moniker, it was a traveling trophy. We returned it to Allen right after he got the headphones for his new stereo. Headphones were new to the home entertainment world in the 1960's, and we were all up in Allen's room trying them out. You could wear them while the music blared for everyone else in the room, or you could listen to music without bothering others. I'm sure Allen's mom had insisted on purchasing them the minute they came out. We were passing them around while the music blared, enjoying how far technology had come.
When it was Allen's turn, we turned off the sound in the room and let him sing loudly while air-guitaring and head banging, 1968-style, to Joe Cocker singing, “A Little Help From My Friends”. We pretended to be enthusiastically enjoying the music along with Allen, but Mark Weatherstone was secretly recording the spectacle on a hidden cassette recorder for our future entertainment. It was hilarious. Dork McFork, at the pinnacle of bufoonery. What was even dorkier was all of us little McFork wannabes replaying it for months, laughing uproariously. We were one big neighborhood of dorks, but not just any kind of dorks. We were dorks with a last name.
I haven't made a quilt to commemorate any of these events. There is no clubhouse quilt, no hospital quilt, no spying quilt. There is no Dork McFork quilt, or Allen Chickering quilt, or Crick quilt. It's only because I haven't made them, not because they aren't good ideas for quilts. These stories tell a personal history to my descendants who may never travel to Ottumwa, Iowa, but they also tell the story of what life was like at that point in history, in the Midwest, perhaps all over the country.
Stories such as these that can inspire quilts. Quilts themselves are stories, and I encourage you to think of your personal stories when you plan your designs. They are worth the telling, and the chance to be told and retold for many lifetimes.
Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
A Quilting Primer
My word processing program does not recognize the word “quiltmaker”. I think this belittles quiltmakers everywhere, so as I did with Hubba, I trained it to be a little more respectful of our talents. “Quiltmaker” is now added to my word processing program's dictionary, and hopefully we won't have that problem anymore.
My Number One lint peeve is people calling quilts blankets – the sound of it makes my hair curl. Since I already have curly hair, I wind up with a real case of the frizzies. Interesting... when I typed in “frizzies”, I discovered my word processing program doesn't recognize that word, either. Great -- quiltmakers are relegated to the same category as having the dang frizzies. Does that blow, or what?
My word processor has no problem at all with blanket. I mean no disrespect to blankets. We own a major Amana wool blanket, a treasured gift from The Barn and The Peg. In the early years of our marriage, they made a special trip to the Amana Colonies (www.amanacolonies.com) to purchase it for us. My parents shop for quality first, but getting a good price runs a very close second. They always kept a running list of needs, and when they found something on the needs list at a fabulous price, their feelings of good luck and cleverness only enhanced the joy of their reward.
You can't get much more Midwestern than having an Amana wool blanket. Made at the Amana Woolen Mill (www.amanawoolenmill.com), they are of superior quality in material, design, and construction. Ours is huge and warm, and if I didn't already sleep with a furnace (one of Hubba's countless talents), I would most likely use it on all of our Northeast Iowa winter nights. We have used it often, though. Our whole family could cuddle under it during impromptu film festivals in the family room.
The Amana Colonies are a good source of both blankets and quilts. Heritage Designs Needlework and Quilting Supplies is a great place to start. It's in Amana, which is also called Main Amana. The Amana Colonies include Amana, South Amana, East Amana, West Amana, Middle Amana, High Amana, and Homestead. Homestead didn't stand a chance when it came to naming the Amana Colonies – they were probably just glad to be included at all.
At Heritage Designs, quiltmakers may stop in to buy fabric, but once inside they get a bonus jolt of inspiration. The fabric choices there say, “See for yourself what you can do with me.” Even if you stopped in for something specific, you may wind up buying several yards of unique fabric or fat quarters. The other needlework supplies available there will take you out of blind fabric mode, and challenge you to do more with your abilities and possibilities. Places like Heritage Designs are the reason so many quilters have over-developed purchase justification skills.
Other places in the Amanas interest the fabric junkie, too. A trip to the Woolen Mill throws in an appreciation of wool and their weaving process. I own a knitting machine, and once attended a knitting machine conference in the Amana Colonies. Quilts are a focus of decorating at Fern Hill Gifts and Quilts in South Amana, where non-quilters have an opportunity to buy handmade quilts by Iowa quiltmakers. The Amanas is one of the few sources where the consumer can buy highly crafted quilts, made from start to finish by one quiltmaker, at bargain basement prices. Some of the quilts there, and at other handmade quilt retail locations, might have been made by a group of people, so I recommend you ask about the history and making of the handmade quilts you purchase if you're interested in a quilt made by one quiltmaker.
Amish Quilts, with both the “A” and the “Q” capitalized, denotes a quilting style dating back to the the Amish in the 1870's, the earliest we can be sure the Amish were quilting. They used very rudimentary styles, usually whole cloth quilts in brown, blue, or black, and they stitched designs on them. Eventually, they added more solid colored fabric to their pieces, in simple designs that create a simultaneous effect of regimented simplicity and free-flowing form.
Amish quilts, with only the “A” in Amish capitalized, applies to quilts made by Amish people. They aren't necessarily Amish Quilts, made of solid colored fabrics, but sometimes they are. Because of the assumption that the Amish do things the old-fashioned way, their handwork is greatly sought by non-threadies. A little more information may help the unmercerized to better understand what they are getting.
It has been said that just because you are Amish doesn't mean you can quilt worth a hoot. Many of the Amish-made quilts for sale are practice sessions for youngsters learning how to stitch (which is wonderful), or they are stitched together by groups of quilters, not by just one quiltmaker. Again, this is wonderful, and buyers should ask for this kind of information when purchasing a quilt. The buyer should also be aware that many Amish quiltmakers use fabric that is a cotton-polyester blend, rather than 100% cotton, and they frequently use polyester batting. These quilts are warm, and fabric with polyester in it doesn't fade as fast as 100% cotton, but polyester is plastic, and that affects the ability of the quilt to breathe when one sleeps under it. It can get a little uncomfortable sleeping under a piece of plastic.
Cotton-polyester blend fabric and polyester batting are less expensive to purchase than their 100% cotton counterparts. A quilter's eye can tell if there is polyester in the fabric or the batting, but there is also a test to determine the same. If you light a match and burn a raw edge of fabric, the cotton-polyester blends will melt, and the 100% fabric will leave an ash. Obviously, you can't do the burn test on quilts in a quilt shop, so it is best to ask for verification and/or a guarantee of the fabric contents if you want to avoid polyester.
As for stitching, I don't believe that tiny stitches alone are the mark of a fabulous quilter. I take tiny stitches because I like that look for its rarity and uniqueness in some of my quilts. Taking tiny stitches also requires very dense quilting, and quilts that employ tiny stitches also have lots of stitches in them. Not everyone chooses to take that amount of time on every quilt, and I will occasionally opt for using perle cotton and larger stitches. It is equally impressive when quilts have less stitching, the stitches are a bit larger, and the stitching is noticeably even. Even stitches are the mark of an experienced and skillful quilter, not merely tiny ones. Avid hand stitchers frequently make Amish Quilts, because the solid colored fabrics are an excellent canvas to demonstrate stitching skills, whether the stitches are small and even, or a little larger and even.
Let's journey back to the Amana Colonies. I know a woman here in Northeast Iowa who makes quilts to sell there. Believe me, buyers of her quilts are getting a deal. The hours and expertise involved in making them are barely reimbursed, which must limit how many quiltmakers of her caliber will sell their creations at the relatively low return on their investment of time, proficiency and materials. Most likely buyers look at the price of their Amana Woolen Mill blanket and consider the quilts' sticker prices are exorbitant in comparison. These quiltmakers have the same number of hours in a day as the rest of us, and if it takes 200 hours to make a quilt that brings $600, the quiltmaker earns $3 an hour. 200 hours is five forty-hour weeks of work. Divide $600 by five, and the quiltmaker earns $120 a week. That income drops considerably when you remove material costs, which can easily be $100-150 per queen-sized quilt. I've even heard quilt piecers say they paid a “pretty penny” to have their quilt tops hand stitched. If it takes 150 hours to hand stitch a quilt, and they pay the “pretty penny” of $200, the hourly rate is $1.33, or $53.20 for a forty-hour week. A hidden sacrifice for the quiltmaker is the time that could have been spent on his or her own designs.
The woman I know who sells her quilts in the Amanas has at least twenty-five years of quilting experience. She is a stylish blond with a trim figure, great posture, and a real eye for fabric combinations. She only uses the best of fabric, most often bought in our area quilt shops in order to support the local quilting economy. She employs all kinds of quilting techniques, including machine- and hand-appliqué, and she pieces slowly and accurately by machine. She hand stitches her quilts, and her work is precise and even. Self-critical, she will re-do things until she gets them right. To say it takes her 200 hours to make a queen-sized quilt is an understatement, not an exaggeration.
Amana wool blankets also use the best materials and the best construction methods. Let's estimate on the long side that it takes about forty-five minutes to make an entire blanket on the machine-looms they use to weave them, but we'll stretch the whole process out to four full hours per blanket in order to amortize the cost of the big loom. A queen-sized blanket of merino wool is $159.95. You do the math. Once the amortization schedule on the loom passes, the profits are even greater. We quiltmakers don't bother to amortize our quilting betweens.
Just when I think I have my distaste for hearing quilts called blankets under control, someone will look at a quilt and say something like, “That's pretty, but I have a real nice Hudson Bay blanket. Do you want to see it?” It starts all over again. My back stiffens, my peripheral vision darkens, and my hair begins to frizz. I don't mean to invite class warfare, but you'd hope what a quiltmaker does was appreciated by living, breathing people more than it is by a word processing program. In the same vein, insurance companies will only insure or reimburse against the cost of the materials, making a beautiful handmade quilt, made from start to finish by one quiltmaker, equal to a good blanket, like an Amana wool. I suppose if you bought a handmade quilt for $600 and kept the receipt, a homeowner's policy would reimburse for the purchase price, less depreciation. I'm afraid the one I made as a gift for The Barn and The Peg is probably only worth $100, or less, today. I'd get more for my Amana wool, without a doubt.
I encourage you to take a trip to the Amana Colonies and check out the Amana Woolen Mill. You'll love their blankets – they're the best money can buy. If you get to one of the shops that sells real handmade quilts by Iowa quiltmakers, ask about the people who made them. There is something more Midwestern than having an Amana wool blanket. A handmade Midwestern quilt is hard to top.
Copyright © October 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
My Number One lint peeve is people calling quilts blankets – the sound of it makes my hair curl. Since I already have curly hair, I wind up with a real case of the frizzies. Interesting... when I typed in “frizzies”, I discovered my word processing program doesn't recognize that word, either. Great -- quiltmakers are relegated to the same category as having the dang frizzies. Does that blow, or what?
My word processor has no problem at all with blanket. I mean no disrespect to blankets. We own a major Amana wool blanket, a treasured gift from The Barn and The Peg. In the early years of our marriage, they made a special trip to the Amana Colonies (www.amanacolonies.com) to purchase it for us. My parents shop for quality first, but getting a good price runs a very close second. They always kept a running list of needs, and when they found something on the needs list at a fabulous price, their feelings of good luck and cleverness only enhanced the joy of their reward.
You can't get much more Midwestern than having an Amana wool blanket. Made at the Amana Woolen Mill (www.amanawoolenmill.com), they are of superior quality in material, design, and construction. Ours is huge and warm, and if I didn't already sleep with a furnace (one of Hubba's countless talents), I would most likely use it on all of our Northeast Iowa winter nights. We have used it often, though. Our whole family could cuddle under it during impromptu film festivals in the family room.
The Amana Colonies are a good source of both blankets and quilts. Heritage Designs Needlework and Quilting Supplies is a great place to start. It's in Amana, which is also called Main Amana. The Amana Colonies include Amana, South Amana, East Amana, West Amana, Middle Amana, High Amana, and Homestead. Homestead didn't stand a chance when it came to naming the Amana Colonies – they were probably just glad to be included at all.
At Heritage Designs, quiltmakers may stop in to buy fabric, but once inside they get a bonus jolt of inspiration. The fabric choices there say, “See for yourself what you can do with me.” Even if you stopped in for something specific, you may wind up buying several yards of unique fabric or fat quarters. The other needlework supplies available there will take you out of blind fabric mode, and challenge you to do more with your abilities and possibilities. Places like Heritage Designs are the reason so many quilters have over-developed purchase justification skills.
Other places in the Amanas interest the fabric junkie, too. A trip to the Woolen Mill throws in an appreciation of wool and their weaving process. I own a knitting machine, and once attended a knitting machine conference in the Amana Colonies. Quilts are a focus of decorating at Fern Hill Gifts and Quilts in South Amana, where non-quilters have an opportunity to buy handmade quilts by Iowa quiltmakers. The Amanas is one of the few sources where the consumer can buy highly crafted quilts, made from start to finish by one quiltmaker, at bargain basement prices. Some of the quilts there, and at other handmade quilt retail locations, might have been made by a group of people, so I recommend you ask about the history and making of the handmade quilts you purchase if you're interested in a quilt made by one quiltmaker.
Amish Quilts, with both the “A” and the “Q” capitalized, denotes a quilting style dating back to the the Amish in the 1870's, the earliest we can be sure the Amish were quilting. They used very rudimentary styles, usually whole cloth quilts in brown, blue, or black, and they stitched designs on them. Eventually, they added more solid colored fabric to their pieces, in simple designs that create a simultaneous effect of regimented simplicity and free-flowing form.
Amish quilts, with only the “A” in Amish capitalized, applies to quilts made by Amish people. They aren't necessarily Amish Quilts, made of solid colored fabrics, but sometimes they are. Because of the assumption that the Amish do things the old-fashioned way, their handwork is greatly sought by non-threadies. A little more information may help the unmercerized to better understand what they are getting.
It has been said that just because you are Amish doesn't mean you can quilt worth a hoot. Many of the Amish-made quilts for sale are practice sessions for youngsters learning how to stitch (which is wonderful), or they are stitched together by groups of quilters, not by just one quiltmaker. Again, this is wonderful, and buyers should ask for this kind of information when purchasing a quilt. The buyer should also be aware that many Amish quiltmakers use fabric that is a cotton-polyester blend, rather than 100% cotton, and they frequently use polyester batting. These quilts are warm, and fabric with polyester in it doesn't fade as fast as 100% cotton, but polyester is plastic, and that affects the ability of the quilt to breathe when one sleeps under it. It can get a little uncomfortable sleeping under a piece of plastic.
Cotton-polyester blend fabric and polyester batting are less expensive to purchase than their 100% cotton counterparts. A quilter's eye can tell if there is polyester in the fabric or the batting, but there is also a test to determine the same. If you light a match and burn a raw edge of fabric, the cotton-polyester blends will melt, and the 100% fabric will leave an ash. Obviously, you can't do the burn test on quilts in a quilt shop, so it is best to ask for verification and/or a guarantee of the fabric contents if you want to avoid polyester.
As for stitching, I don't believe that tiny stitches alone are the mark of a fabulous quilter. I take tiny stitches because I like that look for its rarity and uniqueness in some of my quilts. Taking tiny stitches also requires very dense quilting, and quilts that employ tiny stitches also have lots of stitches in them. Not everyone chooses to take that amount of time on every quilt, and I will occasionally opt for using perle cotton and larger stitches. It is equally impressive when quilts have less stitching, the stitches are a bit larger, and the stitching is noticeably even. Even stitches are the mark of an experienced and skillful quilter, not merely tiny ones. Avid hand stitchers frequently make Amish Quilts, because the solid colored fabrics are an excellent canvas to demonstrate stitching skills, whether the stitches are small and even, or a little larger and even.
Let's journey back to the Amana Colonies. I know a woman here in Northeast Iowa who makes quilts to sell there. Believe me, buyers of her quilts are getting a deal. The hours and expertise involved in making them are barely reimbursed, which must limit how many quiltmakers of her caliber will sell their creations at the relatively low return on their investment of time, proficiency and materials. Most likely buyers look at the price of their Amana Woolen Mill blanket and consider the quilts' sticker prices are exorbitant in comparison. These quiltmakers have the same number of hours in a day as the rest of us, and if it takes 200 hours to make a quilt that brings $600, the quiltmaker earns $3 an hour. 200 hours is five forty-hour weeks of work. Divide $600 by five, and the quiltmaker earns $120 a week. That income drops considerably when you remove material costs, which can easily be $100-150 per queen-sized quilt. I've even heard quilt piecers say they paid a “pretty penny” to have their quilt tops hand stitched. If it takes 150 hours to hand stitch a quilt, and they pay the “pretty penny” of $200, the hourly rate is $1.33, or $53.20 for a forty-hour week. A hidden sacrifice for the quiltmaker is the time that could have been spent on his or her own designs.
The woman I know who sells her quilts in the Amanas has at least twenty-five years of quilting experience. She is a stylish blond with a trim figure, great posture, and a real eye for fabric combinations. She only uses the best of fabric, most often bought in our area quilt shops in order to support the local quilting economy. She employs all kinds of quilting techniques, including machine- and hand-appliqué, and she pieces slowly and accurately by machine. She hand stitches her quilts, and her work is precise and even. Self-critical, she will re-do things until she gets them right. To say it takes her 200 hours to make a queen-sized quilt is an understatement, not an exaggeration.
Amana wool blankets also use the best materials and the best construction methods. Let's estimate on the long side that it takes about forty-five minutes to make an entire blanket on the machine-looms they use to weave them, but we'll stretch the whole process out to four full hours per blanket in order to amortize the cost of the big loom. A queen-sized blanket of merino wool is $159.95. You do the math. Once the amortization schedule on the loom passes, the profits are even greater. We quiltmakers don't bother to amortize our quilting betweens.
Just when I think I have my distaste for hearing quilts called blankets under control, someone will look at a quilt and say something like, “That's pretty, but I have a real nice Hudson Bay blanket. Do you want to see it?” It starts all over again. My back stiffens, my peripheral vision darkens, and my hair begins to frizz. I don't mean to invite class warfare, but you'd hope what a quiltmaker does was appreciated by living, breathing people more than it is by a word processing program. In the same vein, insurance companies will only insure or reimburse against the cost of the materials, making a beautiful handmade quilt, made from start to finish by one quiltmaker, equal to a good blanket, like an Amana wool. I suppose if you bought a handmade quilt for $600 and kept the receipt, a homeowner's policy would reimburse for the purchase price, less depreciation. I'm afraid the one I made as a gift for The Barn and The Peg is probably only worth $100, or less, today. I'd get more for my Amana wool, without a doubt.
I encourage you to take a trip to the Amana Colonies and check out the Amana Woolen Mill. You'll love their blankets – they're the best money can buy. If you get to one of the shops that sells real handmade quilts by Iowa quiltmakers, ask about the people who made them. There is something more Midwestern than having an Amana wool blanket. A handmade Midwestern quilt is hard to top.
Copyright © October 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
Richard Nixon Lived Here, Too
Can you name Radar O’Reilly’s hometown? That’s a little Iowa trivia that doesn’t escape the natives, and for those who hail from Ottumwa, it is our most common identifier.
“Where are you from?”
“Ottumwa.”
“Ottumwa? Oh, yeah! Radar O’Reilly’s hometown!”
Once people find out there really is an Ottumwa, they naturally assume there really is a Radar O’Reilly. I haven’t found a graceful way to answer the questions, “Did you know him?”, and “Does any of his family still live there?” without sounding condescending.
“Well, see, Radar O’Reilly isn’t a real person. He was a character from M*A*S*H, and they randomly chose Ottumwa as his hometown. Maybe it’s because we have a former naval airbase here, which is home to the world’s largest swimming pool. Hey now, there’s a piece of history for you. Do you know why we have the world's larg…”
“Radar really was from Ottumwa, though. It's right at the beginning of the book. Didn’t he become a congressman, or something?”
“That was Fred Grandy. He played Gopher on The Love Boat.”
“Oh. What happened to Radar, then?” And they call us yokels. The swimming pool story is a lot more interesting.
I grew up in Ottumwa, in the southeast quadrant of the state. We aren’t that far from the Missouri border, close enough for the locals to have adopted the southern twang that colors Missourian vowels, especially the “ou”, the “ow”, and the “aw” sounds, along with the short “u”. When we go downtown, we go daaown-taaown. We worsh our clothes, and as a part of our lawn care routines, we occasionally trim the boooshes when they get shaggy.
While limestone gravel awaits its harvest below the surface in my northeast Iowa home of Decorah, the coal has already been mined around my southeast Iowa roots of Ottumwa. In our history classes at Wildwood Elementary, we studied the great Coal Palace that once graced our community, a shrine to and of the black rock that, for a time, was our economic mainstay.
The Mondanaro’s house burned down in the mid-60’s, and the fire was blamed on their coal furnace. Marian, my best friend in high school, said it was her brother Jim’s job to shovel the coal into the furnace before bedtime in the winter, and when she would touch the wall that abutted her bed, it felt hot.
Marian’s Italian father, Joe Mondanaro, was originally from Jersey City, New Jersey, which he pronounced “Joisey City, New Joisey”. It was our naval airbase that brought him to Ottumwa -- he trained scuba divers in the gi-gundo swimming pool there. Once he was here, Joe became an active and colorful member of the community, with a houseful of kids by his Irish wife Phyllis; Jane, Peggy, Jim, Marian, Steve, Gina, Chris, and John. He must have loved living in the Midwest, and remained here until his untimely death from cancer in 2003.
Joe never did switch from his Joisey accent to the Missouri twang, though. In the fall of the year they moved to our neighborhood, he was observing the migrating birds that rested in our treetops as they made their ways from the north to their winter homes. The trees would be thick with them, and it was fun to clap two boards together and watch them scatter en masse from the maple trees.
“Hey, goils!" he hollered to Marian and me from the front porch. “Come out here and look at these boids!”
No, you wouldn’t have heard him saying, “Our new haaouse is on the Saaouth Side.”
The Ottumwa Courier featured the story of the blaze that destroyed their home, and the unusual living arrangements for the surviving family of ten. Right after the fire, the Mondanaros found refuge at The Heights, a Roman Catholic junior college for women. They closed off an entire floor of the residence hall, and moved all ten of them in there. Before long, they found a house to rent on the South Side, on Quincy Avenue, just two doors down from us, and Marian and I became solid buddies. We have one of those talk-every-decade-or-so-but-still-have-fun kind of soul-sisterhoods. I know there were times in high school when we laughed so hard we just about wet ourselves. It set the tone for a lifetime.
Ralph and Pauline Kirkland lived just a few blocks east of Quincy Avenue, on Appanoose. Across the street from them were Harold and Stephie Johnson. Harold and the three kids went to First Lutheran, the same as the Kirklands and we Onerheims. Stephie went to mass at St. Pat’s, but we all thought she was still pretty nice. Harold had a tenor voice that turned heads when he sang hymns during the 8:30 service at First Lutheran. "Ricky" is the only one if their kids I see anymore – I don’t even know for sure where the other two are, but Rick’s in Ottumwa.
We were having the Ottumwa showing of The Clausen Quilts this weekend at Pennsylvania Place on the North Side. It’s a retirement community, and The Barn and The Peg moved into their independent living unit ten years ago, when it was brand new. Pauline moved there about a year ago, just after Ralph died. Rick Johnson gave his eulogy, I played my flute, and my sister Jeanie did the readings. Our two families considered ourselves the “Kirkland Kids” -- they had quite a passel of us! Thelma Johnson, Pauline’s sister, has lived there several years, too, so I usually get to see both Thelma and Pauline when I visit Ottumwa. Thelma entrusted me with a large collection of Mrs. Clausen’s hand embroidered pillowcases and dresser scarves several years ago. It’s an awesome responsibility – they are like gold to all of us.
I heard a voice, booming from the foyer of Pennsylvania Place. “You went to Pickwick? I went to Wildwood, so that means we both went to Evans Junior High.”
Huh? Who went to Wildwood? I went to Wildwood… and I scurried to peer over the quilt-draped railing to the foyer below.
“Oh, it’s Ricky! Hi, Rick!”
“Hi, Kari. I was just telling Lea Ann [Mercer nee' Joseph, who went to Pickwick] here about how well Polly could sew.”
The Johnsons always called Pauline, “Polly”. It’s their special thing.
“I tell you, she could sew suits that looked like they came right out of Vogue. She sewed everything she wore, and she looked like a million bucks every day. I don’t know if Thelma could sew, but Polly could. I don’t know if Polly could quilt, but she could sew just about anything to wear.”
I love to listen to Rick talk. He threads ideas and observations together into a verbal quilt.
“But Polly’s mom, well, everyone knew Polly’s mom could sew quilts and clothes, and she sewed those quilts by hand, every little tiny stitch.” Rick advanced from the foyer to elevator, where he pooshed the button for the first floor and headed for the boardroom, where the rest of the quilts were set up for showing. We had a fine talk, sharing memories about the quilts, and catching up on bits and pieces of the last thirty years since we lived on Quincy Avenue and Appanoose.
Behind our house, across the alley in a house facing Hackworth Avenue, was where Debbie Stubbs lived. One day The Peg was cleaning up after lunch when she told me a new little girl had moved into the neighborhood, and she was just my age. “After I finish with these dishes, we’ll go over and meet her.” I was a pre-schooler, and it took a long time for her to finish those dishes.
Debbie was inside the house with her mother Doris, who was unpacking. There were boxes and furniture strewn about, so she and Debbie came outside for our introduction. The Peg and Doris talked right along, and I remember Doris saying Debbie was shy. I didn’t know what a shy was, but if Debbie was one, I wanted to be one, too. Obviously, the shy thing never took hold with me.
I loved my new friend instantly, and we spent most of our time together for the next five years. We were best friends, a relationship that defined the term for me. To this day, you are my best friend if I love you as much as I love Debbie Stubbs.
We started kindergarten together, and have the first-day-of-school pictures to prove it, both of us in plaid school dresses with hoop slips underneath, holding those manila envelopes that held construction paper and a new box of eight fat crayons.
One spring The Peg made us fancy matching red and white organza dresses, with big red organza “butterfly bows” that tied in the back. In appreciation, Doris bought us matching red and white shorts outfits. Since The Peg made all of our clothes, this was the first store bought outfit I remember owning. I went with Debbie and her mom when we bought them. It was all very foreign to me, shopping for clothes in a store in daaown-taaown Ottumwa.
Debbie moved a couple of miles away when we were in the second grade. She didn’t go to Wildwood anymore; now she lived across the street from Pickwick. I got a flute for my birthday right after Debbie left, and I started learning to play. The regular kids, whose dads weren’t the band director, had to wait until the summer after fourth grade to get their instruments. Not me. I took lessons from Cindy Cline, who didn’t live all that far from Debbie’s new house. Later, in the fourth grade, Debbie chose to play the flute, too, and we were in band together until we graduated from high school in nineteen-none-of-your-dang-business.
Debbie helped out at my wedding reception, and then I never saw her again. She got married, I didn’t know her last name, her dad died, her mom got sick, and we lost track of each other. She was probably too shy to look for me. It was a slipped-through-the cracks problem, where the stars were never in the right alignment to connect with her. I could never forget her, because she was my first best friend.
Dorothy Benson lives across the hall from The Barn at Pennsylvania Place. Dorothy taught kindergarten at Anne G. Wilson Elementary, on the North Side. Pickwick and Wildwood are both on the South Side. Marian Mondanaro had Mrs. Benson for kindergarten, and their house that burned down was a short walk from Anne G. Wilson. When I was writing this blog entry, there were some details I wanted to check out about the fire, and the living arrangements afterwards. Did the Mondanaros live at Walsh, the Catholic high school, or was it the Heights, the Catholic college? I thought Dorothy might remember, so I walked across the hall to ask. She didn’t remember the story, but she had a treasure to share with me – an address book of dear old OHS alumni. Marian had moved since the book was printed, and I didn’t have her new phone number, but I found some siblings I could try calling. I figured I’d find some Mondanaro and get the answers to my questions. I copied down a few numbers, went back to The Barn’s apartment, and hit the hay.
In the morning, I was planning when I could call a Mondanaro when it hit me -- the book! Debbie Stubbs could be in the book! I decided it was worth it to bother Dorothy again, and she was as gracious as ever. Sure enough, Debbie Stubbs was now Debbie Richmond, and there was her phone number. I called and left a message, hoping she hadn’t gone away for the weekend.
In a few hours, my cell phone rang. “This is Debbie.” I told her as politely as I could to get herself over to my dad's, and within a half hour we were sitting down together for the first time since July of 1976. She really hadn't changed a bit. It was fun being in the same room with her, and after she left The Barn remarked that nothing had changed: I still jabbered and gestured away, and Debbie sat quietly, shy and patient, waiting to get a word in edgewise. As we parted, she said she'd come visit me in Decorah. We still have a lot of years to catch up on.
I talked to Marian today, too. She was the second best friend of my life, and I love her with my whole heart, too, just like I love Debbie Stubbs. I did manage to get the details of the fire and their stay at the Heights right, and then we spent another ninety minutes catching up since our last gabfest in 2002. Sadly, Marian's parents are both gone in that short time. Debbie's dad died suddenly of a heart attack when he was barely sixty-five, and her mom has been quite ill since the late nineties. Debbie's own husband, whom I never met, passed away from cancer suddenly in December of 2004. The Peg has been gone for three years now, and that seems like a lot to have piled up when it is shared in the span of a few days. We are learning to adjust to the reality of these changes.
All anybody asks about when they hear I'm from Ottumwa is Radar O'Reilly. The people I know from Ottumwa aren't fiction. They are real and warm and wonderful, and they helped create who I am. Yes, Tom Arnold is from Ottumwa, and yes, I sort of remember the family. I don't remember knowing Tom: who could have forgotten that voice? Richard Nixon lived there during WWII, they tell me, in the Tisdale Apartments, but he was no Debbie Stubbs or Marian Mondanaro. There aren't The Barns, or Thelma Johnsons, or Pauline Kirklands, or Ricky Johnsons, or Dorothy Bensons anywhere else on the planet.
They are the great people from Ottumwa, the ones I come home to.
Copyright © October 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
“Where are you from?”
“Ottumwa.”
“Ottumwa? Oh, yeah! Radar O’Reilly’s hometown!”
Once people find out there really is an Ottumwa, they naturally assume there really is a Radar O’Reilly. I haven’t found a graceful way to answer the questions, “Did you know him?”, and “Does any of his family still live there?” without sounding condescending.
“Well, see, Radar O’Reilly isn’t a real person. He was a character from M*A*S*H, and they randomly chose Ottumwa as his hometown. Maybe it’s because we have a former naval airbase here, which is home to the world’s largest swimming pool. Hey now, there’s a piece of history for you. Do you know why we have the world's larg…”
“Radar really was from Ottumwa, though. It's right at the beginning of the book. Didn’t he become a congressman, or something?”
“That was Fred Grandy. He played Gopher on The Love Boat.”
“Oh. What happened to Radar, then?” And they call us yokels. The swimming pool story is a lot more interesting.
I grew up in Ottumwa, in the southeast quadrant of the state. We aren’t that far from the Missouri border, close enough for the locals to have adopted the southern twang that colors Missourian vowels, especially the “ou”, the “ow”, and the “aw” sounds, along with the short “u”. When we go downtown, we go daaown-taaown. We worsh our clothes, and as a part of our lawn care routines, we occasionally trim the boooshes when they get shaggy.
While limestone gravel awaits its harvest below the surface in my northeast Iowa home of Decorah, the coal has already been mined around my southeast Iowa roots of Ottumwa. In our history classes at Wildwood Elementary, we studied the great Coal Palace that once graced our community, a shrine to and of the black rock that, for a time, was our economic mainstay.
The Mondanaro’s house burned down in the mid-60’s, and the fire was blamed on their coal furnace. Marian, my best friend in high school, said it was her brother Jim’s job to shovel the coal into the furnace before bedtime in the winter, and when she would touch the wall that abutted her bed, it felt hot.
Marian’s Italian father, Joe Mondanaro, was originally from Jersey City, New Jersey, which he pronounced “Joisey City, New Joisey”. It was our naval airbase that brought him to Ottumwa -- he trained scuba divers in the gi-gundo swimming pool there. Once he was here, Joe became an active and colorful member of the community, with a houseful of kids by his Irish wife Phyllis; Jane, Peggy, Jim, Marian, Steve, Gina, Chris, and John. He must have loved living in the Midwest, and remained here until his untimely death from cancer in 2003.
Joe never did switch from his Joisey accent to the Missouri twang, though. In the fall of the year they moved to our neighborhood, he was observing the migrating birds that rested in our treetops as they made their ways from the north to their winter homes. The trees would be thick with them, and it was fun to clap two boards together and watch them scatter en masse from the maple trees.
“Hey, goils!" he hollered to Marian and me from the front porch. “Come out here and look at these boids!”
No, you wouldn’t have heard him saying, “Our new haaouse is on the Saaouth Side.”
The Ottumwa Courier featured the story of the blaze that destroyed their home, and the unusual living arrangements for the surviving family of ten. Right after the fire, the Mondanaros found refuge at The Heights, a Roman Catholic junior college for women. They closed off an entire floor of the residence hall, and moved all ten of them in there. Before long, they found a house to rent on the South Side, on Quincy Avenue, just two doors down from us, and Marian and I became solid buddies. We have one of those talk-every-decade-or-so-but-still-have-fun kind of soul-sisterhoods. I know there were times in high school when we laughed so hard we just about wet ourselves. It set the tone for a lifetime.
Ralph and Pauline Kirkland lived just a few blocks east of Quincy Avenue, on Appanoose. Across the street from them were Harold and Stephie Johnson. Harold and the three kids went to First Lutheran, the same as the Kirklands and we Onerheims. Stephie went to mass at St. Pat’s, but we all thought she was still pretty nice. Harold had a tenor voice that turned heads when he sang hymns during the 8:30 service at First Lutheran. "Ricky" is the only one if their kids I see anymore – I don’t even know for sure where the other two are, but Rick’s in Ottumwa.
We were having the Ottumwa showing of The Clausen Quilts this weekend at Pennsylvania Place on the North Side. It’s a retirement community, and The Barn and The Peg moved into their independent living unit ten years ago, when it was brand new. Pauline moved there about a year ago, just after Ralph died. Rick Johnson gave his eulogy, I played my flute, and my sister Jeanie did the readings. Our two families considered ourselves the “Kirkland Kids” -- they had quite a passel of us! Thelma Johnson, Pauline’s sister, has lived there several years, too, so I usually get to see both Thelma and Pauline when I visit Ottumwa. Thelma entrusted me with a large collection of Mrs. Clausen’s hand embroidered pillowcases and dresser scarves several years ago. It’s an awesome responsibility – they are like gold to all of us.
I heard a voice, booming from the foyer of Pennsylvania Place. “You went to Pickwick? I went to Wildwood, so that means we both went to Evans Junior High.”
Huh? Who went to Wildwood? I went to Wildwood… and I scurried to peer over the quilt-draped railing to the foyer below.
“Oh, it’s Ricky! Hi, Rick!”
“Hi, Kari. I was just telling Lea Ann [Mercer nee' Joseph, who went to Pickwick] here about how well Polly could sew.”
The Johnsons always called Pauline, “Polly”. It’s their special thing.
“I tell you, she could sew suits that looked like they came right out of Vogue. She sewed everything she wore, and she looked like a million bucks every day. I don’t know if Thelma could sew, but Polly could. I don’t know if Polly could quilt, but she could sew just about anything to wear.”
I love to listen to Rick talk. He threads ideas and observations together into a verbal quilt.
“But Polly’s mom, well, everyone knew Polly’s mom could sew quilts and clothes, and she sewed those quilts by hand, every little tiny stitch.” Rick advanced from the foyer to elevator, where he pooshed the button for the first floor and headed for the boardroom, where the rest of the quilts were set up for showing. We had a fine talk, sharing memories about the quilts, and catching up on bits and pieces of the last thirty years since we lived on Quincy Avenue and Appanoose.
Behind our house, across the alley in a house facing Hackworth Avenue, was where Debbie Stubbs lived. One day The Peg was cleaning up after lunch when she told me a new little girl had moved into the neighborhood, and she was just my age. “After I finish with these dishes, we’ll go over and meet her.” I was a pre-schooler, and it took a long time for her to finish those dishes.
Debbie was inside the house with her mother Doris, who was unpacking. There were boxes and furniture strewn about, so she and Debbie came outside for our introduction. The Peg and Doris talked right along, and I remember Doris saying Debbie was shy. I didn’t know what a shy was, but if Debbie was one, I wanted to be one, too. Obviously, the shy thing never took hold with me.
I loved my new friend instantly, and we spent most of our time together for the next five years. We were best friends, a relationship that defined the term for me. To this day, you are my best friend if I love you as much as I love Debbie Stubbs.
We started kindergarten together, and have the first-day-of-school pictures to prove it, both of us in plaid school dresses with hoop slips underneath, holding those manila envelopes that held construction paper and a new box of eight fat crayons.
One spring The Peg made us fancy matching red and white organza dresses, with big red organza “butterfly bows” that tied in the back. In appreciation, Doris bought us matching red and white shorts outfits. Since The Peg made all of our clothes, this was the first store bought outfit I remember owning. I went with Debbie and her mom when we bought them. It was all very foreign to me, shopping for clothes in a store in daaown-taaown Ottumwa.
Debbie moved a couple of miles away when we were in the second grade. She didn’t go to Wildwood anymore; now she lived across the street from Pickwick. I got a flute for my birthday right after Debbie left, and I started learning to play. The regular kids, whose dads weren’t the band director, had to wait until the summer after fourth grade to get their instruments. Not me. I took lessons from Cindy Cline, who didn’t live all that far from Debbie’s new house. Later, in the fourth grade, Debbie chose to play the flute, too, and we were in band together until we graduated from high school in nineteen-none-of-your-dang-business.
Debbie helped out at my wedding reception, and then I never saw her again. She got married, I didn’t know her last name, her dad died, her mom got sick, and we lost track of each other. She was probably too shy to look for me. It was a slipped-through-the cracks problem, where the stars were never in the right alignment to connect with her. I could never forget her, because she was my first best friend.
Dorothy Benson lives across the hall from The Barn at Pennsylvania Place. Dorothy taught kindergarten at Anne G. Wilson Elementary, on the North Side. Pickwick and Wildwood are both on the South Side. Marian Mondanaro had Mrs. Benson for kindergarten, and their house that burned down was a short walk from Anne G. Wilson. When I was writing this blog entry, there were some details I wanted to check out about the fire, and the living arrangements afterwards. Did the Mondanaros live at Walsh, the Catholic high school, or was it the Heights, the Catholic college? I thought Dorothy might remember, so I walked across the hall to ask. She didn’t remember the story, but she had a treasure to share with me – an address book of dear old OHS alumni. Marian had moved since the book was printed, and I didn’t have her new phone number, but I found some siblings I could try calling. I figured I’d find some Mondanaro and get the answers to my questions. I copied down a few numbers, went back to The Barn’s apartment, and hit the hay.
In the morning, I was planning when I could call a Mondanaro when it hit me -- the book! Debbie Stubbs could be in the book! I decided it was worth it to bother Dorothy again, and she was as gracious as ever. Sure enough, Debbie Stubbs was now Debbie Richmond, and there was her phone number. I called and left a message, hoping she hadn’t gone away for the weekend.
In a few hours, my cell phone rang. “This is Debbie.” I told her as politely as I could to get herself over to my dad's, and within a half hour we were sitting down together for the first time since July of 1976. She really hadn't changed a bit. It was fun being in the same room with her, and after she left The Barn remarked that nothing had changed: I still jabbered and gestured away, and Debbie sat quietly, shy and patient, waiting to get a word in edgewise. As we parted, she said she'd come visit me in Decorah. We still have a lot of years to catch up on.
I talked to Marian today, too. She was the second best friend of my life, and I love her with my whole heart, too, just like I love Debbie Stubbs. I did manage to get the details of the fire and their stay at the Heights right, and then we spent another ninety minutes catching up since our last gabfest in 2002. Sadly, Marian's parents are both gone in that short time. Debbie's dad died suddenly of a heart attack when he was barely sixty-five, and her mom has been quite ill since the late nineties. Debbie's own husband, whom I never met, passed away from cancer suddenly in December of 2004. The Peg has been gone for three years now, and that seems like a lot to have piled up when it is shared in the span of a few days. We are learning to adjust to the reality of these changes.
All anybody asks about when they hear I'm from Ottumwa is Radar O'Reilly. The people I know from Ottumwa aren't fiction. They are real and warm and wonderful, and they helped create who I am. Yes, Tom Arnold is from Ottumwa, and yes, I sort of remember the family. I don't remember knowing Tom: who could have forgotten that voice? Richard Nixon lived there during WWII, they tell me, in the Tisdale Apartments, but he was no Debbie Stubbs or Marian Mondanaro. There aren't The Barns, or Thelma Johnsons, or Pauline Kirklands, or Ricky Johnsons, or Dorothy Bensons anywhere else on the planet.
They are the great people from Ottumwa, the ones I come home to.
Copyright © October 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
You CAN Nap Under a Matisse, You Know
Is it form over function, or function over form? That's the chicken/egg dilemma over which I never struggle. I am a functional art quilter -- I prefer to make quilts that are unique, interesting, and used for napping. I'm not real nuts about seeing them hanging on a wall, but I don't mind tempting the urge.
Art quilting often competes with quilting as way to keep warm and feel the love. The functional art of choosing interesting fabric, cutting and sewing it accurately, and finishing it expertly is a thing of beauty in itself. Not everyone can do it well, even with today's rotary cutters, self-healing mats, mix 'n match fabric lines, and the rabble of books and classes. Today's methods increase the success rate of quilting, which encourages newbies to repeat the process, and with each successive piece, the quiltmaker improves in skill and confidence.
You rarely see a quiltmaker repeat an entire quilt verbatim, no matter how much pleasure that one quilt brought. The inner designer prompts us to move on to the next engagement. Some of us visualize and expand the possibilities of the lint before us. As we manipulate the fabric into our basic quilts, the fabric in turn manipulates our imaginations. “What if I...”, “I wonder how it would work if...”, “What this piece needs is...”
I love to learn new techniques, but seldom want to use one technique to make an entire quilt. I will use one to make a whole quilt, as I did with T-man's Civil War quilt and the Square in a Square Ruler® (“Measure Twice, Cut Once”). It's the best way to familiarize myself with what I can extract from one technique to infuse into another location. Once I acquaint myself with the newfound skill, I maneuver it into my subconscious and it shows up in my design process.
For example, I haven't taught myself Stack 'N Whack yet, but there are times I'd like to finagle that concept into something a little less predictable than the who-knows-what-you'll-get process of using large prints. I know, I know, that sounds confusing, because the whole Stack 'N Whack schtick is it's unpredictability. But if you think about it, we actually do expect something similar each time, we just don't know precisely how it will turn out. I won't know the possibilities myself until I bite the bullet and make a dang quilt that way. It will probably take a whole quilt to get it figured out, too.
The challenge of learning new techniques can be baffling and frustrating. That alone is what excites many quiltmakers, and I have to admire the drive to be technically exact. As with many art forms, there are as many different motivations to improve as there are people who are motivated. We have some true masters right here in Northeast Iowa, quiltmakers who win award after award, and are consistently recognized in quilting circles as being at the top of their craft. Learning and mastering these techniques can be tedious, but the tenacity of these crackerjacks is rewarded in their amazing results. It is nothing short of a phenomenon.
My good quilting friend Susan always comes to mind when I think of a quilting master and artist. She isn't motivated by winning ribbons or getting her picture in the paper, though I believe that would be inevitable if she chose that route. Instead, she uses what she knows to rouse others. She's a natural inspirer, and her comments throw open new windows of possibilities. Susan is the one who prompted me to enter the Thimbleberries® challenge while I was still in my novitiate. I don't spend enough time with her, even though she and Cindy and Linda meet fairly regularly on Monday nights to work together on their projects, sharing their time and observations. When I can go, I am always most pleased by Susan's insights, and with how long I carry them inside of me. She's that good.
Among her many talents, Susan can paper piece. In fact, she is a virtuoso, and passionate about what she can do with it, where it leads her. She once paper pieced a tulip that is only visible under a microscope – a wonderment! For some reason, I can look at and admire her paper pieced blocks for longer than it took her to make them. She will find square frames with little square cutouts to showcase her tiny blocks. Sometimes the frames themselves are bulky, and you'd think they would overpower whatever one put in the display opening, even when the opening appears to be an afterthought to the frame itself. Yet, she will place a delicate, tiny paper pieced creation there, and the effect is like finding a crocus in the snow in early spring.
I love this about Decorah, the pockets of creativity and the artists everywhere. We have come to expect them in the bluff country and pastures that surround us, aware of those who have abandoned themselves to their art, living by it and from it. But there is the unexpected layer of artmakers among the office personnel at Luther College, behind the stylist's chair at the beauty shop, or in the milking parlor at the dairy farm. There are stay-at-home-moms and dads who write, sew, sculpt, saw, and paint between loads of laundry and during nap time. They are members of every congregation, from the Lutherans to the Quakers, the Catholics and the Unitarians, and there are also those bearing fruit in their studios on Sunday mornings. They may be waiting to retire, so they can do art all the time, but what is remarkable is that they aren't not doing it now while they wait it out. They do work for money, and do art for play.
It makes no difference whether it's form over function or function over form. In the Midwest, we value both, and we find a way to make the most functional of our needs artistic, and still make art to answer the need for enjoyment. I will make the most artsy of my thoughts into something that will keep someone warm. I'm not there full-time yet, so I'm taking my spot among other hidden artists in Northeast Iowa, letting my creativity sustain me. I know where I'm going, and I battle my own impatience as I allot each precious hour of the day to the reality of what must be done now. I am wise to practice the techniques that will broaden the scope of my imagination, to make function a part of my form. Or, is it the other way around?
I just inspired myself to go work on a quilt. Several years ago, one of the emeritus art professors in town got me going by asking about working on a Matisse-inspired splash of a quilt that... gotta go...
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns October 2005
Art quilting often competes with quilting as way to keep warm and feel the love. The functional art of choosing interesting fabric, cutting and sewing it accurately, and finishing it expertly is a thing of beauty in itself. Not everyone can do it well, even with today's rotary cutters, self-healing mats, mix 'n match fabric lines, and the rabble of books and classes. Today's methods increase the success rate of quilting, which encourages newbies to repeat the process, and with each successive piece, the quiltmaker improves in skill and confidence.
You rarely see a quiltmaker repeat an entire quilt verbatim, no matter how much pleasure that one quilt brought. The inner designer prompts us to move on to the next engagement. Some of us visualize and expand the possibilities of the lint before us. As we manipulate the fabric into our basic quilts, the fabric in turn manipulates our imaginations. “What if I...”, “I wonder how it would work if...”, “What this piece needs is...”
I love to learn new techniques, but seldom want to use one technique to make an entire quilt. I will use one to make a whole quilt, as I did with T-man's Civil War quilt and the Square in a Square Ruler® (“Measure Twice, Cut Once”). It's the best way to familiarize myself with what I can extract from one technique to infuse into another location. Once I acquaint myself with the newfound skill, I maneuver it into my subconscious and it shows up in my design process.
For example, I haven't taught myself Stack 'N Whack yet, but there are times I'd like to finagle that concept into something a little less predictable than the who-knows-what-you'll-get process of using large prints. I know, I know, that sounds confusing, because the whole Stack 'N Whack schtick is it's unpredictability. But if you think about it, we actually do expect something similar each time, we just don't know precisely how it will turn out. I won't know the possibilities myself until I bite the bullet and make a dang quilt that way. It will probably take a whole quilt to get it figured out, too.
The challenge of learning new techniques can be baffling and frustrating. That alone is what excites many quiltmakers, and I have to admire the drive to be technically exact. As with many art forms, there are as many different motivations to improve as there are people who are motivated. We have some true masters right here in Northeast Iowa, quiltmakers who win award after award, and are consistently recognized in quilting circles as being at the top of their craft. Learning and mastering these techniques can be tedious, but the tenacity of these crackerjacks is rewarded in their amazing results. It is nothing short of a phenomenon.
My good quilting friend Susan always comes to mind when I think of a quilting master and artist. She isn't motivated by winning ribbons or getting her picture in the paper, though I believe that would be inevitable if she chose that route. Instead, she uses what she knows to rouse others. She's a natural inspirer, and her comments throw open new windows of possibilities. Susan is the one who prompted me to enter the Thimbleberries® challenge while I was still in my novitiate. I don't spend enough time with her, even though she and Cindy and Linda meet fairly regularly on Monday nights to work together on their projects, sharing their time and observations. When I can go, I am always most pleased by Susan's insights, and with how long I carry them inside of me. She's that good.
Among her many talents, Susan can paper piece. In fact, she is a virtuoso, and passionate about what she can do with it, where it leads her. She once paper pieced a tulip that is only visible under a microscope – a wonderment! For some reason, I can look at and admire her paper pieced blocks for longer than it took her to make them. She will find square frames with little square cutouts to showcase her tiny blocks. Sometimes the frames themselves are bulky, and you'd think they would overpower whatever one put in the display opening, even when the opening appears to be an afterthought to the frame itself. Yet, she will place a delicate, tiny paper pieced creation there, and the effect is like finding a crocus in the snow in early spring.
I love this about Decorah, the pockets of creativity and the artists everywhere. We have come to expect them in the bluff country and pastures that surround us, aware of those who have abandoned themselves to their art, living by it and from it. But there is the unexpected layer of artmakers among the office personnel at Luther College, behind the stylist's chair at the beauty shop, or in the milking parlor at the dairy farm. There are stay-at-home-moms and dads who write, sew, sculpt, saw, and paint between loads of laundry and during nap time. They are members of every congregation, from the Lutherans to the Quakers, the Catholics and the Unitarians, and there are also those bearing fruit in their studios on Sunday mornings. They may be waiting to retire, so they can do art all the time, but what is remarkable is that they aren't not doing it now while they wait it out. They do work for money, and do art for play.
It makes no difference whether it's form over function or function over form. In the Midwest, we value both, and we find a way to make the most functional of our needs artistic, and still make art to answer the need for enjoyment. I will make the most artsy of my thoughts into something that will keep someone warm. I'm not there full-time yet, so I'm taking my spot among other hidden artists in Northeast Iowa, letting my creativity sustain me. I know where I'm going, and I battle my own impatience as I allot each precious hour of the day to the reality of what must be done now. I am wise to practice the techniques that will broaden the scope of my imagination, to make function a part of my form. Or, is it the other way around?
I just inspired myself to go work on a quilt. Several years ago, one of the emeritus art professors in town got me going by asking about working on a Matisse-inspired splash of a quilt that... gotta go...
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns October 2005
Lydia, Anna, Boy Aidan and Girl Aidan
“Tell me something you really like to do.” I was getting acquainted with some new friends. They range in age from five to ten, and they came to my house to learn how to quilt.
“Well, what I really like is learning something new every day.”
“Me, too, Anna! High five!” Anna may be the youngest of the group, and she has already figured out what makes a good day.
This is a new experience for me. I am from a family of public school educators, and I married into a family of public school educators. Home schooling was not an option in my day, and when our children were young, there was no network connecting home schoolers. Our own two were socially quite happy in elementary school, and they had ready access to me as a stay-at-home parent -- we did lots of home learning.
Thirty years ago, home schooling was illegal in Iowa, and our mandatory education laws prohibited public school personnel from ignoring “truancy”, as it was viewed at the time. Hubba's father was the superintendent of schools here, at a time when this law was being challenged in Decorah. Now the school works closely with the home schooling community, offering options to families who prefer this route, for whatever reasons the family sees proper.
A friend of mine home schools, and I asked her if any of the home school kids would like to learn to quilt. She broadcast my offer through her home school network, and I had four takers. They are Lydia, Anna and her older sister Aidan, and another Aidan, who is a boy.
“We have the same name, and we spell it the same way,” said Aidan.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Aidan.
“So how will you know which Aidan I'm talking to?”
“You can just say 'Boy Aidan' or 'Girl Aidan'. Or you can use 'Aidan B' and 'Aidan G'.
You know, I probably could have figured that one out myself. It brings to mind one of The Barn's stories, the one about the man who had two horses. He didn't know how to tell them apart, so he measured them carefully. It was then he discovered that the white horse was six inches taller than the black horse. I'm glad Boy Aidan and Girl Aidan could help me unravel this quandry.
This is the way I recapped my first meeting with these students to their parents:
(I sneak-previewed Anna's remarks in the opening of today's post.) When asked what she liked to do, Anna said, "I like to learn something new every day!" Let me tell you, she said it with passion. We high-fived. Cool. Upbeat = Anna.
Boy Aidan is one of the most sharing children I have known. At age 7, he shared all of his snacks with the class, and when he took fabric home, he said he wanted to make a quilt for his Beanie Baby. He also wanted to share his fabric with Anna, and she and he traded swatches eagerly.
Girl Aidan, I found out, is a Renaissance woman. She either does, or appreciates, art, music, and literature. I think she's into geometry, too, because she liked finding quilt shapes. She followed the "Quilt Soup" story intently, and when I played a Native American lullaby on my flute, she fell asleep. Well, she fake-fell asleep, but you get the idea about the appreciation angle.
Lydia is gentle and deep. I have the impression that she chooses her words carefully, and helping others and her family is among her strong values. It seems the care she takes in the way she treats others isn't motivated by how she will be perceived, but by how her actions will impact them.
As we sat at my dining room table, I pondered the wonderful task ahead of us. Imagine what their preconceived notions are about the quilts they will make! These are remarkable children, positive and forward-thinking. I told them about different projects they could make – table runners, wall hangings, and other smaller projects. They had already set their goals.
“I want to make a quilt to cover me up.”
“Yeah, I want to make a blanket.” I'm going to have to work on the vocabulary a bit.
We read a story I wrote called “Quilt Soup”. In the story, a little girl named Pearl and her grandmother work on a quilt together. Pearl is only eight years old, but in the end, she and Grandma make a nice little quilt for Pearl to snuggle under. I made the quilt I wrote about in “Quilt Soup”, and I have it in my house. After reading the story, we took a field trip upstairs to look at it.
“Yeah, like this one. I want a quilt this size.”
“Me, too. I want this size.”
Midwesterners have a strong tradition of helping neighbors, and we know the importance of instilling our youngsters with this spirit. Neighbors are defined as residents of the world, not exclusively within our own sphere of acquaintances. Within a month of Saigon falling, southeast Asian families were finding homes in northeast Iowa. At one time we had well over six hundred refugees from five or six regions, including Viet Nam, Laos (both Hmong and Lao), and Cambodia, living here in Decorah. Eastern bloc refugees and other ethnic groups populate quite a chunk of Postville, Iowa, just down the road, and a new radio station with the call letters KPVL, offers programming throughout the day for at least seven ethnicities and languages that make up that community.
Boy Aidan's grandmother is a Mississippi victim of Katrina, specifically Bay St. Louis. Within hours of the news of this devastation, “Decorah Cares” sprang into action. Supplies for clean-up and after-care were contributed and collected, and a semi was donated to make the run. Boy Aidan's mom and dad have been back and forth to his grandma's house, updating Decorahans on the reconstruction. There are other lives intertwined with Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, but none more personal to these children.
“Can we make another one to sell, and then give the money away?” Local lemonade sellers had already earned some money to use for hurricane relief. Perhaps they were thinking of a way to add to that amount. Assuming this was on their minds, I asked them how they would use the money.
“Our family sponsors a little girl in India, but there are lots of people who need it.”
See? We do the value-thing right in the Midwest. A nine-year-old girl has layers of experience with making a difference on the planet. This is normal for all the children in this class, for the children we reared, for the children at our church and others, and happily for the children of the families who were helped by Northeast Iowans in the past. Normal, not a big thing to be done with lots of fanfare. It's a regular, normal part of our lives.
We are using recycled and reclaimed fabric for our quilts. This week the children will gather fabric. There may be a stained shirt or dress that still has plenty wear in the fabric, or a favorite baby item. They may have relatives who will contribute some of their things, and I know there will be lots of sharing back and forth. I have a special piece of fabric to share with them, so that each quilt will have a matched memory of their quiting time together.
Thursday afternoon was about hope and the future, and pieces of the past. We ate cake and drank juice. I dragged out my flute and played it for them. Girl Aidan sang a little for us as she carried dirty dishes to the kitchen. Lydia read aloud for us in a strong, clear voice. Boy Aidan and Anna, good and fast buddies, romped happily with streamers of fabric, the pieces they eventually split and shared with each other. Lydia and Girl Aidan sat on the couch with me, and we talked about our lives. I wish you could hear Girl Aidan's expressive voice and observe Lydia's esoteric, watchful eyes.
Too soon for me, the dads came to pick up the quilt students. The next several Thursdays will be a joy. You won't want to miss them, either, because we will all be learning something new.
Copyright © 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
“Well, what I really like is learning something new every day.”
“Me, too, Anna! High five!” Anna may be the youngest of the group, and she has already figured out what makes a good day.
This is a new experience for me. I am from a family of public school educators, and I married into a family of public school educators. Home schooling was not an option in my day, and when our children were young, there was no network connecting home schoolers. Our own two were socially quite happy in elementary school, and they had ready access to me as a stay-at-home parent -- we did lots of home learning.
Thirty years ago, home schooling was illegal in Iowa, and our mandatory education laws prohibited public school personnel from ignoring “truancy”, as it was viewed at the time. Hubba's father was the superintendent of schools here, at a time when this law was being challenged in Decorah. Now the school works closely with the home schooling community, offering options to families who prefer this route, for whatever reasons the family sees proper.
A friend of mine home schools, and I asked her if any of the home school kids would like to learn to quilt. She broadcast my offer through her home school network, and I had four takers. They are Lydia, Anna and her older sister Aidan, and another Aidan, who is a boy.
“We have the same name, and we spell it the same way,” said Aidan.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Aidan.
“So how will you know which Aidan I'm talking to?”
“You can just say 'Boy Aidan' or 'Girl Aidan'. Or you can use 'Aidan B' and 'Aidan G'.
You know, I probably could have figured that one out myself. It brings to mind one of The Barn's stories, the one about the man who had two horses. He didn't know how to tell them apart, so he measured them carefully. It was then he discovered that the white horse was six inches taller than the black horse. I'm glad Boy Aidan and Girl Aidan could help me unravel this quandry.
This is the way I recapped my first meeting with these students to their parents:
(I sneak-previewed Anna's remarks in the opening of today's post.) When asked what she liked to do, Anna said, "I like to learn something new every day!" Let me tell you, she said it with passion. We high-fived. Cool. Upbeat = Anna.
Boy Aidan is one of the most sharing children I have known. At age 7, he shared all of his snacks with the class, and when he took fabric home, he said he wanted to make a quilt for his Beanie Baby. He also wanted to share his fabric with Anna, and she and he traded swatches eagerly.
Girl Aidan, I found out, is a Renaissance woman. She either does, or appreciates, art, music, and literature. I think she's into geometry, too, because she liked finding quilt shapes. She followed the "Quilt Soup" story intently, and when I played a Native American lullaby on my flute, she fell asleep. Well, she fake-fell asleep, but you get the idea about the appreciation angle.
Lydia is gentle and deep. I have the impression that she chooses her words carefully, and helping others and her family is among her strong values. It seems the care she takes in the way she treats others isn't motivated by how she will be perceived, but by how her actions will impact them.
As we sat at my dining room table, I pondered the wonderful task ahead of us. Imagine what their preconceived notions are about the quilts they will make! These are remarkable children, positive and forward-thinking. I told them about different projects they could make – table runners, wall hangings, and other smaller projects. They had already set their goals.
“I want to make a quilt to cover me up.”
“Yeah, I want to make a blanket.” I'm going to have to work on the vocabulary a bit.
We read a story I wrote called “Quilt Soup”. In the story, a little girl named Pearl and her grandmother work on a quilt together. Pearl is only eight years old, but in the end, she and Grandma make a nice little quilt for Pearl to snuggle under. I made the quilt I wrote about in “Quilt Soup”, and I have it in my house. After reading the story, we took a field trip upstairs to look at it.
“Yeah, like this one. I want a quilt this size.”
“Me, too. I want this size.”
Midwesterners have a strong tradition of helping neighbors, and we know the importance of instilling our youngsters with this spirit. Neighbors are defined as residents of the world, not exclusively within our own sphere of acquaintances. Within a month of Saigon falling, southeast Asian families were finding homes in northeast Iowa. At one time we had well over six hundred refugees from five or six regions, including Viet Nam, Laos (both Hmong and Lao), and Cambodia, living here in Decorah. Eastern bloc refugees and other ethnic groups populate quite a chunk of Postville, Iowa, just down the road, and a new radio station with the call letters KPVL, offers programming throughout the day for at least seven ethnicities and languages that make up that community.
Boy Aidan's grandmother is a Mississippi victim of Katrina, specifically Bay St. Louis. Within hours of the news of this devastation, “Decorah Cares” sprang into action. Supplies for clean-up and after-care were contributed and collected, and a semi was donated to make the run. Boy Aidan's mom and dad have been back and forth to his grandma's house, updating Decorahans on the reconstruction. There are other lives intertwined with Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, but none more personal to these children.
“Can we make another one to sell, and then give the money away?” Local lemonade sellers had already earned some money to use for hurricane relief. Perhaps they were thinking of a way to add to that amount. Assuming this was on their minds, I asked them how they would use the money.
“Our family sponsors a little girl in India, but there are lots of people who need it.”
See? We do the value-thing right in the Midwest. A nine-year-old girl has layers of experience with making a difference on the planet. This is normal for all the children in this class, for the children we reared, for the children at our church and others, and happily for the children of the families who were helped by Northeast Iowans in the past. Normal, not a big thing to be done with lots of fanfare. It's a regular, normal part of our lives.
We are using recycled and reclaimed fabric for our quilts. This week the children will gather fabric. There may be a stained shirt or dress that still has plenty wear in the fabric, or a favorite baby item. They may have relatives who will contribute some of their things, and I know there will be lots of sharing back and forth. I have a special piece of fabric to share with them, so that each quilt will have a matched memory of their quiting time together.
Thursday afternoon was about hope and the future, and pieces of the past. We ate cake and drank juice. I dragged out my flute and played it for them. Girl Aidan sang a little for us as she carried dirty dishes to the kitchen. Lydia read aloud for us in a strong, clear voice. Boy Aidan and Anna, good and fast buddies, romped happily with streamers of fabric, the pieces they eventually split and shared with each other. Lydia and Girl Aidan sat on the couch with me, and we talked about our lives. I wish you could hear Girl Aidan's expressive voice and observe Lydia's esoteric, watchful eyes.
Too soon for me, the dads came to pick up the quilt students. The next several Thursdays will be a joy. You won't want to miss them, either, because we will all be learning something new.
Copyright © 2005 Kari E.O. Burns
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