That Barn! He always has a million ways to surprise us, or as I like to say, re-surprise us. Re-surprises are those gestures and words he repeats over and over, managing to find a way to surprise you again. It’s uncanny.
When we were growing up, neither The Barn or The Peg spoke the words “I love you” to us. Didn’t have to. They kept us in a warm home, they fed us nutritious food, they took us to church, and they scolded us and inflicted corporal punishment (now commonly referred to as “abuse” in circles where love is only shown by saying the words “I love you”). They spent their summers in a tent so we could see the country, and they forfeited their peaceful evenings to the practicing squawks of our musical instruments. They also made us go to bed on time, they refused to choose our friends for us, and they gave us regularly-scheduled chores.
We were Baby Boomers. All the kids on Quincy Avenue had similar home lives. We know, because their parents did the same things to them, right out in the open, just like The Barn and The Peg. Once Allen Chickering’s mom swatted his fanny with every step he took until he got into that house and took that garbage out like she had asked him to umpteen times since supper. Allen lumbered, unaffected by the token “whipping”, grumbling, “I know, I know…” all the way to the kitchen door. It was hilarious – always was when someone else was getting paddled.
Once we were grown, about half of us found the occasion to go into therapy. Remember, we are Baby Boomers, and there is a market out there identifying us as emotionally needy because our parents didn’t say “I love you.” When I did my stint, it struck me that while my parents never said “I love you”, I actually believed they did. My therapist struggled with that notion, not able to get me to understand that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Denial. That was the answer. I was in denial.
In their retirement, The Barn and The Peg had the extra time to tune into Oprah and discover the error of their ways. They had also been the focus of an “I love you” intervention, brought about by those of us who were enlightened and no longer in denial of the horrible upbringing we had. Whatever the cause, they “I love you-ed” us every time we spoke starting in the mid-‘80’s. They never, ever forgot, either. Every phone call, every visit was another chance to proclaim their love for us. It seemed to set them free.
But, old habits die hard with The Barn. He kept doing nice little things, whether we appreciated them or not, because he was accustomed to showing us he loved us, and it didn’t occur to him that he could replace actions with words. He got a Hallmark card program for his computer, and he created cards for every occasion – thank-you cards and birthday cards were his specialty. He sent us cards, he sent the grandchildren cards, he gave the mail carrier cards, his friends in the nursing home, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got cards. I don’t suppose he told all of them he loved them, though. They’d have to read that between the lines, like we once had to.
Christmas was always a time to be re-surprised. The Barn and The Peg wouldn’t buy just any presents; the presents they selected were given after a great deal of thought. Once, for Christmas, The Barn and The Peg gifted me with a lovely set of decorative covered mixing bowls and a matching Dutch oven. They were gorgeous, but impractical – I could tell that the minute I unwrapped the package. Who would use these enameled and flowered mixing bowls, or put that Dutch oven on the stovetop?! Uffda! I kept them in their boxes, slightly annoyed that The Barn and The Peg were so short-sighted, despite them telling me they thought I, whom they perceived as keeping a beautiful home, would enjoy them like no one else they knew.
The Barn is also known as The Breadman. He mastered the art of bread machines, and he spread the wealth of that knowledge. He gave bread to all of us, bread to the grandchildren, to the mail carrier, his friends in Assisted Living, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got bread. Whenever I visit him, lots of people at church tell me about the good bread they’ve received from him. He’ll even make them a second loaf if he thinks the first one didn’t come out just right.
The Barn and I had father-daughter outfits. I’d help him with whatever home improvement project he had going in his workshop, and we’d often need to pick up a part, or some screws, or whatever. We’d put on our khaki shorts, white t-shirts and white Keds, and off we’d go to O’Hara’s Hardware. He didn’t tell me once, not when we were in the workshop, or when we split up to change into our father-daughter outfits, or all the way to O’Hara’s and back that he loved me.
Right after The Peg died, I was visiting The Barn, and he told me his bread machine had broken down. We hopped onto the Information Highway and researched a proper replacement, then went on a hunt to find a Breadman brand bread machine. We didn’t wear matching outfits, but we checked out O’Hara’s, which had moved from the South Side in Ottumwa to down by the train depot. They had two left, and they were cheaper than the review on the Internet! We giggled as we hauled it home and unpacked it.
The next morning The Barn said he was going back to O’Hara’s to get me that last Breadman brand bread machine. He thought we should have father-daughter bread machines, and we could call each other and compare recipes and results. He fared better with The Heavenly Whole Wheat Bread than I. My favorite was The Peg’s Famous Swedish Rye Bread, which she had converted from an old family recipe for use in a bread machine. We had such fun baking bread together, and at the end of each phone call, he’d say, “I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
The Barn and The Peg never had a favorite among their five offspring. They didn’t say “I love you” to any of us. They also boasted they treated us all exactly the same. The Peg once told me she wished they had the childrearing books that our generation enjoyed. If they had, she said, they probably would have tried to individualize their treatment of us a little more. They only had the examples of the generations before them, and so they just wanted us to get perfect attendance in Sunday school and they spanked us when we were naughty. They also made sure we didn’t get everything we wanted, even if they could have afforded to, which they couldn’t.
The Barn got sick one Monday. He called the nurse over from Assisted Living, and she and Brenda from Independent Living called the ambulance. Brenda rode with The Barn, even though she wasn’t supposed to because she isn’t “family”. That held no truck with Brenda – she knew we depended on her. At the hospital, they discovered he’d had his first-ever heart attack and decided to airlift him to Iowa Methodist in Des Moines. My younger sister Mor-Lora (that name is a story for another day) and I dashed to meet him at the ER there.
They admitted him to the ICU/CCU, up on the Third Floor. It was after 6:00 p.m. by then, and we didn’t know how much damage had been done. They wanted someone from the family to stay at the hospital that night, and Mor-Lora needed to run home to get her classroom in order; the immediate future was uncertain. I had T-man with me, and we settled into the family quarters. The Barn, in his usual good spirits, was expressing sincere gratitude to his nurse for the excellent care she was giving him. “You had good training, but it’s more than good training. I can tell you love your job. I’m so lucky you’re my nurse.”
We were all concerned. We gathered in Des Moines from hither and yon – Neil and Judith from Boston, Jeanie from North Carolina, Paul and Carol from Chattanooga, The DeWolfs from Cedar Rapids, grandchildren from Chicago and Seattle. The Barn couldn’t have been more pleased! “Aren’t I lucky?” He sat up in his hospital bed and reveled in our presence. We fussed and cooed over him, and he held our hands and told us how special we were.
Pastor Kister came from First Lutheran in Ottumwa on Friday. He brought Pauline with him, and Harry and Jean Carter came in their own car. Together, twenty of us had communion with The Barn, including two of his great-grandchildren. “Ohhhhh…ohhhhh," he said as each of us entered his room, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes with gusto.
Afterwards, he cupped his hands around his mouth and pointed his words in Paul’s direction. “You’re my favorite,” he mouthed. Then to Neil, in the same clandestine manner, “You’re my favorite.” Then to Jeanie, to me, and to Mor-Lora.
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
Silly, but we were having fun.
By Saturday, we were all preparing to leave. The worst was behind us, and from the many consultations we had with the cardiologists during the week, it was determined that he would go back to Ottumwa to Vista Woods, the nursing home connected to The Barn’s independent living apartment.
“Now, Kari. You’ll have to come to Ottumwa and stay for three or four days, at least,” he said, jabbing his noontime fork in the air to emphasize the point. “I get awfully tired, so wear your watch and make sure no one stays too long.” Lots of visitors were expected after this near-miss.
“Okay. I’ll see you next week.”
“I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
Jeanie went back to North Carolina, Mor-Lora and I back to our homes in Iowa. The others were scheduled to leave in the next day or two, and what turned out to be a big party in Des Moines was over.
That night, at about 12:45 a.m. on Sunday morning, Carol called. She was sitting with The Barn, holding his hand.
“Kari, Barney just died.”
Why else would anyone call at that hour?
“Are you with him?”
“Yes. He was sleeping. He just put his hand up over his head, like he was greeting someone, and took his last breath.”
“Oh, how peaceful – how beautiful and kind.” He was, indeed, lucky.
“I have to go now and call the others.”
“Thank you, Carol. Thank you for telling me the story.”
The Barn re-surprised us, and he went home. He died on All Saints Day, his favorite day in the Christian calendar.
If you see me shed a tear, it’s because I feel so lucky, that my siblings and I are the lucky ones. The fact that we had such wonderful parents is taking hold of my heart. We weren’t perfect, but they didn’t expect us to be – they wanted us to be the best we could be. They weren’t perfect, yet sometimes we punished them for their imperfections. They loved us all the same, both by their actions and their words.
As for The Barn, we were all his favorite, and he will continue to re-surprise us for the rest of our lives.
That Barn!
Bernard Orius Onerheim, March 18, 1917 – November 5, 2006
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2006
Her Quiltness and The Times-Picayune
The Peg used to smile as she watched me work, and call me picayunish. I took it as a compliment, which is how it seemed she meant it at the time. Having outgrown the desire to get something done in a hurry, by the time I was out of grammar school I just wanted to do things right. I make functional things, and if they aren’t done right I don’t want to use them. That means I just have to look at my goof-ups over and over again, and I don’t really care to do that. Therefore, since it’s silly to swap my time for something useless, it only made sense to slow down and, you know, be picayunish.
“You’re picayunish,” The Peg would smile in my direction, and I’d beam with pride.
In junior high we had picayune as a vocabulary word. It means “of little value or importance; petty.” I still took it as a compliment, because (in my mind) I didn’t think many people would tend to the smallest of details, nor would many be aware that a whole project could become spoiled with just a few misplaced stitches or a crooked line. Besides, The Peg was always smiling when she called me picayunish. That made it a good thing.
In high school, when I heard there was a newspaper published in New Orleans called The Times-Picayune, I took it to mean that their reporters would ferret out the most integral details of a story so that the reader would be able to form his or her own opinion. As it turns out, they named it after a low-value Spanish coin once used in the South, only one of which was required to purchase a copy of the newspaper.
None of this clarifying information makes any difference to me. I stick with my first impression of just about anything, a condition I call Preconceived Notion Sickness. I proudly point out the “smallest of picayune details” in my work, giving each my full review as every project progresses. I love being picayunish.
A Preconceived Notion Sickness event took place when I was running a bath at The Dot’s this summer. It seemed to take forever to get the water to warm up, so I was forced to wake The Dot and asked if I had to run the “hot” for a long time before it complied. She mumbled something angry that sounded like a cross between “I’m sleeping!” and “Yes!”, so I returned to the bathroom. That water never did get warm, and I had to take a cold bath. I washed my hair, too, which made a mighty uncomfy start to the day.
When she became fully conscious, The Dot told me I had the handle pointed to “cold”. Oh. I was pointing the rounded top of the handle/dial to “hot” instead of the handle itself. I thought that was the way it worked. It never occurred to me that I could have been wrong, opting instead for the only logical explanation: “We’re out of hot water.” As I said, I took a cold bath. And washed my hair. In cold water.You trying being me for awhile. It’s not as easy as I make it look.
I can hold on for years, accepting erroneous “truths”. I still hem “backwards”, because that’s the way it looked to me when I watched The Peg do it. The garment gets hemmed, and since that was the starting goal, it works for me.
I have rewritten countless song lyrics from my youth. You probably remember the popular, Hey, Say Louise! by the Beatles. It goes, “Hey, say Louise! I luh-uh-uh-uh-uhve you! Hey, say Louise, is not enough to show I care!” I’m told some people call it Eight Days a Week. Whatever.
In time, Webster will see it my way, and I have no doubt we’ll see the amended definitions for “picayune” and “picayunish”. They will read:
Pic·a·yune (pĭk'ee-yūn') adj. Precisely and proficiently done. Something made with skill and expertise.
Picayunish (pĭk ee ·yūn'ish) adj. Taking great care and concern to see that something is done just right, and of a quality to endure and be admired for generations.
Time for me to go now. I have to pull the shades up. It’s cloudy today, and I want my houseplants to get some indirect sunlight…
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns August 2006
“You’re picayunish,” The Peg would smile in my direction, and I’d beam with pride.
In junior high we had picayune as a vocabulary word. It means “of little value or importance; petty.” I still took it as a compliment, because (in my mind) I didn’t think many people would tend to the smallest of details, nor would many be aware that a whole project could become spoiled with just a few misplaced stitches or a crooked line. Besides, The Peg was always smiling when she called me picayunish. That made it a good thing.
In high school, when I heard there was a newspaper published in New Orleans called The Times-Picayune, I took it to mean that their reporters would ferret out the most integral details of a story so that the reader would be able to form his or her own opinion. As it turns out, they named it after a low-value Spanish coin once used in the South, only one of which was required to purchase a copy of the newspaper.
None of this clarifying information makes any difference to me. I stick with my first impression of just about anything, a condition I call Preconceived Notion Sickness. I proudly point out the “smallest of picayune details” in my work, giving each my full review as every project progresses. I love being picayunish.
A Preconceived Notion Sickness event took place when I was running a bath at The Dot’s this summer. It seemed to take forever to get the water to warm up, so I was forced to wake The Dot and asked if I had to run the “hot” for a long time before it complied. She mumbled something angry that sounded like a cross between “I’m sleeping!” and “Yes!”, so I returned to the bathroom. That water never did get warm, and I had to take a cold bath. I washed my hair, too, which made a mighty uncomfy start to the day.
When she became fully conscious, The Dot told me I had the handle pointed to “cold”. Oh. I was pointing the rounded top of the handle/dial to “hot” instead of the handle itself. I thought that was the way it worked. It never occurred to me that I could have been wrong, opting instead for the only logical explanation: “We’re out of hot water.” As I said, I took a cold bath. And washed my hair. In cold water.You trying being me for awhile. It’s not as easy as I make it look.
I can hold on for years, accepting erroneous “truths”. I still hem “backwards”, because that’s the way it looked to me when I watched The Peg do it. The garment gets hemmed, and since that was the starting goal, it works for me.
I have rewritten countless song lyrics from my youth. You probably remember the popular, Hey, Say Louise! by the Beatles. It goes, “Hey, say Louise! I luh-uh-uh-uh-uhve you! Hey, say Louise, is not enough to show I care!” I’m told some people call it Eight Days a Week. Whatever.
In time, Webster will see it my way, and I have no doubt we’ll see the amended definitions for “picayune” and “picayunish”. They will read:
Pic·a·yune (pĭk'ee-yūn') adj. Precisely and proficiently done. Something made with skill and expertise.
Picayunish (pĭk ee ·yūn'ish) adj. Taking great care and concern to see that something is done just right, and of a quality to endure and be admired for generations.
Time for me to go now. I have to pull the shades up. It’s cloudy today, and I want my houseplants to get some indirect sunlight…
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns August 2006
KEOB
I bet I get twenty-five fill-out-this-survey-and-pass-it-on e-mails every year. I haven’t filled one out since 1997, when the first one hit my inbox, because, frankly, who the heck cares about all this stuff, anyway?
One came in today, and I decided to fill it out and send it on. The accompanying directions say that each person who receives this e-mail must send it on, and send it back to the person who sent it to them. I decided to comply. I wonder who, if anyone, will even read the dang thing, let alone fill it out and send it back to me. In case you’re wondering, here’s what I said:
1. First name? Kari.
2. Were you named after anyone? Kari Solem, a little old Norwegian-born lady who pronounced it “carry”.
3. When did you last cry? It’s hard to keep track – I’m a BIG crybaby.
4. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I take my time.
5. What is your favorite lunchmeat? Mesquite-roasted turkey, deli-style, but right now I’m on a hummus-and-pita-bread kick.
6. Kids? 2 – 3 if you count the baby, Hubba.
7. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Absolutely! I’d be tempted to form a fan club of my admirers!
8. Do you have a journal? No, but I blog. I’m so 21st Century.
9. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I suppose what you really mean is, “Are you a snotty person?” Well, yeah. I suggest you put on the daddy pants and take it like an adult!
10. Do you still have your tonsils? No.
11. Would you bungee jump? I cannot think of a single scenario that would make me think bungee jumping is a good idea. (My sincere apologies to all of those who, before reading this, thought I would die for them.)
12. What is your favorite cereal? Raspberry granola from the Co-op.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not always. Sometimes I have the servants do it for me.
15. What is your favorite ice cream? Peanut butter and dark chocolate.
16. Shoe size: 6-7.
17. What is your favorite color? Although I’m not consciously aware of it, it must be all shades of purple. My dang house is painted purple, for crying out loud.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? When I don’t have enough energy to do all the things I want to do.
19. Who do you miss the most? Morgan & Tad (living), and my mommy (The Peg).
20. Do you want everyone to send this back to you? I’ll be amazed if anyone even reads this.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing right now? Very light tan shorts, black spangley flip-flops.
23. What are you listening to right now? The grandfather clock my dad (The Barn) made me, ticking away.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be pink/green? Pink – hot pink – with glitter.
25. Favorite smells? Cake baking.
26. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? Hubba.
27. First thing you notice about people you are attracted to? Simultaneously, their senses of dignity and humor.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes!
29. Favorite drink? Lately, it’s been fresh-squeezed limeade.
30. Favorite sport? Quilting.
31. Hair color? White/gray, hidden beneath a lovely blend of light, medium, and dark blonde.
32. Eye color? Hazel.
33. Do you wear contacts? I just started wearing them again more often, but not all the time.
34. Favorite food? Cake Buzz.
35. Last movie you watched? I have no idea, but it could have been ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou” with the Ormords. The Tootsie Chicks are having a film festival, though, so I'll be watching something!
36. What color of shirt are you wearing? Black.
37. Summer or winter? Summer, with the long daylight hours.
38. Hugs or Kisses? Hugs, because you can exchange those with everybody.
39. Favorite dessert? Same as #34.
40. Who is most likely to respond? I’m amazed I’M responding!
41. Least likely to respond? No pressure, gang. Don’t worry about it…
42. What books are you reading? An Ava Gardner biography and a book called What Jesus Meant (which sounds terribly presumptuous, but it turns out it isn’t – in fact, it seems to be exactly what I thought Jesus was saying, which was, among other things, love each other and stop thinking some of our sins make us unsuitable to be preachers and believers – dang hypocrites!).
43. What's on your mouse pad? I don't need to use one, but if I did, I have a nifty one my brother Neil made up for us with all our family’s names on it for our family reunion this summer!
44. What did you watch last night on TV? Court TV, “Power, Privilege, and Justice”. I know. I’m sick.
45. Favorite sounds? The ocean, party/restaurant noises, reggae/R & B/jazz/indie music, and the one I am waiting to hear, “You have just won $1,000,000,000!”
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles, but really Ricky Nelson, who died before he had the chance to marry me. (Hubba is cool with this. He's had to live with it for 30 years.)
47. The furthest you have been from home? I don’t know, but I’ve never been off this continent.
48. Do you have a special talent? I make the world's most awesome cakes and quilts, and yet still bear the remarkably uncanny ability to be completely humble about doing both of them.
49. When and where were you born? December 27, 19-none-of-your-dang-business, at St. Joseph Hospital in Ottumwa, Iowa.
50. If you won a round trip ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go? I don’t care, as long as Hubba can go with me. He is my favorite companion, and it’s never as much fun when he isn't with me.
I can be so wordy.
Copyright © Kari E.O.Burns, August 2006
One came in today, and I decided to fill it out and send it on. The accompanying directions say that each person who receives this e-mail must send it on, and send it back to the person who sent it to them. I decided to comply. I wonder who, if anyone, will even read the dang thing, let alone fill it out and send it back to me. In case you’re wondering, here’s what I said:
1. First name? Kari.
2. Were you named after anyone? Kari Solem, a little old Norwegian-born lady who pronounced it “carry”.
3. When did you last cry? It’s hard to keep track – I’m a BIG crybaby.
4. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I take my time.
5. What is your favorite lunchmeat? Mesquite-roasted turkey, deli-style, but right now I’m on a hummus-and-pita-bread kick.
6. Kids? 2 – 3 if you count the baby, Hubba.
7. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Absolutely! I’d be tempted to form a fan club of my admirers!
8. Do you have a journal? No, but I blog. I’m so 21st Century.
9. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I suppose what you really mean is, “Are you a snotty person?” Well, yeah. I suggest you put on the daddy pants and take it like an adult!
10. Do you still have your tonsils? No.
11. Would you bungee jump? I cannot think of a single scenario that would make me think bungee jumping is a good idea. (My sincere apologies to all of those who, before reading this, thought I would die for them.)
12. What is your favorite cereal? Raspberry granola from the Co-op.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not always. Sometimes I have the servants do it for me.
15. What is your favorite ice cream? Peanut butter and dark chocolate.
16. Shoe size: 6-7.
17. What is your favorite color? Although I’m not consciously aware of it, it must be all shades of purple. My dang house is painted purple, for crying out loud.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? When I don’t have enough energy to do all the things I want to do.
19. Who do you miss the most? Morgan & Tad (living), and my mommy (The Peg).
20. Do you want everyone to send this back to you? I’ll be amazed if anyone even reads this.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing right now? Very light tan shorts, black spangley flip-flops.
23. What are you listening to right now? The grandfather clock my dad (The Barn) made me, ticking away.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be pink/green? Pink – hot pink – with glitter.
25. Favorite smells? Cake baking.
26. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? Hubba.
27. First thing you notice about people you are attracted to? Simultaneously, their senses of dignity and humor.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes!
29. Favorite drink? Lately, it’s been fresh-squeezed limeade.
30. Favorite sport? Quilting.
31. Hair color? White/gray, hidden beneath a lovely blend of light, medium, and dark blonde.
32. Eye color? Hazel.
33. Do you wear contacts? I just started wearing them again more often, but not all the time.
34. Favorite food? Cake Buzz.
35. Last movie you watched? I have no idea, but it could have been ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou” with the Ormords. The Tootsie Chicks are having a film festival, though, so I'll be watching something!
36. What color of shirt are you wearing? Black.
37. Summer or winter? Summer, with the long daylight hours.
38. Hugs or Kisses? Hugs, because you can exchange those with everybody.
39. Favorite dessert? Same as #34.
40. Who is most likely to respond? I’m amazed I’M responding!
41. Least likely to respond? No pressure, gang. Don’t worry about it…
42. What books are you reading? An Ava Gardner biography and a book called What Jesus Meant (which sounds terribly presumptuous, but it turns out it isn’t – in fact, it seems to be exactly what I thought Jesus was saying, which was, among other things, love each other and stop thinking some of our sins make us unsuitable to be preachers and believers – dang hypocrites!).
43. What's on your mouse pad? I don't need to use one, but if I did, I have a nifty one my brother Neil made up for us with all our family’s names on it for our family reunion this summer!
44. What did you watch last night on TV? Court TV, “Power, Privilege, and Justice”. I know. I’m sick.
45. Favorite sounds? The ocean, party/restaurant noises, reggae/R & B/jazz/indie music, and the one I am waiting to hear, “You have just won $1,000,000,000!”
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles, but really Ricky Nelson, who died before he had the chance to marry me. (Hubba is cool with this. He's had to live with it for 30 years.)
47. The furthest you have been from home? I don’t know, but I’ve never been off this continent.
48. Do you have a special talent? I make the world's most awesome cakes and quilts, and yet still bear the remarkably uncanny ability to be completely humble about doing both of them.
49. When and where were you born? December 27, 19-none-of-your-dang-business, at St. Joseph Hospital in Ottumwa, Iowa.
50. If you won a round trip ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go? I don’t care, as long as Hubba can go with me. He is my favorite companion, and it’s never as much fun when he isn't with me.
I can be so wordy.
Copyright © Kari E.O.Burns, August 2006
Project Visionaries
I fancy myself a project visionary. Sounds grand, doesn’t it?
Project visionaries are people who have more ideas inside their heads, bumping into each other, than they have time to finish them. Being a project visionary requires tools. Being a project visionary means you are never bored or without something to do. Being a project visionary means you have to find ways to separate each project from the other, so that when you stumble upon an unfinished one, you will have enough clues from what’s stored with it to remember the great vision that got it started. Being a project visionary requires dozens of bags and boxes.
My penchant for notions is legendary, but organizing the space around me brings even greater acclaim. I can find something where I left it when my workspace is messy, but I prefer to keep things tucked away in their proper places – notions and threads in little drawers, fabric by color in bigger drawers, stencils in low flat Rubbermaids®, acrylic rulers along a bookcase, and so forth.
When I get one project going, however, I like to keep that all together. If I buy fabric for a quilt, I will prepare it, and then store it in an appropriately-sized box, usually with clear sides, so I will know at a glance what is there. Once the project is started, it will stay in the box, in its various stages of completion, ready for the whim that brings me back to it.
Projects that are on my current to-do radar screen get special treatment. I will look through my assortment of little bags and big bags, and select those that fit the need. It’s fun! Notions go in one little bag, some threads in another, and the larger fabric pieces nestle together with them in the larger, project bag. I usually have three or four project bags sitting in a large basket in my dining room. If I’m on the run, I can grab one and have it along, ready for any free moment during the day.
Hubba has observed this over the years, and he gets it. He appears to have picked up my thready needs by osmosis. What could be interpreted as my quilt-thinking rubbing off on him means, I’ve discovered, that he’s just being thoughtful. He does thoughtful things, devoid of the need to pump up his ego by calling attention to them. If I never notice, he never mentions it, and when I do notice and mention it, he shrugs. I wish I could do that.
For instance, Hubba reads – voraciously. I don’t know how many book clubs he belongs to, but they often send book bags because he’s a member. He donates to the craziest things, too, like Colonial Williamsburg, and he’ll get a bag. Once he ordered some stuff from a website, and he got a bag. These, and other, bags haven’t all come at once, but rather, have appeared over the period of years I’ve been quilting. Funny. We didn’t get so many bags before that.
“I got this in Des Moines. It came with some cologne I got T-Man for Christmas. Can you use it?”
“Yeah! Thanks! It’s perfect!”
We were downtown once, at Ridiculous Days, and Hubba spotted a darling little set of three mesh bags, brightly colored, with zippers. “Could you use these?”
I looked his direction. “Uh, yeah! Are there any more?”
Another time, we were passing a stack of Rubbermaid® boxes. Pointing out a set of typical project-sized container, he asked, “Do these look handy to you?”
“Ohmygosh! I LOVE these!” He put several in the cart, as I speculated on what project would go inside.
Little bags, little boxes. Big bags, big boxes. Notions. Threads. Chatelaines. Knitting needles. Thimbles. Fabric. Clever fabrics, and beads, and buttons, and yarns. Project visionaries need an unlimited supply of places to put their tools, their motivations, their inspirations, their projects, their visions.
Project visionaries can get very full of themselves.
But Hubba is the real visionary, and I know one self-proclaimed project visionary who should recognize that it is love and support freeing up her vision. I wonder, Can I catch that by osmosis?
Thanks for making me your project for thirty years, Hubba. Happy Anniversary, you visionary, you!
Copyright © July 31, 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Project visionaries are people who have more ideas inside their heads, bumping into each other, than they have time to finish them. Being a project visionary requires tools. Being a project visionary means you are never bored or without something to do. Being a project visionary means you have to find ways to separate each project from the other, so that when you stumble upon an unfinished one, you will have enough clues from what’s stored with it to remember the great vision that got it started. Being a project visionary requires dozens of bags and boxes.
My penchant for notions is legendary, but organizing the space around me brings even greater acclaim. I can find something where I left it when my workspace is messy, but I prefer to keep things tucked away in their proper places – notions and threads in little drawers, fabric by color in bigger drawers, stencils in low flat Rubbermaids®, acrylic rulers along a bookcase, and so forth.
When I get one project going, however, I like to keep that all together. If I buy fabric for a quilt, I will prepare it, and then store it in an appropriately-sized box, usually with clear sides, so I will know at a glance what is there. Once the project is started, it will stay in the box, in its various stages of completion, ready for the whim that brings me back to it.
Projects that are on my current to-do radar screen get special treatment. I will look through my assortment of little bags and big bags, and select those that fit the need. It’s fun! Notions go in one little bag, some threads in another, and the larger fabric pieces nestle together with them in the larger, project bag. I usually have three or four project bags sitting in a large basket in my dining room. If I’m on the run, I can grab one and have it along, ready for any free moment during the day.
Hubba has observed this over the years, and he gets it. He appears to have picked up my thready needs by osmosis. What could be interpreted as my quilt-thinking rubbing off on him means, I’ve discovered, that he’s just being thoughtful. He does thoughtful things, devoid of the need to pump up his ego by calling attention to them. If I never notice, he never mentions it, and when I do notice and mention it, he shrugs. I wish I could do that.
For instance, Hubba reads – voraciously. I don’t know how many book clubs he belongs to, but they often send book bags because he’s a member. He donates to the craziest things, too, like Colonial Williamsburg, and he’ll get a bag. Once he ordered some stuff from a website, and he got a bag. These, and other, bags haven’t all come at once, but rather, have appeared over the period of years I’ve been quilting. Funny. We didn’t get so many bags before that.
“I got this in Des Moines. It came with some cologne I got T-Man for Christmas. Can you use it?”
“Yeah! Thanks! It’s perfect!”
We were downtown once, at Ridiculous Days, and Hubba spotted a darling little set of three mesh bags, brightly colored, with zippers. “Could you use these?”
I looked his direction. “Uh, yeah! Are there any more?”
Another time, we were passing a stack of Rubbermaid® boxes. Pointing out a set of typical project-sized container, he asked, “Do these look handy to you?”
“Ohmygosh! I LOVE these!” He put several in the cart, as I speculated on what project would go inside.
Little bags, little boxes. Big bags, big boxes. Notions. Threads. Chatelaines. Knitting needles. Thimbles. Fabric. Clever fabrics, and beads, and buttons, and yarns. Project visionaries need an unlimited supply of places to put their tools, their motivations, their inspirations, their projects, their visions.
Project visionaries can get very full of themselves.
But Hubba is the real visionary, and I know one self-proclaimed project visionary who should recognize that it is love and support freeing up her vision. I wonder, Can I catch that by osmosis?
Thanks for making me your project for thirty years, Hubba. Happy Anniversary, you visionary, you!
Copyright © July 31, 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Summer in Town
Back in the day, a group called The Lovin’ Spoonful recorded a tune called Summer in the City. I know all the words to the song, because summer is precious when you live where there is winter. The farther north you live in the Midwest, the more you appreciate summer.
In Southeast Iowa and Missouri there are four complete seasons every year. People there have fall and spring wardrobes, because there is enough time during the fall and the spring to actually wear them. In Northeast Iowa and Minnesota, we adjust by adding or removing a sweater on those days that feel either warmer or nippier in the afternoon than they were in the morning. The concept of heavy sweatshirts or sweaters worn with a pair of shorts demonstrates the schizophrenic temperature patterns unique to the Upper Midwest.
In the rural Midwest, things don’t get lazy in the summer. Unless one is a pre-schooler, the chances of grabbing a little kick-back time diminish rapidly, just before the switch to daylight savings time. By the time school lets out, country folk are in full swing. Things don’t let up for the 4-H-ers until after the county fair, and for some, not until after the state fair, an event which also heralds in another school year. We are talking about busy and happy summer memories. “Work” is a relative term, and productive work from the heart and soul explains a farmer’s smile.
Living in small rural communities gives townsfolk an enormous appreciation for all the smiley-work the farmers do. In fact, in 1909, the city of Calmar couldn’t contain itself, and they organized a day to honor the work of the local farmers, and the business people who worked overtime to keep them going. A few years ago, Calmar Farmers’ Days ran a momentary risk of disappearing, but a few Calmar residents recognized how important it was to continue this annual homage. Members of The Calmar Commercial Club breathed new life into the event, and it’s bigger than before. The danger of not celebrating 100 years of Farmers’ Days is behind them. Traditions like these are the glue in small towns. We don’t usually throw out our aging traditions; we re-glue and clamp them.
Summer is busy in town, too, but it’s a different kind of busy. Getting up early and being outdoors releases the soul from its winter hibernation. Cuddling up, which felt so homey and comforting a few months ago, is replaced with joining hands and running outside. Gardens take time, as do fix-up projects, volunteer work on festival committees and summer sports activities, and whatever else we see that needs a helping hand. A group of local artists recently offered a Fairy Home Tour to support PAW (People for Animal Welfare) develop an animal shelter in Winneshiek County. The artists were busy building homes for the diminutive home tour, the organizers getting the whole thing planned, and the supporters took time to be loyal patrons of small town efforts.
In our neighborhood, we look around at ways to share our outdoor freedom. At the fair I ran into one of my across-the-alley neighbors. “My wild flowers have gone, well, wild, this summer, and please come over and take whatever you want. There are plenty for all of us to enjoy.” The neighborhood picnic is coming up, and we’ll have a rare chance relax with familiar faces that usually only exchange a wave and a holler.
This summer has held one unexpected pleasure. It’s kind of a corny little evolution of events that developed mish-mashy, stemming from an unthinkable tragedy. In March, a beautiful 36-year-old wife and mother of four young children, Gloria Ormord, collapsed and died at home in the early morning hours. It was one of those community-stunning occurrences, a healing that takes years to accomplish, though it is never fully done. Both town and country have offered what can be offered. Replacing what has been lost isn’t possible.
I wanted to spend some time doing creative, fun things with Gloria’s daughters. They are lively and precious beyond words, and my empty nest needed some occupants. Coincidentally, another friend commented that she wished her daughter could spend some time with me, because she likes doing the things I do. My friend felt a bit out of water in my arena. Hmmmm. Her daughter is the same age as one of Gloria’s. This is beginning to sound like fun, my emotions told my brain. My brain said it was thinking the same thing.
Our first day resulted in all of us getting matching flip-flops with Tootsie Rolls® on them, and by the end of the day we were calling ourselves “The Tootsie Chicks”. We have grown in size some since that first day, adding a new full-time member and an extended Tootsie Family of six more. Hubba is our mascot – he’s such a good sport, and lets us do all sorts of humiliating Tootsie adornments of him in pink. Please don’t tell him I told you.
The Tootsie Chicks meet once a week. There are no rules. We figure if someone acts up too much, we just won’t pick her up the next time. So far, everyone’s been safe. We make crafts out of our Tootsie Rolls® wrappers, we try to do something nice for other people, and we even made a fairy house for the PAW fundraiser. It’s not all fun, you know. Sometimes it’s crazy fun!
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s song reprieves itself in my head again this year. The words don’t even hold true for rural summer lives, but I sing them anyway. Summer songs make us feel good, and when I get to the lines, “Come-on come-on and dance all night, Despite the heat it'll be alright”, I can delete my winter memories and paste in my summer ones. Summer in town, with the Tootsie Chicks.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
In Southeast Iowa and Missouri there are four complete seasons every year. People there have fall and spring wardrobes, because there is enough time during the fall and the spring to actually wear them. In Northeast Iowa and Minnesota, we adjust by adding or removing a sweater on those days that feel either warmer or nippier in the afternoon than they were in the morning. The concept of heavy sweatshirts or sweaters worn with a pair of shorts demonstrates the schizophrenic temperature patterns unique to the Upper Midwest.
In the rural Midwest, things don’t get lazy in the summer. Unless one is a pre-schooler, the chances of grabbing a little kick-back time diminish rapidly, just before the switch to daylight savings time. By the time school lets out, country folk are in full swing. Things don’t let up for the 4-H-ers until after the county fair, and for some, not until after the state fair, an event which also heralds in another school year. We are talking about busy and happy summer memories. “Work” is a relative term, and productive work from the heart and soul explains a farmer’s smile.
Living in small rural communities gives townsfolk an enormous appreciation for all the smiley-work the farmers do. In fact, in 1909, the city of Calmar couldn’t contain itself, and they organized a day to honor the work of the local farmers, and the business people who worked overtime to keep them going. A few years ago, Calmar Farmers’ Days ran a momentary risk of disappearing, but a few Calmar residents recognized how important it was to continue this annual homage. Members of The Calmar Commercial Club breathed new life into the event, and it’s bigger than before. The danger of not celebrating 100 years of Farmers’ Days is behind them. Traditions like these are the glue in small towns. We don’t usually throw out our aging traditions; we re-glue and clamp them.
Summer is busy in town, too, but it’s a different kind of busy. Getting up early and being outdoors releases the soul from its winter hibernation. Cuddling up, which felt so homey and comforting a few months ago, is replaced with joining hands and running outside. Gardens take time, as do fix-up projects, volunteer work on festival committees and summer sports activities, and whatever else we see that needs a helping hand. A group of local artists recently offered a Fairy Home Tour to support PAW (People for Animal Welfare) develop an animal shelter in Winneshiek County. The artists were busy building homes for the diminutive home tour, the organizers getting the whole thing planned, and the supporters took time to be loyal patrons of small town efforts.
In our neighborhood, we look around at ways to share our outdoor freedom. At the fair I ran into one of my across-the-alley neighbors. “My wild flowers have gone, well, wild, this summer, and please come over and take whatever you want. There are plenty for all of us to enjoy.” The neighborhood picnic is coming up, and we’ll have a rare chance relax with familiar faces that usually only exchange a wave and a holler.
This summer has held one unexpected pleasure. It’s kind of a corny little evolution of events that developed mish-mashy, stemming from an unthinkable tragedy. In March, a beautiful 36-year-old wife and mother of four young children, Gloria Ormord, collapsed and died at home in the early morning hours. It was one of those community-stunning occurrences, a healing that takes years to accomplish, though it is never fully done. Both town and country have offered what can be offered. Replacing what has been lost isn’t possible.
I wanted to spend some time doing creative, fun things with Gloria’s daughters. They are lively and precious beyond words, and my empty nest needed some occupants. Coincidentally, another friend commented that she wished her daughter could spend some time with me, because she likes doing the things I do. My friend felt a bit out of water in my arena. Hmmmm. Her daughter is the same age as one of Gloria’s. This is beginning to sound like fun, my emotions told my brain. My brain said it was thinking the same thing.
Our first day resulted in all of us getting matching flip-flops with Tootsie Rolls® on them, and by the end of the day we were calling ourselves “The Tootsie Chicks”. We have grown in size some since that first day, adding a new full-time member and an extended Tootsie Family of six more. Hubba is our mascot – he’s such a good sport, and lets us do all sorts of humiliating Tootsie adornments of him in pink. Please don’t tell him I told you.
The Tootsie Chicks meet once a week. There are no rules. We figure if someone acts up too much, we just won’t pick her up the next time. So far, everyone’s been safe. We make crafts out of our Tootsie Rolls® wrappers, we try to do something nice for other people, and we even made a fairy house for the PAW fundraiser. It’s not all fun, you know. Sometimes it’s crazy fun!
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s song reprieves itself in my head again this year. The words don’t even hold true for rural summer lives, but I sing them anyway. Summer songs make us feel good, and when I get to the lines, “Come-on come-on and dance all night, Despite the heat it'll be alright”, I can delete my winter memories and paste in my summer ones. Summer in town, with the Tootsie Chicks.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
Farmer's Tan
An entire segment of society exists who understand the term “farmer’s tan”. Everyone in the Midwest has a mental picture of a father, uncle, grandfather, or even a favorite guy at church (they don’t wear their seed corn caps on Sunday morning) leap into the frontal lobe, triggering the smile reflex.
Field work begins early in the spring and ends late in the fall. Farm animals need tending year ‘round, and pert’ near everyone keeps their livestock outside and/or in a barn, away from the house. Sorry to sound condescending, Midwesterners, but you know how city folk are. They don’t have a clear picture of farming, and often wonder about things, like do we keep pigs and chickens in our actual homes, even when they aren’t sick.
People who farm are going to get tan, there’s no getting around it. They get tan because they’re outside working, and they don’t even notice. I’m not sure if they put on sun screen, but I bet some of them do now that we know too much sun can either kill us or age us prematurely. Right. Just like some dairy farmers have started drinking skim milk.
You don’t wear shorts and sandals to farm. I’ve seen some of the guys wearing tank tops, but there are no metrosexuals in the country. Farm workers are very, very tan people – tan in places, that is. Their arms are tan from about mid-bicep down, including their hands if they aren’t fencing or baling hay. Their necks are gorgeous copper browns, as are their faces, up to the eyebrows. From there, the Pioneer or John Deere cap protects the farm worker’s head from too much sun, and their eyes from too much glare. Some of them will wear sunglasses – Oakleys – but most of them depend on the brims of their caps.
We’d visit our farming uncles when I was a girl. Uncle Harry never had a full tan on his face. He’d come in every noon for dinner and every evening for lunch (the turned-around names for the town versions of lunch and dinner), get washed up, and leave his hat in the mudroom. His big ol’ white forehead sat right there on top of his eyebrows, as his brown arms reached for the rolls and mashed potatoes. When we’d visit my Uncle Dean, it was the same thing. Uncle Dean sold Pioneer Seed Corn for many years, but he still bore half a pale face.
Farmer’s tans are a staple of rural culture, an understood event that draws no attention. City folk don’t see so many farmer’s tans, so they have a tendency to stop and stare, wondering why those people don’t take their off hats and even out their faces, or their shirts so they can brown up their shoulders and backs a little.
Those of us who live in town, and who believe we are prematurely aging in our fifties, are beginning to make choices. From the mid-1980’s, some of us have used tanning beds to achieve the all-over tan we found irresistible. Do that and you’ll pay, said the dermatologists. Assuming they meant someone else, we carefully timed ourselves as we were “laying a base” in early April. Burns, we heard from the fashion experts, were what caused cancer. Tans just caused premature aging. There, you dermatologists. Harpers did a lot of research to bring us this good news, so what do you know? Besides, who thinks about aging when you aren’t old?
Buddy Pat and I have advanced together through our life stages. Our daughters were born one week apart, and for the first seven years of their lives, that was the only week they weren’t together. Running things past Buddy Pat became second nature to me. We both have plenty of other friends we cherish dearly, but Buddy Pat and I always seemed positioned for the big stuff together. It’s one of those soul-sisterhoods, easy and not at all demanding.
I was talking to Buddy Pat on the phone the other day. We always start out having a regular conversation, exchanging information and catching up. She’s throwing her niece a bridal shower, and she told me her daughter Katie is spending another year teaching in Taiwan. It’s the usual stuff, and with our schedules we don’t get to talk on the phone that often. Without fail, though, one of us says something that cracks the other one up. We don’t mean to, but one of the hallmarks of our friendship is how dang funny we think we are. As I was signing off, I said, “I gotta go now. I’m going to go Fake Bake.”
“Fake Bake? Are you going to a tanning bed at this hour?”
“Naw, it’s a sunless thing,” and I filled her in about how I get this stuff from Kathy at the beauty shop. It’s a sunless tanning product that (get this) doesn’t rub off on your clothes when you sweat. Move over, sliced bread.
“Oh,” says Buddy Pat, “I just use the regular moisturizing lotions that have the sunless tanning stuff in them.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it rub off on your clothes, like when your neck sweats?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just throw some on my arms and a little on my legs and don’t think about it again.”
“Okay, so what you’re telling me is that you give yourself a farmer’s tan on purpose with your Neutrogena™?”
Time marches on. Instead of being horrified at the prospect of only having tan arms and legs, we find the ease of maintaining that rather attractive. Stick with the farmers, friends. They are way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to self-esteem and common sense.
I think I will put a little bronzer on my forehead, though.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns 2006
Field work begins early in the spring and ends late in the fall. Farm animals need tending year ‘round, and pert’ near everyone keeps their livestock outside and/or in a barn, away from the house. Sorry to sound condescending, Midwesterners, but you know how city folk are. They don’t have a clear picture of farming, and often wonder about things, like do we keep pigs and chickens in our actual homes, even when they aren’t sick.
People who farm are going to get tan, there’s no getting around it. They get tan because they’re outside working, and they don’t even notice. I’m not sure if they put on sun screen, but I bet some of them do now that we know too much sun can either kill us or age us prematurely. Right. Just like some dairy farmers have started drinking skim milk.
You don’t wear shorts and sandals to farm. I’ve seen some of the guys wearing tank tops, but there are no metrosexuals in the country. Farm workers are very, very tan people – tan in places, that is. Their arms are tan from about mid-bicep down, including their hands if they aren’t fencing or baling hay. Their necks are gorgeous copper browns, as are their faces, up to the eyebrows. From there, the Pioneer or John Deere cap protects the farm worker’s head from too much sun, and their eyes from too much glare. Some of them will wear sunglasses – Oakleys – but most of them depend on the brims of their caps.
We’d visit our farming uncles when I was a girl. Uncle Harry never had a full tan on his face. He’d come in every noon for dinner and every evening for lunch (the turned-around names for the town versions of lunch and dinner), get washed up, and leave his hat in the mudroom. His big ol’ white forehead sat right there on top of his eyebrows, as his brown arms reached for the rolls and mashed potatoes. When we’d visit my Uncle Dean, it was the same thing. Uncle Dean sold Pioneer Seed Corn for many years, but he still bore half a pale face.
Farmer’s tans are a staple of rural culture, an understood event that draws no attention. City folk don’t see so many farmer’s tans, so they have a tendency to stop and stare, wondering why those people don’t take their off hats and even out their faces, or their shirts so they can brown up their shoulders and backs a little.
Those of us who live in town, and who believe we are prematurely aging in our fifties, are beginning to make choices. From the mid-1980’s, some of us have used tanning beds to achieve the all-over tan we found irresistible. Do that and you’ll pay, said the dermatologists. Assuming they meant someone else, we carefully timed ourselves as we were “laying a base” in early April. Burns, we heard from the fashion experts, were what caused cancer. Tans just caused premature aging. There, you dermatologists. Harpers did a lot of research to bring us this good news, so what do you know? Besides, who thinks about aging when you aren’t old?
Buddy Pat and I have advanced together through our life stages. Our daughters were born one week apart, and for the first seven years of their lives, that was the only week they weren’t together. Running things past Buddy Pat became second nature to me. We both have plenty of other friends we cherish dearly, but Buddy Pat and I always seemed positioned for the big stuff together. It’s one of those soul-sisterhoods, easy and not at all demanding.
I was talking to Buddy Pat on the phone the other day. We always start out having a regular conversation, exchanging information and catching up. She’s throwing her niece a bridal shower, and she told me her daughter Katie is spending another year teaching in Taiwan. It’s the usual stuff, and with our schedules we don’t get to talk on the phone that often. Without fail, though, one of us says something that cracks the other one up. We don’t mean to, but one of the hallmarks of our friendship is how dang funny we think we are. As I was signing off, I said, “I gotta go now. I’m going to go Fake Bake.”
“Fake Bake? Are you going to a tanning bed at this hour?”
“Naw, it’s a sunless thing,” and I filled her in about how I get this stuff from Kathy at the beauty shop. It’s a sunless tanning product that (get this) doesn’t rub off on your clothes when you sweat. Move over, sliced bread.
“Oh,” says Buddy Pat, “I just use the regular moisturizing lotions that have the sunless tanning stuff in them.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it rub off on your clothes, like when your neck sweats?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just throw some on my arms and a little on my legs and don’t think about it again.”
“Okay, so what you’re telling me is that you give yourself a farmer’s tan on purpose with your Neutrogena™?”
Time marches on. Instead of being horrified at the prospect of only having tan arms and legs, we find the ease of maintaining that rather attractive. Stick with the farmers, friends. They are way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to self-esteem and common sense.
I think I will put a little bronzer on my forehead, though.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns 2006
Catching Up To Summer
It’s been a corker of a summer so far! Now that the Fourth of July is behind us, I find I have some major obligations out of the way. We had the Onerheim Family Reunion last weekend in Ottumwa, Iowa. The Barn gathered together his offspring and made us all sit quietly together in church. We ate loose meat sandwiches from the Canteen and looked at slides, just like the old days. One offsprung family couldn’t make it, and the hole they left around the table was felt. The next generation down, the grandchildren, only yielded one brave soul. His cousins owe him bigtime, and they should acknowledge his representation from the positions of their post-college careers.
The quilters are back at it in the church basement. It is a relaxed group, and we are comfortable enough this summer to come and go as we please. We have developed a way to get the key to the room back and forth to each other, and before long we’ll start working on putting together the donated quilt blocks into one of the most unique quilts ever to leave a church basement. There’s nothing ordinary about the way we’re going about this, and the final presentation will most likely stand our impressions of what a quilt looks like on its ear. At least I hope so.
I have a few written pieces in process, and I’ll add them here within the next few weeks. I’m on a roll with the Midwestern lifestyle, and I do manage to get some quilting time in every week. I’m not moving fast enough to suit me on my current major project, but I’m inching along and not letting any free moments evaporate. At the end of that is usually a quilt.
So, check back soon. I’ll still be here, quilting and watching, watching and quilting. I’ll tell you all about it.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
The quilters are back at it in the church basement. It is a relaxed group, and we are comfortable enough this summer to come and go as we please. We have developed a way to get the key to the room back and forth to each other, and before long we’ll start working on putting together the donated quilt blocks into one of the most unique quilts ever to leave a church basement. There’s nothing ordinary about the way we’re going about this, and the final presentation will most likely stand our impressions of what a quilt looks like on its ear. At least I hope so.
I have a few written pieces in process, and I’ll add them here within the next few weeks. I’m on a roll with the Midwestern lifestyle, and I do manage to get some quilting time in every week. I’m not moving fast enough to suit me on my current major project, but I’m inching along and not letting any free moments evaporate. At the end of that is usually a quilt.
So, check back soon. I’ll still be here, quilting and watching, watching and quilting. I’ll tell you all about it.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
Notions
I must have started and stopped the opening to this piece a dozen times. My mistake was writing the title first. Usually I just start keyboarding, and then think of a title out of what develops, but this time I wanted to write about one of my favorite quilting topics – NOTIONS. Oddly, when that word appears before me in black and white, I can’t think straight, and I start to babble. I’m not convinced that what I just wrote makes sense, but if I don’t keep going, I’ll never get this written…
In the years before I started quilting, I would visit quilt shows and fantasize about how those pieces went together. I studied fabric, and what worked or what didn’t. I was mesmerized about the secrets between the seams and inside the quilt, wondering how the sum of the parts created the whole.
My own first attempt was a clumsy piece with only a few seams – 5/8” seams, I might add, because I only knew pre-serger garment construction. The next attempt was the result of trying to follow a simple quilt-in-a-day type publication, and I didn’t believe the part about the accuracy of the ¼” seam. Experience is an excellent professor.
Then came the first completed quilt, which I named “First Try”, because I was either a.) in denial about the 5/8” seams and the inaccurate ¼” seams in the first two, or b.) not about to own up to them. Either way, this was my point of no return. From that quilt on, I was a quilt maker and proud of it, which is code for, “Leave me alone. I’m quilting.” Little did I know the cross-addictive properties of the art. Until then, I’d only heard about fabriholics.
I didn’t particularly like having to lay out a small fortune for the huge ruler and cutting mat recommended by my first official quilting teacher, but whatcha gonna do? I had previously purchased a rotary cutter, so I didn’t have to reduce my fabric-buying kitty by another six bucks, and I had already sprung for a floor-model Q-Snap frame. I contently assumed that I had everything I needed, and my attitude at the time was, “Let’s go buy some fabric and get started!” I call what happened next “Quilter’s Crack”.
It started in the book sections of quilt shops. I bought one, then another book of how-tos and patterns, and before I knew what hit me I was mainlining Fons & Porter. I wasn’t surprised to learn there is a tome distributed by Main Street Publishing called The Big Book of Quilting. I was in the early stages of addiction, and didn’t think for a minute that I needed any Big Book, which most certainly carried with it the requirement of going to 12-step meetings.
Hand-quilting accoutrements were the next stage in my downward spiral. The thimble pushers were shameless. I had my sights set on the Holy Grail of thimbles, one that came in my ring size with the fingernail space cut out. On one outing, I made Hubba drive all over kingdom come until I found one, and he gasped at the price. College expenses were in our future, he reasoned, and should we really be investing in a thimble?
“Shut up and pay the woman,” I told him. “I know what I’m doing.”
Collecting marking tools and mylar templates was almost more than I could bear. Sometimes I’d go to the little quilt shop downtown – I had already bought one of everything there, but I could hope a new shipment had arrived in the intervening hours since the last time I checked. Mary Ann Kepler at Country Calico would let me check out quilt templates instead of buying them. I tried that, but I always bought them. Mary Ann could satiate that desire, but it was almost an hour’s drive to her shop.
Before long I stopped looking at fabric altogether. A good quilt shop for me means one that has lots of books and lots of notions. A great one has lots and lots and lots of books and notions. When I find one of those, I enter the name, address, and phone number into my PDA, so I can look at it when I need a fix. I’ll probably add a GPS before long, so I won’t have to waste so much time looking for shops. In general I don’t get along with machines, but I love techie stuff. My PDA keeps infinite amounts of quilting information and shop locations in a slim, sleek little gadget that fits in any purse. Techie stuff and quilting notions.
Some Columbian quilt-lord has shamelessly introduced the Quilter’s FabriCalc™ onto the market. Uh, oh: techie quilting notions. The Quilter’s FabriCalc™ promises to simplify my quilt making by doing quilt math, and will even figure out how much fabric I need for one of my designs. I’m saving up for one of these – even though no one, including me and the Quilter’s FabriCalc™, knows how much fabric I need for a quilt before I start making it. Yet, we’re talking about something that’s techie and a quilt notion, and I feel myself being drawn in.
Notions. All I can say is, they keep me out of the dance halls.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns June 2006
In the years before I started quilting, I would visit quilt shows and fantasize about how those pieces went together. I studied fabric, and what worked or what didn’t. I was mesmerized about the secrets between the seams and inside the quilt, wondering how the sum of the parts created the whole.
My own first attempt was a clumsy piece with only a few seams – 5/8” seams, I might add, because I only knew pre-serger garment construction. The next attempt was the result of trying to follow a simple quilt-in-a-day type publication, and I didn’t believe the part about the accuracy of the ¼” seam. Experience is an excellent professor.
Then came the first completed quilt, which I named “First Try”, because I was either a.) in denial about the 5/8” seams and the inaccurate ¼” seams in the first two, or b.) not about to own up to them. Either way, this was my point of no return. From that quilt on, I was a quilt maker and proud of it, which is code for, “Leave me alone. I’m quilting.” Little did I know the cross-addictive properties of the art. Until then, I’d only heard about fabriholics.
I didn’t particularly like having to lay out a small fortune for the huge ruler and cutting mat recommended by my first official quilting teacher, but whatcha gonna do? I had previously purchased a rotary cutter, so I didn’t have to reduce my fabric-buying kitty by another six bucks, and I had already sprung for a floor-model Q-Snap frame. I contently assumed that I had everything I needed, and my attitude at the time was, “Let’s go buy some fabric and get started!” I call what happened next “Quilter’s Crack”.
It started in the book sections of quilt shops. I bought one, then another book of how-tos and patterns, and before I knew what hit me I was mainlining Fons & Porter. I wasn’t surprised to learn there is a tome distributed by Main Street Publishing called The Big Book of Quilting. I was in the early stages of addiction, and didn’t think for a minute that I needed any Big Book, which most certainly carried with it the requirement of going to 12-step meetings.
Hand-quilting accoutrements were the next stage in my downward spiral. The thimble pushers were shameless. I had my sights set on the Holy Grail of thimbles, one that came in my ring size with the fingernail space cut out. On one outing, I made Hubba drive all over kingdom come until I found one, and he gasped at the price. College expenses were in our future, he reasoned, and should we really be investing in a thimble?
“Shut up and pay the woman,” I told him. “I know what I’m doing.”
Collecting marking tools and mylar templates was almost more than I could bear. Sometimes I’d go to the little quilt shop downtown – I had already bought one of everything there, but I could hope a new shipment had arrived in the intervening hours since the last time I checked. Mary Ann Kepler at Country Calico would let me check out quilt templates instead of buying them. I tried that, but I always bought them. Mary Ann could satiate that desire, but it was almost an hour’s drive to her shop.
Before long I stopped looking at fabric altogether. A good quilt shop for me means one that has lots of books and lots of notions. A great one has lots and lots and lots of books and notions. When I find one of those, I enter the name, address, and phone number into my PDA, so I can look at it when I need a fix. I’ll probably add a GPS before long, so I won’t have to waste so much time looking for shops. In general I don’t get along with machines, but I love techie stuff. My PDA keeps infinite amounts of quilting information and shop locations in a slim, sleek little gadget that fits in any purse. Techie stuff and quilting notions.
Some Columbian quilt-lord has shamelessly introduced the Quilter’s FabriCalc™ onto the market. Uh, oh: techie quilting notions. The Quilter’s FabriCalc™ promises to simplify my quilt making by doing quilt math, and will even figure out how much fabric I need for one of my designs. I’m saving up for one of these – even though no one, including me and the Quilter’s FabriCalc™, knows how much fabric I need for a quilt before I start making it. Yet, we’re talking about something that’s techie and a quilt notion, and I feel myself being drawn in.
Notions. All I can say is, they keep me out of the dance halls.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns June 2006
The One That Got Away
Can you imagine Madonna living in the Midwest? Well, Madonna is from Michigan, and Michigan is in the Midwest. Unfortunately, being born into advantage didn’t work for her. The buzz about her new Confessions world tour went full hum recently after its May 22 opening. Rolling Stone magazine said she’s launching her tour with a “disco crucifixion”. How lovely. There’s nothing like a slam at Christianity, particularly Roman Catholicism, to set your toe to tapping. And how original – again.
Newsday said, “The production was so tightly choreographed, it left little room for spontaneity. Even when Madonna flipped the crowd the bird, it felt scripted, not subversive.” Gee, I don’t imagine anyone had ever thought of that shocker before, either.
It is the mock crucifixion on a mirrored cross, wearing a crown of thorns, that seems to have most people up-in-arms, however there is more to the story than what you see on the surface. One commentator reported, “No stranger to controversy, the 47-year-old singer claimed her latest on-stage antics, including simulating sex and acting like a dominatrix, were to raise awareness for AIDS orphans.”
Purportedly, Madonna told the New York Daily News, “I don't think Jesus would be mad at me and the message I'm trying to send" … "Jesus would not mind” … “Jesus taught that we should love thy neighbor.” Okay, I’m convinced! Madonna is channeling Jesus, and people will pay up to $350 a ticket to see her do it. You can’t charge that much to make a whole quilt in the rural Midwest.
This sort of reminds me of the worst adolescent behavior I see when I’m subbing. A little Johnny will come up behind a little Billy, laughingly cut loose with a very blue expletive, smack Billy on the back of the head while grabbing his book/writing utensil/whatever, and run off, mocking Billy. I say, sharply, “Johnny!”
Johnny looks up at me, with a total look of blank bewilderment, and say, “Wha-at?”
Our eyes meet and lock.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything!”
It’s the Midwest. This is the time of Johnny’s life that we have a little sit-down. We want to clear up any confusion he may have over acceptable public behavior. We don’t want him to grow up and pay $350 for some dumb ticket, for crying out loud.
We also explain the whole concept of artistic license to our young ‘uns. Artistic license, we believe, involves a clear responsibility to respect the intelligence of your audience. If they are going to be shocked at your message, at least make them intellectually work for it. Don’t just wave it in front of them like a smelly sock, saying, “Do you think this sock stinks? Well, you’re right! It does! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” That just isn’t thought-provoking.
We know some of ‘em will dye their hair funny colors, and pierce places on their face that make them look sort of nauseating to the grown-ups. Mostly, we hope they are just stretching their brains. They want to express themselves without being robots, even when all the subgroups look and act the same. They’ll still probably get a sit-down every now and then, to be sure they know the difference between artistic license and just being flat-out rude.
You’d hope somebody in Madonna’s background would have had a sit-down with her once or twice. Maybe she slipped through the cracks, where the school people were hoping the home people would address their concerns, and the home people were counting on the church people to do it. She wound up one neglected child, eventually becoming one strange adult.
She’s what we’d call “attention-seeking”, don’t you think? For her, having a message is only useful after you get everyone to look at you, when it can be used as a first line of defense.
“Madonna, stop showing off.”
“Wha-at? I’m not! I’m helping AIDS orphans.”
“Madonna, you’re 47-years-old. How many times do we have to go over this?”
Around here, it doesn’t count if you use your brains just to benefit yourself. Besides, 47-year-old brains should work better than 17-year-old brains. Of course, there are those outside the rural Midwest who call her a creative giant, a shrewd and effective business woman. We’d call her a self-possessed, self-aggrandizing, potty mouth with little respect for anyone outside her own sphere. And spunky. We’d call her spunky.
The world would have done just fine without this Madonna. The real pity is that she could have actually helped AIDS orphans. One of her Confessions props reportedly cost $2 million. You’d think the super-evolved, intelligent, and caring Madonna could have figured that out.
Still, if the sit-downs would’ve took, she would’ve been pretty durned interesting. We always want the creative ones to turn out well. Sometimes all they manage to do is get rich.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns May 2006
Newsday said, “The production was so tightly choreographed, it left little room for spontaneity. Even when Madonna flipped the crowd the bird, it felt scripted, not subversive.” Gee, I don’t imagine anyone had ever thought of that shocker before, either.
It is the mock crucifixion on a mirrored cross, wearing a crown of thorns, that seems to have most people up-in-arms, however there is more to the story than what you see on the surface. One commentator reported, “No stranger to controversy, the 47-year-old singer claimed her latest on-stage antics, including simulating sex and acting like a dominatrix, were to raise awareness for AIDS orphans.”
Purportedly, Madonna told the New York Daily News, “I don't think Jesus would be mad at me and the message I'm trying to send" … "Jesus would not mind” … “Jesus taught that we should love thy neighbor.” Okay, I’m convinced! Madonna is channeling Jesus, and people will pay up to $350 a ticket to see her do it. You can’t charge that much to make a whole quilt in the rural Midwest.
This sort of reminds me of the worst adolescent behavior I see when I’m subbing. A little Johnny will come up behind a little Billy, laughingly cut loose with a very blue expletive, smack Billy on the back of the head while grabbing his book/writing utensil/whatever, and run off, mocking Billy. I say, sharply, “Johnny!”
Johnny looks up at me, with a total look of blank bewilderment, and say, “Wha-at?”
Our eyes meet and lock.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything!”
It’s the Midwest. This is the time of Johnny’s life that we have a little sit-down. We want to clear up any confusion he may have over acceptable public behavior. We don’t want him to grow up and pay $350 for some dumb ticket, for crying out loud.
We also explain the whole concept of artistic license to our young ‘uns. Artistic license, we believe, involves a clear responsibility to respect the intelligence of your audience. If they are going to be shocked at your message, at least make them intellectually work for it. Don’t just wave it in front of them like a smelly sock, saying, “Do you think this sock stinks? Well, you’re right! It does! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” That just isn’t thought-provoking.
We know some of ‘em will dye their hair funny colors, and pierce places on their face that make them look sort of nauseating to the grown-ups. Mostly, we hope they are just stretching their brains. They want to express themselves without being robots, even when all the subgroups look and act the same. They’ll still probably get a sit-down every now and then, to be sure they know the difference between artistic license and just being flat-out rude.
You’d hope somebody in Madonna’s background would have had a sit-down with her once or twice. Maybe she slipped through the cracks, where the school people were hoping the home people would address their concerns, and the home people were counting on the church people to do it. She wound up one neglected child, eventually becoming one strange adult.
She’s what we’d call “attention-seeking”, don’t you think? For her, having a message is only useful after you get everyone to look at you, when it can be used as a first line of defense.
“Madonna, stop showing off.”
“Wha-at? I’m not! I’m helping AIDS orphans.”
“Madonna, you’re 47-years-old. How many times do we have to go over this?”
Around here, it doesn’t count if you use your brains just to benefit yourself. Besides, 47-year-old brains should work better than 17-year-old brains. Of course, there are those outside the rural Midwest who call her a creative giant, a shrewd and effective business woman. We’d call her a self-possessed, self-aggrandizing, potty mouth with little respect for anyone outside her own sphere. And spunky. We’d call her spunky.
The world would have done just fine without this Madonna. The real pity is that she could have actually helped AIDS orphans. One of her Confessions props reportedly cost $2 million. You’d think the super-evolved, intelligent, and caring Madonna could have figured that out.
Still, if the sit-downs would’ve took, she would’ve been pretty durned interesting. We always want the creative ones to turn out well. Sometimes all they manage to do is get rich.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns May 2006
The Clock is Ticking...
Hold on – just give me another minute. I know I missed writing last week, too, but I only have until Monday at 1:00 to turn in my quilt for the challenge. I am presently reinventing the way to attach a binding. I want to add this little fringy stuff at the same time, and the whole process is messing with my mellow. I had to unsew a significant portion of binding, at exactly the place where the stitch length went wacko. As a result, I need the big lighted magnifying glass to even find the stitches to unsew. Yes, that’s the same big lighted magnifying glass that hangs around my neck, the sight of which causes Hubba to run shrieking from the room. If Victoria’s Secret made such a magnifying glass, I’m sure he would change his tune.
Stay tuned. I’ll give a report from Monday’s challenge unveiling, a veritable diamond mine of creativity. Life is good when there is lint in the air.
Stay tuned. I’ll give a report from Monday’s challenge unveiling, a veritable diamond mine of creativity. Life is good when there is lint in the air.
I Meant To Do That
One of my favorite movies is Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. The Dot and T-man were kids when it came out, and we re-watched the video enough times to have some of the themes and lines committed to memory.
“What’s it like in the Big House, Mickey?” This is my metaphor for the naiveté it takes to get myself into another crazy situation. It’s not that I don’t think things through; it’s that I define success as taking the risk. The consequences are just part of being alive.
“I meant to do that.” Pee Wee had just been having fun doing his version of trick-riding on his bike, and a crowd of kids had taken note. The stunts ended when Pee Wee crashed over a curb along the street, tumbling several times onto the grass. As he got up and brushed himself off, he attempted to mask his embarrassment by saying, “I meant to do that.”
I am so there with that.
A recent evening with friends reminded me of a long-forgotten example of my design process. First and foremost, I don’t want to make what everyone else is making. I have always been like that. I don’t want to wear exactly what everybody else is wearing, I don’t want to decorate just like everybody else is decorating, and I don’t want to create like everybody else is creating. I'll take the class with everybody else and learn how to do something, because I don’t want what I’m doing to be unrecognizable. I just don’t want it to be just the same.
In our fourth grade art class at Wildwood Elementary, we had a unit on ceramics. I knew the minute Mr. Eels pulled out that clay that I was looking at a class of twenty-one ashtrays and one Kari original. Those ashtrays were going to start out as Grecian urns or soup tureens, no doubt, but by the time they got home, they would be good old 1960’s-style ashtrays, glazed in avocado green or burnt orange and covering one third of a coffee table. Ashtrays were objects d’art in 1960’s homes.
Since The Barn and The Peg were teachers, we spent most of our summers on marathon vacations, camping out to make them affordable, and by-passing expensive amusement parks. Instead, we visited museums and historic sites. We first visited Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, at some date in time before the death of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. in 1960. The Peg started collecting Toby mug cream pitchers somewhere along the line, and it must have been during this summer excursion east. A few years later I was sitting in fourth-grade art.
I briefly considered making a Toby mug cream pitcher, but my confidence in ceramic art made me certain I was looking at an eventual ashtray. I rightly figured I should stay away from the vessel genre altogether. I did see lots of busts in the museums and historical homes we visited. Maybe my clay could be a bust, but not of some old, dusty Colonial guy. I wanted my bust to be happening and now, Baby. I chose Bob Hope.
I loved Bob Hope! Who didn’t? A nice bust of Bob Hope would look right at home on the coffee table next to the giant orange ashtray, and it would speak of our refinement. Busts, after all, were a cut above ashtrays.
I set to work on my sculpture, making a three-inch square base for it. I was appalled at how skimpy Mr. Eels was with the clay! Those mini-ashtrays the other kids were making weren’t going to make the splash they thought they would. Tea bag holders, maybe, but rather anemic for mid-century ashtrays. In a few years they could easily be converted to incense holders, but we didn’t know that at the time.
The largest part of my clay allotment was formed into a ball and balanced on the base. I held back a few smaller pieces, for the ears and that ski-jump nose in Mr. Hope’s famous profile. I wasn’t doing too badly. I felt the clay move against my touch, and it was easy to re-form errors as my vision for the piece made its trek from my mind to the work in front of me.
In the end, I just couldn’t capture the guy. It was my first sculpture, and I found it frustrating that I couldn’t make it look like Bob Hope. As I examined my options, I looked at the piece with a new eye. The guy did look like someone famous, but it wasn’t Bob Hope. Turned out, it was a dusty old Colonial guy after all. I stuck a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and proudly took credit for my interpretation of George Washington, the father of our country.
This set a pattern that I still follow. I start with an idea, but I don’t marry myself to it. As I go, I design and refine, and interpret the piece’s strength as it takes shape before me. I can usually do as I did with my nine-year-old attempt at bust sculpture, and turn my frustrations into a new line of thought, not completely unconnected to the original vision, but not a slave to it, either. It’s what makes original quilt design less of an onus and more of a free and confident step in fiber art.
Besides, I can always fall back on the best reasoning ever, thanks to Pee Wee.
I meant to do that.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
“What’s it like in the Big House, Mickey?” This is my metaphor for the naiveté it takes to get myself into another crazy situation. It’s not that I don’t think things through; it’s that I define success as taking the risk. The consequences are just part of being alive.
“I meant to do that.” Pee Wee had just been having fun doing his version of trick-riding on his bike, and a crowd of kids had taken note. The stunts ended when Pee Wee crashed over a curb along the street, tumbling several times onto the grass. As he got up and brushed himself off, he attempted to mask his embarrassment by saying, “I meant to do that.”
I am so there with that.
A recent evening with friends reminded me of a long-forgotten example of my design process. First and foremost, I don’t want to make what everyone else is making. I have always been like that. I don’t want to wear exactly what everybody else is wearing, I don’t want to decorate just like everybody else is decorating, and I don’t want to create like everybody else is creating. I'll take the class with everybody else and learn how to do something, because I don’t want what I’m doing to be unrecognizable. I just don’t want it to be just the same.
In our fourth grade art class at Wildwood Elementary, we had a unit on ceramics. I knew the minute Mr. Eels pulled out that clay that I was looking at a class of twenty-one ashtrays and one Kari original. Those ashtrays were going to start out as Grecian urns or soup tureens, no doubt, but by the time they got home, they would be good old 1960’s-style ashtrays, glazed in avocado green or burnt orange and covering one third of a coffee table. Ashtrays were objects d’art in 1960’s homes.
Since The Barn and The Peg were teachers, we spent most of our summers on marathon vacations, camping out to make them affordable, and by-passing expensive amusement parks. Instead, we visited museums and historic sites. We first visited Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, at some date in time before the death of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. in 1960. The Peg started collecting Toby mug cream pitchers somewhere along the line, and it must have been during this summer excursion east. A few years later I was sitting in fourth-grade art.
I briefly considered making a Toby mug cream pitcher, but my confidence in ceramic art made me certain I was looking at an eventual ashtray. I rightly figured I should stay away from the vessel genre altogether. I did see lots of busts in the museums and historical homes we visited. Maybe my clay could be a bust, but not of some old, dusty Colonial guy. I wanted my bust to be happening and now, Baby. I chose Bob Hope.
I loved Bob Hope! Who didn’t? A nice bust of Bob Hope would look right at home on the coffee table next to the giant orange ashtray, and it would speak of our refinement. Busts, after all, were a cut above ashtrays.
I set to work on my sculpture, making a three-inch square base for it. I was appalled at how skimpy Mr. Eels was with the clay! Those mini-ashtrays the other kids were making weren’t going to make the splash they thought they would. Tea bag holders, maybe, but rather anemic for mid-century ashtrays. In a few years they could easily be converted to incense holders, but we didn’t know that at the time.
The largest part of my clay allotment was formed into a ball and balanced on the base. I held back a few smaller pieces, for the ears and that ski-jump nose in Mr. Hope’s famous profile. I wasn’t doing too badly. I felt the clay move against my touch, and it was easy to re-form errors as my vision for the piece made its trek from my mind to the work in front of me.
In the end, I just couldn’t capture the guy. It was my first sculpture, and I found it frustrating that I couldn’t make it look like Bob Hope. As I examined my options, I looked at the piece with a new eye. The guy did look like someone famous, but it wasn’t Bob Hope. Turned out, it was a dusty old Colonial guy after all. I stuck a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and proudly took credit for my interpretation of George Washington, the father of our country.
This set a pattern that I still follow. I start with an idea, but I don’t marry myself to it. As I go, I design and refine, and interpret the piece’s strength as it takes shape before me. I can usually do as I did with my nine-year-old attempt at bust sculpture, and turn my frustrations into a new line of thought, not completely unconnected to the original vision, but not a slave to it, either. It’s what makes original quilt design less of an onus and more of a free and confident step in fiber art.
Besides, I can always fall back on the best reasoning ever, thanks to Pee Wee.
I meant to do that.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
The Best Quilting Excuse Ever
I decided to participate in the Piecemaker’s (Spring Grove, Minneosota) Quilt Guild challenge. We got a fat quarter of the challenge fabric at our March 20 meeting, and the show is the Syttende Mai Fest the weekend of May 19-21. Syttende Mai is translated as “The Seventeenth of May”, and is the Norwegian Independence Day. Since May 17 is on a Wednesday, the Syttende Mai Fest is held the following weekend. Thank heavens. The few extra days are needed, since we only have less than nine weeks to complete our challenge projects.
I told you about the “rules” of the challenge last week. In addition to the challenge fabric, which is limited to the fat quarter, we can use three other fabrics, no more, and the project must be quilted. I’ve been squeezing out as much time as I can from my schedule to work on it, but it is getting to be crunch time now – less than four weeks remain. Some people may feel the pressure at this point.
Are you kidding? A deadline? Nothing could be sweeter when it comes to quilting – a deadline means I must work on my quilt. Dust and shower scum no longer have a hold on me, and if we can’t order it as a carry-out, we don’t need to eat it. I manage to bake a cake every now and then, but the rest of the time is spent designing and sewing and embellishing and grinning.
I’ve been meaning to learn how to post pictures to this dang blog, and posting a shot of my challenge quilt may be the motivation. Right now, however, I need to use my fingers for something a little more linty than a computer keyboard. I must! I have a deadline! The sweet pressure of it all…
It’s the best quilting excuse ever.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
I told you about the “rules” of the challenge last week. In addition to the challenge fabric, which is limited to the fat quarter, we can use three other fabrics, no more, and the project must be quilted. I’ve been squeezing out as much time as I can from my schedule to work on it, but it is getting to be crunch time now – less than four weeks remain. Some people may feel the pressure at this point.
Are you kidding? A deadline? Nothing could be sweeter when it comes to quilting – a deadline means I must work on my quilt. Dust and shower scum no longer have a hold on me, and if we can’t order it as a carry-out, we don’t need to eat it. I manage to bake a cake every now and then, but the rest of the time is spent designing and sewing and embellishing and grinning.
I’ve been meaning to learn how to post pictures to this dang blog, and posting a shot of my challenge quilt may be the motivation. Right now, however, I need to use my fingers for something a little more linty than a computer keyboard. I must! I have a deadline! The sweet pressure of it all…
It’s the best quilting excuse ever.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Taking the Exam for a Creative License
In dubbing myself a “free-range” quilter, I have developed my own parameters for linty behavior. It seems dichotomous to mention parameters when discussing free-range anything, but quilting and needlework are my metaphor for life. It’s more common to overuse sports metaphors, but sports-related topics always make me throw up a little in my mouth, so I don’t go there.
Being free is only interesting when I also consider the world around me. Philosophically, it’s a good place to be, too. The result of “if it feels good, do it” is all too often, “I thought it would feel good, but someone else got hurt, so now I feel worse than ever”. Having a choice doesn’t mean all choices result in circumstances of equal value. The first choice people have is the one that determines their own bottom line, and hopefully eliminates what goes against their core values.
Putting parameters around freedom allows us to stretch our brains into a bouquet of creative blooms. Take the whole concept of a challenge quilt. The quilter receives a fabric choice or two, and a set of rules. On the surface, the rules sound like they limit our creative flow, but the paradox is that they stimulate it. The last thing you want in a new crop of challenge quilts are projects that look alike. Observers should have to figure out what the common denominator is among the quilts, and then ponder what was going on in the fiber artists’ heads during their design stage.
I call my style “free-range” quilting. When The Dot and T-man were young, Hubba and I set the rules for acceptable behavior. In doing so, we found it was best to set as few rules as possible, but to make them count. No hitting, respect others, be kind. Similarly, my rules for free-range quilting are few but important – the quilt must have an original artistic concept and yet be used as a traditional quilt. I like quilts that do something, not just sit there. That’s Midwestern of me, dog-gone-it, and if a bed quilt can double as a wall-hanging or an original table covering, that’s fine.
Sort of. Most of the quilts I make fall within my “nap quilt” size guidelines. I prefer to adorn beds with my quilts, but they don’t have to be queen- or king-sized for that to work. About the size of the top of a queen-sized bed, nap quilts can decorate a bed on top of a neutral coverlet or bedspread, displayed flat or at a jaunty angle. If the sun shines in through a non-northern window and threatens to leach color from a 100% cotton creation, it can easily be folded up and moved out of harm’s way. If you take a nap under one of these quilts, it is large enough that it won’t be kicked it off, hence the name. Research, or experience, tells us that naps are more effective under a hand-made quilt.
I inwardly cringe when I see a hand-made, heirloom quilt hanging on a wall, unless it is a temporary display, such as in a quilt show or short-term public exhibition. Quilts are made of fabric, usually 100% cotton. They will attract dust and are prone to fading from the sun or fluorescent lighting, all of which will weaken the fibers and eventually render the quilt useless for any purpose. Hanging will distort the painstaking efforts of the quilt maker, who worked so hard to provide a piece of family history. That care goes unappreciated as the quilt deteriorates, and subsequent generations are denied the heritage that fiber artist had planned for them.
Next, my free-range quilts need to be constructed in a manner that will encourage careful but regular use. If appliqué is used, it needs to be sturdy enough to hold up to napping, and within reason, laundering. The same goes for embroidery or any other elements used to embellish a quilt. Decorative pillows are another way quilting can be used, and not sit there doing nothing. Ribbon embroidery and non-traditional quilting techniques may lose their integrity in a working quilt, but such fancy-schmancy elements work fine in a pillow. I am careful when using embellishments that may itch, stab, or create discomfort for the user. It’s hard to resist the temptation sometimes, but freedom with limits challenges me to consider the world around me.
I’m making a challenge quilt right now, as a member of the Piecemakers quilt guild of Spring Grove, Minnesota. We received one fat quarter of the challenge fabric, and instructed to use it and no more. We are allowed three more fabrics to complete our project, and although we can make anything we want, it must be quilted. Other than that, we can do whatever our brains and imaginations allow us create. If every single person added my guidelines and made a nap quilt, viewers would still have a time figuring out the common denominator – the challenge fabric. The limits don’t come from the rules in life. They come from within the person.
Go “free-range” with your quilting and your life. Give yourself the license to broaden your skills, widen the scope of what you believe about yourself, and conquer what seems impossible. It’s you, unique, principled, and a boundless joy to the world around you.
Amen. Cha-cha-cha.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Being free is only interesting when I also consider the world around me. Philosophically, it’s a good place to be, too. The result of “if it feels good, do it” is all too often, “I thought it would feel good, but someone else got hurt, so now I feel worse than ever”. Having a choice doesn’t mean all choices result in circumstances of equal value. The first choice people have is the one that determines their own bottom line, and hopefully eliminates what goes against their core values.
Putting parameters around freedom allows us to stretch our brains into a bouquet of creative blooms. Take the whole concept of a challenge quilt. The quilter receives a fabric choice or two, and a set of rules. On the surface, the rules sound like they limit our creative flow, but the paradox is that they stimulate it. The last thing you want in a new crop of challenge quilts are projects that look alike. Observers should have to figure out what the common denominator is among the quilts, and then ponder what was going on in the fiber artists’ heads during their design stage.
I call my style “free-range” quilting. When The Dot and T-man were young, Hubba and I set the rules for acceptable behavior. In doing so, we found it was best to set as few rules as possible, but to make them count. No hitting, respect others, be kind. Similarly, my rules for free-range quilting are few but important – the quilt must have an original artistic concept and yet be used as a traditional quilt. I like quilts that do something, not just sit there. That’s Midwestern of me, dog-gone-it, and if a bed quilt can double as a wall-hanging or an original table covering, that’s fine.
Sort of. Most of the quilts I make fall within my “nap quilt” size guidelines. I prefer to adorn beds with my quilts, but they don’t have to be queen- or king-sized for that to work. About the size of the top of a queen-sized bed, nap quilts can decorate a bed on top of a neutral coverlet or bedspread, displayed flat or at a jaunty angle. If the sun shines in through a non-northern window and threatens to leach color from a 100% cotton creation, it can easily be folded up and moved out of harm’s way. If you take a nap under one of these quilts, it is large enough that it won’t be kicked it off, hence the name. Research, or experience, tells us that naps are more effective under a hand-made quilt.
I inwardly cringe when I see a hand-made, heirloom quilt hanging on a wall, unless it is a temporary display, such as in a quilt show or short-term public exhibition. Quilts are made of fabric, usually 100% cotton. They will attract dust and are prone to fading from the sun or fluorescent lighting, all of which will weaken the fibers and eventually render the quilt useless for any purpose. Hanging will distort the painstaking efforts of the quilt maker, who worked so hard to provide a piece of family history. That care goes unappreciated as the quilt deteriorates, and subsequent generations are denied the heritage that fiber artist had planned for them.
Next, my free-range quilts need to be constructed in a manner that will encourage careful but regular use. If appliqué is used, it needs to be sturdy enough to hold up to napping, and within reason, laundering. The same goes for embroidery or any other elements used to embellish a quilt. Decorative pillows are another way quilting can be used, and not sit there doing nothing. Ribbon embroidery and non-traditional quilting techniques may lose their integrity in a working quilt, but such fancy-schmancy elements work fine in a pillow. I am careful when using embellishments that may itch, stab, or create discomfort for the user. It’s hard to resist the temptation sometimes, but freedom with limits challenges me to consider the world around me.
I’m making a challenge quilt right now, as a member of the Piecemakers quilt guild of Spring Grove, Minnesota. We received one fat quarter of the challenge fabric, and instructed to use it and no more. We are allowed three more fabrics to complete our project, and although we can make anything we want, it must be quilted. Other than that, we can do whatever our brains and imaginations allow us create. If every single person added my guidelines and made a nap quilt, viewers would still have a time figuring out the common denominator – the challenge fabric. The limits don’t come from the rules in life. They come from within the person.
Go “free-range” with your quilting and your life. Give yourself the license to broaden your skills, widen the scope of what you believe about yourself, and conquer what seems impossible. It’s you, unique, principled, and a boundless joy to the world around you.
Amen. Cha-cha-cha.
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Live From Caracas
Just this week I contacted the Microsoft folks, via their website, about an issue I was having with my Pocket PC and my computer. Yeah, I’ve been using an electronic calendar and address book (not to mention my recipe file, grocery list, and task scheduler) for about five years now. Hopefully, my next cell phone will have both Pocket PC and Bluetooth capabilities, but I digress. Electronic gadgets and quilting notions hold a siren-level allure for me, however I must continue with my story.
In search of a solution to my problem, I went to the Microsoft website and located the entity that would provide an answer. I was brief, since I was allowed a limited number of words in the box provided on the website. I said:
My pocket PC and my computer (using Activesync) cease to synch when the device is in the cradle for a period of time, and the computer has gone to sleep. When I remove the device and reconnect it to the cradle, it still doesn't synch. There is no error message. It is as though the device was not in the cradle at all. How can I force a synch between the computer and the device?
TIA for your help.
Kari Burns
As promised, I heard back from Microsoft’s obedient employee named Naveen within 24 hours. He/she said:
Hello Kari,
Thank you for contacting Microsoft Online Customer Service.
I understand that you are unable to synchronize your Pocket PC with your computer. I realize the importance of the issue.
However, from the information you have provided in your message, I found that you are located in Venezuela. If you have purchased the Microsoft product in Venezuela, your best resource for support is the Microsoft Venezuela subsidiary.
There are significant programming differences between North America and localized versions of software. You will be best assisted by the subsidiary that specializes in the version. You can locate contact information for the Venezuela subsidiary from the following web site:
http://www.microsoft.com/venezuela/
Also, you can contact the Venezuela subsidiary at: +58-212-2760500
Kari, I hope your issue gets resolved soon and appreciate your patience in this regard.
Thank you for using Microsoft products and services.
Naveen
Microsoft Online Customer Service Representative
Thank you, Naveen! This week commenced as many others, with more things to do than there is time available. A brief trip to Venezuela was something I hadn’t expected. It was so relaxing, and I appreciated the chance to get away for a few minutes. But, as the fly did with the spider, Naveen has stepped into my parlor, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to demonstrate a little good old-fashioned Midwest ribbing for him.
Dear Naveen,
As you can see from my signature, I live in Iowa. That’s in the United States, just below Minnesota and just above Missouri. These states are in what we call “The Midwest”. Perhaps you have heard them referred to as “flyover country”. Amazingly, we have computers and are hooked up with the internet, and everything! My 89-year-old father, who also resides in Iowa, has two computers. Can you believe it? I think the latest one was delivered four months ago by Dell via Wells Fargo Wagon, and he picked it up during the noon mail call at the town square.
It is my only hope that there are not significant programming differences between North America and The Midwest, but I think you can understand that I now believe anything is possible. If there is a distinct Midwest subsidiary that specializes in this version, could you please send me the link? I will keep the generator going on my computer until I hear back from you.
Just kidding! Thanks, Naveen, for letting me have some fun. Since I contacted you from the Microsoft website, I probably didn’t notice that I had to check the U.S. box, or whatever I needed to do to hep you to the fact that I am a US resident and so is my three-month-old HP media center computer. I hope you can help me with my problem, which is that the synchronization between my Pocket PC and my computer (using Activesync) disconnects when my computer goes to sleep. I cannot always get that synchronization to re-engage, even if I remove the device from the cradle and reboot my computer. I was wondering if there is some way I can force a synch between my computer and my device, or if there are some steps I can take to re-engage the synch between my device and computer.
Again, thanks for your quick reply and for letting me tease you a little. I hope you have a great day, and I look forward to hearing from you again!
Kari Burns
And then it was back to same ol’, same ol’. Perhaps I deserve it if Naveen doesn’t get back to me at all, and I’ll probably have to start over on the Microsoft website. I wouldn’t leave the Midwestern life for any other, though. Sitting under the shaded shelter of a maple tree and watching the Synchronized End Loader Team during one of our local parades is something one just cannot bear to trade.
Besides, in these cyber-days, a trip to Caracas is but a mouse click away. Thanks for the break, Naveen!
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
In search of a solution to my problem, I went to the Microsoft website and located the entity that would provide an answer. I was brief, since I was allowed a limited number of words in the box provided on the website. I said:
My pocket PC and my computer (using Activesync) cease to synch when the device is in the cradle for a period of time, and the computer has gone to sleep. When I remove the device and reconnect it to the cradle, it still doesn't synch. There is no error message. It is as though the device was not in the cradle at all. How can I force a synch between the computer and the device?
TIA for your help.
Kari Burns
As promised, I heard back from Microsoft’s obedient employee named Naveen within 24 hours. He/she said:
Hello Kari,
Thank you for contacting Microsoft Online Customer Service.
I understand that you are unable to synchronize your Pocket PC with your computer. I realize the importance of the issue.
However, from the information you have provided in your message, I found that you are located in Venezuela. If you have purchased the Microsoft product in Venezuela, your best resource for support is the Microsoft Venezuela subsidiary.
There are significant programming differences between North America and localized versions of software. You will be best assisted by the subsidiary that specializes in the version. You can locate contact information for the Venezuela subsidiary from the following web site:
http://www.microsoft.com/venezuela/
Also, you can contact the Venezuela subsidiary at: +58-212-2760500
Kari, I hope your issue gets resolved soon and appreciate your patience in this regard.
Thank you for using Microsoft products and services.
Naveen
Microsoft Online Customer Service Representative
Thank you, Naveen! This week commenced as many others, with more things to do than there is time available. A brief trip to Venezuela was something I hadn’t expected. It was so relaxing, and I appreciated the chance to get away for a few minutes. But, as the fly did with the spider, Naveen has stepped into my parlor, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to demonstrate a little good old-fashioned Midwest ribbing for him.
Dear Naveen,
As you can see from my signature, I live in Iowa. That’s in the United States, just below Minnesota and just above Missouri. These states are in what we call “The Midwest”. Perhaps you have heard them referred to as “flyover country”. Amazingly, we have computers and are hooked up with the internet, and everything! My 89-year-old father, who also resides in Iowa, has two computers. Can you believe it? I think the latest one was delivered four months ago by Dell via Wells Fargo Wagon, and he picked it up during the noon mail call at the town square.
It is my only hope that there are not significant programming differences between North America and The Midwest, but I think you can understand that I now believe anything is possible. If there is a distinct Midwest subsidiary that specializes in this version, could you please send me the link? I will keep the generator going on my computer until I hear back from you.
Just kidding! Thanks, Naveen, for letting me have some fun. Since I contacted you from the Microsoft website, I probably didn’t notice that I had to check the U.S. box, or whatever I needed to do to hep you to the fact that I am a US resident and so is my three-month-old HP media center computer. I hope you can help me with my problem, which is that the synchronization between my Pocket PC and my computer (using Activesync) disconnects when my computer goes to sleep. I cannot always get that synchronization to re-engage, even if I remove the device from the cradle and reboot my computer. I was wondering if there is some way I can force a synch between my computer and my device, or if there are some steps I can take to re-engage the synch between my device and computer.
Again, thanks for your quick reply and for letting me tease you a little. I hope you have a great day, and I look forward to hearing from you again!
Kari Burns
And then it was back to same ol’, same ol’. Perhaps I deserve it if Naveen doesn’t get back to me at all, and I’ll probably have to start over on the Microsoft website. I wouldn’t leave the Midwestern life for any other, though. Sitting under the shaded shelter of a maple tree and watching the Synchronized End Loader Team during one of our local parades is something one just cannot bear to trade.
Besides, in these cyber-days, a trip to Caracas is but a mouse click away. Thanks for the break, Naveen!
Copyright © April 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
A-OK
Dear Friends,
I actually had a few e-mails this week wondering if everything was okay here in Northeast Iowa. The blog postings have shifted to a lower priority in the last few weeks, but we are all fine. If I don't show up here regularly in the next few weeks, fear not. Once I get my taxes done and the QUILT for the Piecemakers (Spring Grove, Minnesota) Quilt Guild under control, I'll be back putting fingers to keyboard - the techie version of pen to paper - and fill more cyberspace with my meanderings.
I did update the post about The Barn's birthday on March 18th, however. It follows.
Enjoy!
Her Quiltness, Kari
I actually had a few e-mails this week wondering if everything was okay here in Northeast Iowa. The blog postings have shifted to a lower priority in the last few weeks, but we are all fine. If I don't show up here regularly in the next few weeks, fear not. Once I get my taxes done and the QUILT for the Piecemakers (Spring Grove, Minnesota) Quilt Guild under control, I'll be back putting fingers to keyboard - the techie version of pen to paper - and fill more cyberspace with my meanderings.
I did update the post about The Barn's birthday on March 18th, however. It follows.
Enjoy!
Her Quiltness, Kari
Our 89-Year-Old Barn
The Barn always told me we had a lot of long livers in our family tree. I didn’t understand the how the measurement of a vital organ would bring him such pride, but by the monkeyshine in his eyes, I figured there must be some riddle in the remark. Once he had me hooked, he’d say, “Grandma Snorteland lived until she was ninety-two, Uncle Oscar was ninety-six, Uncle Christ was eighty-nine, and Aunt Laurensa was seventy-eight. We have a lot of long livers.”
It’s a homegrown version of a Barney Joke, those quips that have given him legendary status among his offspring and our peers. The definition of a Barney joke is one that, when the punchline is revealed, draws a deep groan from the listener, but which the listener will retell many times as the daffy cleverness of it cures and mellows in our humor centers. His own inventions are often the best.
Being grandparents and retired in their sixties, it was always fun to have The Barn and The Peg pop up from Southeast Iowa to visit our two contributions to their rogues gallery. One morning I emerged from our bedroom to find The Barn making breakfast for The Dot. Grandpa Barney told me he was making her breakfast, because she had “beat him up” that morning.
“What?!” Then I noticed the familiar monkeyshine eyes.
“Morgan was up at 6:00, and I didn’t get up until 6:15. She beat me up.”
If you hear yourself repeating this to others, you’ll have entered the land of Barney Jokes.
Barney Games are another trip to Huh?-ville. A music educator and father of five, and possessing a mind that doesn’t quit, his entertainment was way past musical chairs and into composing songs and thinking up word games. Our long summer family vacations bred all sorts of diversions. To this day I can’t look at a license plate without coming up with a slogan to match the scramble of numbers and letters inscribed there. To her horror, The Dot does it, too, but she’s learning like the rest of us to expect the bemused look on the faces of her friends.
One fabled game has spread out beyond the family and into the lives of casual acquaintances. While visiting The Barn a few years ago, he showed me a letter from the adult child of one of his friends. “I’ll never forget playing ‘Tree’. I taught it to my kids, and they’re teaching it to theirs.”
Get out. Tree?
Tree was the brainchild of The Barn on our long summer tours throughout the Upper 48, Canada, and Mexico. When getting from Point A to Point B, The Barn didn’t mess around. We’d easily cover 500 miles a day, back before Interstate highways were plentiful. Besides, getting off the main roads made the trip more interesting.
He made a “car kitchen” for the back seat, rendering the back door behind the driver’s seat useless for getting in and out of the station wagon. With this invention, he foreshadowed the minivan by nearly thirty years. The Peg sat next to the “car kitchen”, and dispensed water from the buttoned spout of the big Thermos jug that sat in its custom slot on the top shelf. There were shelves that held Tupperware containers full of things that were needed throughout the day, including Keen, a fruit-flavored powder that we could mix for our afternoon snack, and the cookies The Peg would pack each day.
Each day we would get a big bag of Scotsman’s® ice, and dump it into the ice chest that sat on the shelf across the seat of the “car kitchen”. Instead of buying soda pop or sugary/salty snacks, we’d get a cup of ice. It was fun, too! We’d have contests to see who could hold an ice cube in his or her mouth the longest. If a sibling ticked you off, you could always sit behind them and loudly crunch on ice cubes. That really burned ‘em, but they knew if they complained, the ice cruncher won, so a battle of the wills ensued.
It’s hard to mention the “car kitchen” and not be reminded of “the sleeve”. Each year, while on these long trips with hours on the road, The Barn would rest his arm out the driver’s side window. To prevent sunburn, The Peg fashioned a temporary full-length sleeve from one of his old shirts, retaining the collar and button closure.
“Where’s my sleeve? Oh, here it is. Has everyone gone to the restroom? We aren’t stopping again, you know. Peggy, do you have the coffee can?” We had that along “just in case”. “Once we get on the road, I’ll have a cup of Scotsman’s® ice, please.”
Keeping five growing kids cooped up in a station wagon all day, with one stop at noon for a picnic lunch and maybe an afternoon stretch, meant that those limbs needed some serious movement in the little amount of time we could afford. 500 miles was a haul in those days, but it didn’t get you as far when the roads were twisting and slowing for every little town. We couldn’t always find a park with playground equipment, either, so we had to work with what we had.
“All right, now everyone pay attention. When I say, ‘Tree,’ I want you all to run and find a tree. One tree apiece, and when you get there, just wait for my command. When I say, ‘Tree,’ again, each of you run for another tree. Remember, one tree apiece.”
So, like five little cramped-up zombies, we waited motionless until he exploded, “Tree!” We ran like the dickens to the first tree of our choice. I always ran for the least obvious tree, little sister Lora for the tree that needed the most comfort, Neil to the farthest tree (and he’d get there first, too, because he was the fastest runner), Paul, the oldest, would command the largest tree in the middle, and Jeanie would make a determined stride to the tree she deemed the most logical choice.
“Tree!”
Another scramble, and we’d choose Tree Number Two with less care, but with more energy than Tree Number One.
“Tree!”
The game continued, and we relished the relief of having some much-needed activity.
“Tree!”
Soon enough we’d start to giggle at how silly the whole thing was. There were no rules, no winners, no competition, and no skill required. We were all equals, blowing off steam in a crisscrossed, catawampus pattern of running and release.
Hubba and I are making the trek south from our nest in the bluffs of Northeast Iowa, through the stretches of soil-rich acres and the villages that bring commerce to farm families, and into the former coal mining center of Southeast Iowa. It’s a happy trip, one that ends in our celebrating The Barn’s 89th birthday. I’ll check to see how long his liver is getting, and groan when he tells me the joke I’ll hear myself repeating for the next week. Not everyone gets a father like The Barn, and we have another year of blessings to count with him.
Happy 89th Birthday, The Barn!
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
It’s a homegrown version of a Barney Joke, those quips that have given him legendary status among his offspring and our peers. The definition of a Barney joke is one that, when the punchline is revealed, draws a deep groan from the listener, but which the listener will retell many times as the daffy cleverness of it cures and mellows in our humor centers. His own inventions are often the best.
Being grandparents and retired in their sixties, it was always fun to have The Barn and The Peg pop up from Southeast Iowa to visit our two contributions to their rogues gallery. One morning I emerged from our bedroom to find The Barn making breakfast for The Dot. Grandpa Barney told me he was making her breakfast, because she had “beat him up” that morning.
“What?!” Then I noticed the familiar monkeyshine eyes.
“Morgan was up at 6:00, and I didn’t get up until 6:15. She beat me up.”
If you hear yourself repeating this to others, you’ll have entered the land of Barney Jokes.
Barney Games are another trip to Huh?-ville. A music educator and father of five, and possessing a mind that doesn’t quit, his entertainment was way past musical chairs and into composing songs and thinking up word games. Our long summer family vacations bred all sorts of diversions. To this day I can’t look at a license plate without coming up with a slogan to match the scramble of numbers and letters inscribed there. To her horror, The Dot does it, too, but she’s learning like the rest of us to expect the bemused look on the faces of her friends.
One fabled game has spread out beyond the family and into the lives of casual acquaintances. While visiting The Barn a few years ago, he showed me a letter from the adult child of one of his friends. “I’ll never forget playing ‘Tree’. I taught it to my kids, and they’re teaching it to theirs.”
Get out. Tree?
Tree was the brainchild of The Barn on our long summer tours throughout the Upper 48, Canada, and Mexico. When getting from Point A to Point B, The Barn didn’t mess around. We’d easily cover 500 miles a day, back before Interstate highways were plentiful. Besides, getting off the main roads made the trip more interesting.
He made a “car kitchen” for the back seat, rendering the back door behind the driver’s seat useless for getting in and out of the station wagon. With this invention, he foreshadowed the minivan by nearly thirty years. The Peg sat next to the “car kitchen”, and dispensed water from the buttoned spout of the big Thermos jug that sat in its custom slot on the top shelf. There were shelves that held Tupperware containers full of things that were needed throughout the day, including Keen, a fruit-flavored powder that we could mix for our afternoon snack, and the cookies The Peg would pack each day.
Each day we would get a big bag of Scotsman’s® ice, and dump it into the ice chest that sat on the shelf across the seat of the “car kitchen”. Instead of buying soda pop or sugary/salty snacks, we’d get a cup of ice. It was fun, too! We’d have contests to see who could hold an ice cube in his or her mouth the longest. If a sibling ticked you off, you could always sit behind them and loudly crunch on ice cubes. That really burned ‘em, but they knew if they complained, the ice cruncher won, so a battle of the wills ensued.
It’s hard to mention the “car kitchen” and not be reminded of “the sleeve”. Each year, while on these long trips with hours on the road, The Barn would rest his arm out the driver’s side window. To prevent sunburn, The Peg fashioned a temporary full-length sleeve from one of his old shirts, retaining the collar and button closure.
“Where’s my sleeve? Oh, here it is. Has everyone gone to the restroom? We aren’t stopping again, you know. Peggy, do you have the coffee can?” We had that along “just in case”. “Once we get on the road, I’ll have a cup of Scotsman’s® ice, please.”
Keeping five growing kids cooped up in a station wagon all day, with one stop at noon for a picnic lunch and maybe an afternoon stretch, meant that those limbs needed some serious movement in the little amount of time we could afford. 500 miles was a haul in those days, but it didn’t get you as far when the roads were twisting and slowing for every little town. We couldn’t always find a park with playground equipment, either, so we had to work with what we had.
“All right, now everyone pay attention. When I say, ‘Tree,’ I want you all to run and find a tree. One tree apiece, and when you get there, just wait for my command. When I say, ‘Tree,’ again, each of you run for another tree. Remember, one tree apiece.”
So, like five little cramped-up zombies, we waited motionless until he exploded, “Tree!” We ran like the dickens to the first tree of our choice. I always ran for the least obvious tree, little sister Lora for the tree that needed the most comfort, Neil to the farthest tree (and he’d get there first, too, because he was the fastest runner), Paul, the oldest, would command the largest tree in the middle, and Jeanie would make a determined stride to the tree she deemed the most logical choice.
“Tree!”
Another scramble, and we’d choose Tree Number Two with less care, but with more energy than Tree Number One.
“Tree!”
The game continued, and we relished the relief of having some much-needed activity.
“Tree!”
Soon enough we’d start to giggle at how silly the whole thing was. There were no rules, no winners, no competition, and no skill required. We were all equals, blowing off steam in a crisscrossed, catawampus pattern of running and release.
Hubba and I are making the trek south from our nest in the bluffs of Northeast Iowa, through the stretches of soil-rich acres and the villages that bring commerce to farm families, and into the former coal mining center of Southeast Iowa. It’s a happy trip, one that ends in our celebrating The Barn’s 89th birthday. I’ll check to see how long his liver is getting, and groan when he tells me the joke I’ll hear myself repeating for the next week. Not everyone gets a father like The Barn, and we have another year of blessings to count with him.
Happy 89th Birthday, The Barn!
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Unspeakable Misery
It is nearly impossible to consider. The e-mail, shrouded in pain, said simply, “I thought you should know – Gloria Ormord died this morning.” In my horror, I deleted the e-mail for good. It just wasn’t right. A phone call supplied the verification that the words were real, but it still didn’t make sense.
Gloria and her husband Brian had recently transplanted their four children from the Twin Cities to the bucolic sweetness of our rural community. Gloria’s parents had come “home” years earlier, and the Ormords eventually followed, building their dream home and settling in.
We met Brian as a member of our ushering crew, and immediately liked his easy-going and open nature. My first conversation with Gloria was beyond flattering. She told me she noticed my name in the bulletin when here visiting her parents, and liked it so much she used it when naming their second daughter. That decision had nothing to do with me at all, but it was noteworthy that she would have mentioned it so kindly. Our quick and sporadic conversations held the promise of a budding friendship, and I counted on the opportunity to know her better.
Brian agreed to lead the 40 Days of Community program at our church last fall, and when he called to include Hubba and me on the planning committee, we jumped at the chance to get to know him better. We wanted to get to know him better. Everyone who meets him does.
With four school-aged children, getting to know Gloria would never advance beyond the gabbing we could fit in while sitting in the pew or greeting each other in the Narthex. She had lots of new friends, I learned, in the parents of her children’s classmates. She had the opportunity to cement those relationships in their mother’s bible study and on the sidelines of school events.
There is no sense to her death. She was here one minute, and gone the next. She was in church for Lenten service on Wednesday night, and collapsed early Thursday morning, before the kids were even off for school. And now what?
Heaven, that’s what. Gloria, her husband, her parents and brothers and sisters and extended family share the knowledge that there is an order in this chaos. There is a divine gift in the faith that comes with this knowledge. That faith gift doesn’t make those who survive her happy that she’s in heaven. No, everyone wants her here, where she is needed and loved and embraceable. Who could ever be ready to give her up, let alone with such cruel abruptness at an inopportune age, with young children and a husband who relies on her?
But Gloria is in Heaven. It does indeed bring comfort, but it’s comfort in the place of understanding. Those of us left behind want to believe that having her here is better than having her in Heaven. We understand very clearly that she is needed here, and those she left behind will suffer terribly because she isn’t. There is no way to translate the bereavement of her mother, her father, her husband, and most of all, her children, who will bear the loss the longest of all. We cannot understand, but we know she is in Heaven.
And what can we do? Pray. It’s another crazy notion, like the crazy-stupid comfort that Gloria is in Heaven. Brian and the children and her parents and her brothers and sisters and extended family need our prayers. They need our casseroles, our babysitting, our hands and hearts and embraces of sympathy. Though not the same coming from us, it’s what we can offer. Those are the concrete things that Gloria could give them, some of which any of us can provide.
Gloria wants us to pray for them, too. She lived that bidding. She wants us to keep praying, because she believed in prayer, learning it from her parents and teaching it to her children. She prayed with her husband and her brothers and sisters. She prayed with her friends.
We are in the continuum of belief with Gloria. She now knows what we believe and hope for, and at some point we’ll begin to feel her cheer us on through the pain to the promise. The healing will eventually begin, but the loss will never be understood.
Believing, praying, Heaven. The promise of the Father, the journey of the Son, and the gift of the Spirit, passed in love from generation to generation. It is what joins us all in Gloria, and brings strength to our sharing with her bereaved, pained family.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for Gloria Hougen Ormord’s life. Her presence here was a blessing to those who knew her, and we will trust in Your will to provide comfort and aid for those she left here. Heal us, Father. The misery is unspeakable, so we will listen to the words You speak to us instead. Amen.
Copyright © 3/10/06 Kari E.O. Burns
Gloria and her husband Brian had recently transplanted their four children from the Twin Cities to the bucolic sweetness of our rural community. Gloria’s parents had come “home” years earlier, and the Ormords eventually followed, building their dream home and settling in.
We met Brian as a member of our ushering crew, and immediately liked his easy-going and open nature. My first conversation with Gloria was beyond flattering. She told me she noticed my name in the bulletin when here visiting her parents, and liked it so much she used it when naming their second daughter. That decision had nothing to do with me at all, but it was noteworthy that she would have mentioned it so kindly. Our quick and sporadic conversations held the promise of a budding friendship, and I counted on the opportunity to know her better.
Brian agreed to lead the 40 Days of Community program at our church last fall, and when he called to include Hubba and me on the planning committee, we jumped at the chance to get to know him better. We wanted to get to know him better. Everyone who meets him does.
With four school-aged children, getting to know Gloria would never advance beyond the gabbing we could fit in while sitting in the pew or greeting each other in the Narthex. She had lots of new friends, I learned, in the parents of her children’s classmates. She had the opportunity to cement those relationships in their mother’s bible study and on the sidelines of school events.
There is no sense to her death. She was here one minute, and gone the next. She was in church for Lenten service on Wednesday night, and collapsed early Thursday morning, before the kids were even off for school. And now what?
Heaven, that’s what. Gloria, her husband, her parents and brothers and sisters and extended family share the knowledge that there is an order in this chaos. There is a divine gift in the faith that comes with this knowledge. That faith gift doesn’t make those who survive her happy that she’s in heaven. No, everyone wants her here, where she is needed and loved and embraceable. Who could ever be ready to give her up, let alone with such cruel abruptness at an inopportune age, with young children and a husband who relies on her?
But Gloria is in Heaven. It does indeed bring comfort, but it’s comfort in the place of understanding. Those of us left behind want to believe that having her here is better than having her in Heaven. We understand very clearly that she is needed here, and those she left behind will suffer terribly because she isn’t. There is no way to translate the bereavement of her mother, her father, her husband, and most of all, her children, who will bear the loss the longest of all. We cannot understand, but we know she is in Heaven.
And what can we do? Pray. It’s another crazy notion, like the crazy-stupid comfort that Gloria is in Heaven. Brian and the children and her parents and her brothers and sisters and extended family need our prayers. They need our casseroles, our babysitting, our hands and hearts and embraces of sympathy. Though not the same coming from us, it’s what we can offer. Those are the concrete things that Gloria could give them, some of which any of us can provide.
Gloria wants us to pray for them, too. She lived that bidding. She wants us to keep praying, because she believed in prayer, learning it from her parents and teaching it to her children. She prayed with her husband and her brothers and sisters. She prayed with her friends.
We are in the continuum of belief with Gloria. She now knows what we believe and hope for, and at some point we’ll begin to feel her cheer us on through the pain to the promise. The healing will eventually begin, but the loss will never be understood.
Believing, praying, Heaven. The promise of the Father, the journey of the Son, and the gift of the Spirit, passed in love from generation to generation. It is what joins us all in Gloria, and brings strength to our sharing with her bereaved, pained family.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for Gloria Hougen Ormord’s life. Her presence here was a blessing to those who knew her, and we will trust in Your will to provide comfort and aid for those she left here. Heal us, Father. The misery is unspeakable, so we will listen to the words You speak to us instead. Amen.
Copyright © 3/10/06 Kari E.O. Burns
Lyddie's Quilt
Every now and then something you expected to be good turns out to be unexpectedly good. Being me, I like to describe what at first I find indescribable, so that it will emerge from the mists of my mind into something more tangible.
This is also an update about the group of home-schooled students I have been teaching to quilt. We have all learned something from this experience, and for me it is the realization that teaching children ranging in ages from five to ten to quilt, even in a group of four, is difficult. The younger the student, the more need there is to rely on the parents to see the project to completion. If the older children can work more independently, the younger children may berate themselves for their natural limitations. Fortunately, philosophical considerations are a part of this home school setting, and questions of self-worth can be properly positioned.
What’s more, each child in this specific home school setting has her or his individual talents recognized, and they don’t expect to be carbon copies of one another. Each student was clearly distinguishable from the first session I had with them, and I observed each one’s flair surface every time we met.
Lydia is one of the big kids. She has a natural interest in fiber things, as she already knew how to knit and sew before she came to try quilting. We took a long break over the holidays, and in that time Lydia had been pestering her mother to finish her quilt top. Since the class is using reclaimed and recycled fabrics, she had incorporated a nice array of fabrics gathered from a grandmother who sews garments. She instinctively recognized the properties of light and dark fabrics, along with the flexibility available with medium shades. A few patches were from clothing that was ready for recycling, and there were two notable swatches of fabric that had been used as a makeshift tourniquet-type dressing when Lydia had been hiking with her grown-up friend Kristen.
With input from her grandma, Lydia was able to arrange a pattern of light and dark, with the mediums serving as either a light or a dark, just to add interest. She had joined together four-patch units as a start, but had become unsure how to proceed beyond that. Her mother had spoken with me a few times since the first of the year, and I learned that Lydia had been pressing her to continue with classes so that she could produce the completed top.
After one of these conversations, I decided maybe it would be a good thing for Lydia and me to work together, quilting for a day and exploring her options, so that she would be confident in her choices. Though we had worked as a group before, Lydia’s intensity led me to understand that she would appreciate having the time to work with me alone. We met to review where she was on her project, and set a date for a good old-fashioned quilting bee for two.
I was looking forward to our day together. I flat out like Lydia to begin with, but her drive to work with fiber was quite familiar to me - I was doing similar things at her age, and I knew how important it was to chart my progress with a competent adult. Lucky for me, The Peg was under the same roof. I wanted to spend a day with Lydia to meet that same need in her.
We laid out the pieces, fussed and moved some about, and made a couple of corrective decisions to even out the look she was trying to achieve. It was then just a matter of getting the pieces joined. I pinned and Lydia sewed, making the progress methodical and measurable. By the time Hubba came home for lunch, we were down to attaching the last outer border. It was fun, but I knew it would be. I expected that.
The unexpected part came from Lydia and me growing our friendship. We communicated mutual respect from the start, focusing on her goal and considering each other’s suggestions. Lydia was in the driver’s seat, and took responsibility for making the quilt meet the vision of her mind’s eye. I was able to talk about technique, and help her discover ways to rotate choices. Everybody who has ever quilted knows how confusing the layout stage can be. The obvious can be hidden in a spectrum of fabric squares, and it helps to have someone say, “If you turn it this way, it will work.”
As the quilt grew, she became more and more energized. She would squeal every now and then, giggling and wiggling, and saying, “I can’t wait! This is getting so exciting!” Lint lovers understand each other.
We shared our histories and ideas we have about life, a process that people can’t plan out ahead of time. For some odd reason, I asked her if she had a nickname. She told me that some people call her “Lyd”, and that sometimes she is called “Lyddie”. Yes! I had heard her mother say that, but at the time it hadn’t registered as a nickname. It sounds so familiar to call her “Lyddie”, and that’s what I say in my head when I think about her now.
I told Lyddie that I name my quilts. I reminded her about “She Reposes Among Roses…” (she had seen a picture of that one) and “Neil’s Garden, Zinnias for Judith”. Lyddie told me she grows zinnias, the brightly-colored ones I first saw in my brother’s garden. She had the look, like the one I get when engaged in a naming puzzle, and I knew she would eventually solve that puzzle for her own. A little more time with her quilt will do the trick.
Hubba knew the drill. When he came home for lunch, he proceeded directly to where we had Lyddie's quilt laid out. He was complimentary, and genuinely impressed that a ten-year-old had the stick-to-itiveness to put together a project of this scale. Over our sandwiches, I mentioned naming the quilt again.
“Bill. I think you should name it Bill. Bill the Quilt,” Hubba proposed. Lyddie and I rolled our eyes, but we couldn’t help but snicker at the silly suggestion.
“We name our quilts like paintings, not like people.”
“Okay, but I still think 'Bill the Quilt' is a good name.”
After we cleaned up the kitchen, Lyddie and I attached the last of the border pieces. Then we smoothed the quilt out on the floor in front of the couch, and we sat there and looked at it for quite some time. We talked about the movement of the pattern, the interest brought by the double use of the mediums, sometimes acting as a light and sometimes as a dark. We remarked on the size of the finished top, and how it would be suitable to nap under when she was as grown as I.
Lyddie will discover the name of her quilt. Once it is sandwiched, and she starts quilting with perle cotton, it will come to her. As it turns out, though, it already has a nickname. For now we refer to Lyddie’s quilt as “Bill”.
I knew this day would be good – my friend Lydia were going to quilt. I just didn’t expect that it would end with my buddy Lyddie and me calling a conglomeration of fabrics she had gathered from family and friends “Bill”. It turned out to be better than good. I love when that happens.
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
This is also an update about the group of home-schooled students I have been teaching to quilt. We have all learned something from this experience, and for me it is the realization that teaching children ranging in ages from five to ten to quilt, even in a group of four, is difficult. The younger the student, the more need there is to rely on the parents to see the project to completion. If the older children can work more independently, the younger children may berate themselves for their natural limitations. Fortunately, philosophical considerations are a part of this home school setting, and questions of self-worth can be properly positioned.
What’s more, each child in this specific home school setting has her or his individual talents recognized, and they don’t expect to be carbon copies of one another. Each student was clearly distinguishable from the first session I had with them, and I observed each one’s flair surface every time we met.
Lydia is one of the big kids. She has a natural interest in fiber things, as she already knew how to knit and sew before she came to try quilting. We took a long break over the holidays, and in that time Lydia had been pestering her mother to finish her quilt top. Since the class is using reclaimed and recycled fabrics, she had incorporated a nice array of fabrics gathered from a grandmother who sews garments. She instinctively recognized the properties of light and dark fabrics, along with the flexibility available with medium shades. A few patches were from clothing that was ready for recycling, and there were two notable swatches of fabric that had been used as a makeshift tourniquet-type dressing when Lydia had been hiking with her grown-up friend Kristen.
With input from her grandma, Lydia was able to arrange a pattern of light and dark, with the mediums serving as either a light or a dark, just to add interest. She had joined together four-patch units as a start, but had become unsure how to proceed beyond that. Her mother had spoken with me a few times since the first of the year, and I learned that Lydia had been pressing her to continue with classes so that she could produce the completed top.
After one of these conversations, I decided maybe it would be a good thing for Lydia and me to work together, quilting for a day and exploring her options, so that she would be confident in her choices. Though we had worked as a group before, Lydia’s intensity led me to understand that she would appreciate having the time to work with me alone. We met to review where she was on her project, and set a date for a good old-fashioned quilting bee for two.
I was looking forward to our day together. I flat out like Lydia to begin with, but her drive to work with fiber was quite familiar to me - I was doing similar things at her age, and I knew how important it was to chart my progress with a competent adult. Lucky for me, The Peg was under the same roof. I wanted to spend a day with Lydia to meet that same need in her.
We laid out the pieces, fussed and moved some about, and made a couple of corrective decisions to even out the look she was trying to achieve. It was then just a matter of getting the pieces joined. I pinned and Lydia sewed, making the progress methodical and measurable. By the time Hubba came home for lunch, we were down to attaching the last outer border. It was fun, but I knew it would be. I expected that.
The unexpected part came from Lydia and me growing our friendship. We communicated mutual respect from the start, focusing on her goal and considering each other’s suggestions. Lydia was in the driver’s seat, and took responsibility for making the quilt meet the vision of her mind’s eye. I was able to talk about technique, and help her discover ways to rotate choices. Everybody who has ever quilted knows how confusing the layout stage can be. The obvious can be hidden in a spectrum of fabric squares, and it helps to have someone say, “If you turn it this way, it will work.”
As the quilt grew, she became more and more energized. She would squeal every now and then, giggling and wiggling, and saying, “I can’t wait! This is getting so exciting!” Lint lovers understand each other.
We shared our histories and ideas we have about life, a process that people can’t plan out ahead of time. For some odd reason, I asked her if she had a nickname. She told me that some people call her “Lyd”, and that sometimes she is called “Lyddie”. Yes! I had heard her mother say that, but at the time it hadn’t registered as a nickname. It sounds so familiar to call her “Lyddie”, and that’s what I say in my head when I think about her now.
I told Lyddie that I name my quilts. I reminded her about “She Reposes Among Roses…” (she had seen a picture of that one) and “Neil’s Garden, Zinnias for Judith”. Lyddie told me she grows zinnias, the brightly-colored ones I first saw in my brother’s garden. She had the look, like the one I get when engaged in a naming puzzle, and I knew she would eventually solve that puzzle for her own. A little more time with her quilt will do the trick.
Hubba knew the drill. When he came home for lunch, he proceeded directly to where we had Lyddie's quilt laid out. He was complimentary, and genuinely impressed that a ten-year-old had the stick-to-itiveness to put together a project of this scale. Over our sandwiches, I mentioned naming the quilt again.
“Bill. I think you should name it Bill. Bill the Quilt,” Hubba proposed. Lyddie and I rolled our eyes, but we couldn’t help but snicker at the silly suggestion.
“We name our quilts like paintings, not like people.”
“Okay, but I still think 'Bill the Quilt' is a good name.”
After we cleaned up the kitchen, Lyddie and I attached the last of the border pieces. Then we smoothed the quilt out on the floor in front of the couch, and we sat there and looked at it for quite some time. We talked about the movement of the pattern, the interest brought by the double use of the mediums, sometimes acting as a light and sometimes as a dark. We remarked on the size of the finished top, and how it would be suitable to nap under when she was as grown as I.
Lyddie will discover the name of her quilt. Once it is sandwiched, and she starts quilting with perle cotton, it will come to her. As it turns out, though, it already has a nickname. For now we refer to Lyddie’s quilt as “Bill”.
I knew this day would be good – my friend Lydia were going to quilt. I just didn’t expect that it would end with my buddy Lyddie and me calling a conglomeration of fabrics she had gathered from family and friends “Bill”. It turned out to be better than good. I love when that happens.
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Cutting Edge, Northeast Iowa Style
Recycling is one Midwestern habit from which few have strayed. Those who did are coming back to their roots, and for reasons beyond the frugality that established the practice. We now add the “green advantage” when reusing products, or choosing not to use something if there isn’t a need.
Most people in Northeast Iowa recognize the importance of reducing what is in our landfills in order to protect our families, livestock, and fields from contamination. We understand how food gets to our tables, and the cycle that brought it there - nothing originated on the shelves of the M & M Family Market and Catering.
The Upper Iowa River Watershed (UIRW) is an area of “steep and rugged landscape”, a cover for the karst topography unique to our region. In a report from the Northeast Iowa RC&D, The Upper Iowa River Watershed Project states, “Karst topography is defined by land that is underlain by soluble bedrock, such as limestone, and characterized by depressions in the ground, or sinkholes, caves, and underground drainage. Because water can enter the subsurface easily through conduits and fractures in the soluble limestone bedrock, karst aquifers are highly susceptible to contamination.”
This description in the report sounds familiar to us: “Karst topography features in the watershed include; springs, streams that disappear into bedrock fissures, sinkholes, caves, and steep, highly erodible hillsides. These features facilitate direct mixing of surface and ground water. Karst experts typically measure the development of karst by the number of sinkholes, springs and known caves. The UIRW has thousands of sinkholes, hundreds of springs and dozens of known caves.”
Two sentences from a study released through the U.S. Geological Survey called Karst Topography – Teacher’s Guide and Paper Model explain it well. “Although karst processes sculpt beautiful landscapes, karst systems are very vulnerable to ground water pollution due to the relatively rapid rate of water flow and the lack of a natural filtration system. This puts local drinking water supplies at risk of being contaminated.”
Heck, we’ve known for quite awhile that our beautiful landscape is largely shaped by the dissolving action of water on carbonate bedrock, meaning our limestone bluffs are a mixed blessing. What we put into sinkholes and landfills, the chemicals we put onto our fields, and concentrated animal waste aren’t filtered naturally here. We run a greater risk of getting undesirable and harmful stuff in the water we drink.
The watershed data merely supports age-old practices. What it boiled down to in our household was The Great Depression. The Barn and The Peg would look with wide-eyed horror at the things my generation put curbside on garbage day.
“We went through the Depression, and we had to do without. We know better than to waste anything!”
The Peg purchased two sleeves of Styrofoam cups back in the early Sixties. She thought they would be handy to take on our summer vacations, long camping marathons that allowed a family of seven to economically tour the Upper 48. Handy, yet she washed and reused those white 8-ounce vessels, and still had at least a fourth of the original purchase when she moved into retirement living in 1996. Her offspring would commiserate, saying,
“She went through the Depression, you know.”
The Barn added a bathroom for my sister and me around the cement-block shower stall in the basement of 415 Quincy Avenue, Ottumwa, Iowa. He defined the “unfitted” look I later mimicked in my 2000 A.D. kitchen renovation. The two sinks, salvaged from who-knows-where, were both white, but the similarities ended there. He used odds ’n ends lumber to create a beautiful, enormous wall of cabinets, and painted the concrete walls and floor of the entire 150-square-foot space with a speckled pink, turquoise, and white waterproof finish, reminiscent of terrazzo. It was a labor of love and recycled good stuff. Our reaction?
“He went through the Depression, you know.”
The Peg designed and made the most imaginative clothes for my sisters and me, from what her Home Ec students at Charles D. Evans Junior High would toss into the trash. I possess one of those signature outfits, which she kept for some silly reason. The fabric was still good, so perhaps she planned to use it for something else. “Waste not, want not,” was her motto, and she repeated it …frequently.
“The Depression, you know.”
The Peg didn't like it when I left things unfinished. It's not that she nagged, but having been through the Depression, she didn't take investments in materials lightly. When, in my thirties, I finished and framed an embroidered linen sampler I began for her ten years earlier, she blurted out, “I didn't think I'd ever see this!”, enunciating a fear that I had squandered my purchase. I’m not positive there is a connection between her response and the state of the economy during her formative years, but a common justification of Baby Boomers when we don't understand our parents' behaviors is,
“They went through the Depression, you know.”
I teach people to quilt using reclaimed and recycled fabric. Like The Barn and The Peg, I relish the challenge of making something beautiful and useful from what had once been rubbish. Hubba and I know very few people who don’t recycle now, and know plenty who think throwing away perfectly good stuff makes no sense.
Our abilities to be creative, and pride in our beautiful Northeast Iowa landscapes have connected generations, spawned art and inventively useful items, and joined political debaters in common goals of healthy and inspired living. People elsewhere may not appreciate the multi-faceted advantages to recycling, but we do here. By the time others catch up to our innovations, we’ll be the masters of it. It seems we’re on the cutting edge of a movement, already there before it was a movement.
Oh, yeah. We’re hot.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns February 2006
Most people in Northeast Iowa recognize the importance of reducing what is in our landfills in order to protect our families, livestock, and fields from contamination. We understand how food gets to our tables, and the cycle that brought it there - nothing originated on the shelves of the M & M Family Market and Catering.
The Upper Iowa River Watershed (UIRW) is an area of “steep and rugged landscape”, a cover for the karst topography unique to our region. In a report from the Northeast Iowa RC&D, The Upper Iowa River Watershed Project states, “Karst topography is defined by land that is underlain by soluble bedrock, such as limestone, and characterized by depressions in the ground, or sinkholes, caves, and underground drainage. Because water can enter the subsurface easily through conduits and fractures in the soluble limestone bedrock, karst aquifers are highly susceptible to contamination.”
This description in the report sounds familiar to us: “Karst topography features in the watershed include; springs, streams that disappear into bedrock fissures, sinkholes, caves, and steep, highly erodible hillsides. These features facilitate direct mixing of surface and ground water. Karst experts typically measure the development of karst by the number of sinkholes, springs and known caves. The UIRW has thousands of sinkholes, hundreds of springs and dozens of known caves.”
Two sentences from a study released through the U.S. Geological Survey called Karst Topography – Teacher’s Guide and Paper Model explain it well. “Although karst processes sculpt beautiful landscapes, karst systems are very vulnerable to ground water pollution due to the relatively rapid rate of water flow and the lack of a natural filtration system. This puts local drinking water supplies at risk of being contaminated.”
Heck, we’ve known for quite awhile that our beautiful landscape is largely shaped by the dissolving action of water on carbonate bedrock, meaning our limestone bluffs are a mixed blessing. What we put into sinkholes and landfills, the chemicals we put onto our fields, and concentrated animal waste aren’t filtered naturally here. We run a greater risk of getting undesirable and harmful stuff in the water we drink.
The watershed data merely supports age-old practices. What it boiled down to in our household was The Great Depression. The Barn and The Peg would look with wide-eyed horror at the things my generation put curbside on garbage day.
“We went through the Depression, and we had to do without. We know better than to waste anything!”
The Peg purchased two sleeves of Styrofoam cups back in the early Sixties. She thought they would be handy to take on our summer vacations, long camping marathons that allowed a family of seven to economically tour the Upper 48. Handy, yet she washed and reused those white 8-ounce vessels, and still had at least a fourth of the original purchase when she moved into retirement living in 1996. Her offspring would commiserate, saying,
“She went through the Depression, you know.”
The Barn added a bathroom for my sister and me around the cement-block shower stall in the basement of 415 Quincy Avenue, Ottumwa, Iowa. He defined the “unfitted” look I later mimicked in my 2000 A.D. kitchen renovation. The two sinks, salvaged from who-knows-where, were both white, but the similarities ended there. He used odds ’n ends lumber to create a beautiful, enormous wall of cabinets, and painted the concrete walls and floor of the entire 150-square-foot space with a speckled pink, turquoise, and white waterproof finish, reminiscent of terrazzo. It was a labor of love and recycled good stuff. Our reaction?
“He went through the Depression, you know.”
The Peg designed and made the most imaginative clothes for my sisters and me, from what her Home Ec students at Charles D. Evans Junior High would toss into the trash. I possess one of those signature outfits, which she kept for some silly reason. The fabric was still good, so perhaps she planned to use it for something else. “Waste not, want not,” was her motto, and she repeated it …frequently.
“The Depression, you know.”
The Peg didn't like it when I left things unfinished. It's not that she nagged, but having been through the Depression, she didn't take investments in materials lightly. When, in my thirties, I finished and framed an embroidered linen sampler I began for her ten years earlier, she blurted out, “I didn't think I'd ever see this!”, enunciating a fear that I had squandered my purchase. I’m not positive there is a connection between her response and the state of the economy during her formative years, but a common justification of Baby Boomers when we don't understand our parents' behaviors is,
“They went through the Depression, you know.”
I teach people to quilt using reclaimed and recycled fabric. Like The Barn and The Peg, I relish the challenge of making something beautiful and useful from what had once been rubbish. Hubba and I know very few people who don’t recycle now, and know plenty who think throwing away perfectly good stuff makes no sense.
Our abilities to be creative, and pride in our beautiful Northeast Iowa landscapes have connected generations, spawned art and inventively useful items, and joined political debaters in common goals of healthy and inspired living. People elsewhere may not appreciate the multi-faceted advantages to recycling, but we do here. By the time others catch up to our innovations, we’ll be the masters of it. It seems we’re on the cutting edge of a movement, already there before it was a movement.
Oh, yeah. We’re hot.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns February 2006
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