In process with the Betsy-Tacy quilt.

I was sitting here yesterday on the little sofa in the front window. The front window is a big plate-glass window that looks east, over the street, and I’ve been bringing the Betsy-Tacy quilt here to hand-tie in the mornings. I can hear the birds calling and responding as the light creeps up behind the buildings across the street. Yesterday, as I sat here and worked, a hummingbird came to rest upon one of the tallest boughs of our weeping willow outside the window. And she just rested. Many of our hummingbirds have rufous heads and breasts and bright green bodies but she was dark-headed and grayish-bodied and she just sat and bobbed on the slender, bending bough. Benjamin came to sit on the arm of the sofa behind me, snuggled into my neck, and watched her too.

I’ve been working on this quilt and thinking about the next. I am really enjoying the literature interpretations as quilts; there is something thoughtful about them, as though something outside of me is telling me how to get them right, and finding a way to do this is like completing a satisfying puzzle. The one I’m working on right now is just a charm quilt, random pieces 3″ square, and I had planned to quilt it in some way–perhaps as a map of the town where the girls live, or perhaps a simple grid–on the sewing machine. It would be done faster, certainly. And I even began doing it. But the quilt argued with me. It was actually kind of painful to quilt on the machine. This quilt wanted to be tied. It was an old-fashioned quilt dedicated to a simple, old-fashioned heroine and it wanted a very simple finish. This is not to say an easy one–my fingers have felt bruised for days! But it’s gentler, somehow. I’m not throwing the machine at it. I’m touching each piece, remembering how much I liked that fabric, smoothing a square, making sure the tie is secure, moving on. Playing games with the pattern I make with the embroidery floss before I snip it into short lengths. I know, it’s kind of silly. I mean, it’s layers of cloth; aren’t I in charge? And why not do it in a way that is faster and in the end may even be more sturdy? Why be doing it at all?

I have to respect the wishes of the fabric because the fabric has taken on a life of its own, and it is connected to and mindful of its origins in the work of Maud Hart Lovelace. These little squares are my thoughts: wouldn’t Betsy have worn these two together as a blouse and a skirt? This one would have looked lovely as a shirtwaist on Tacy with her red hair. What about this one as a part of Betsy’s sister’s clothes for Europe? And once they took on these connections, I had to be led where it would take me. I suppose this is part of that tenuous art/craft boundary.

But why do it at all? I sit here in the window as light begins to flood me and my project and I feel the cat snuggled in my lap under the quilt and see my Boy curled up under the completed quilt at the far end of the little sofa and I get angry, a little, at this question. I do it because it needs to be done. My fingers are doing what so many fingers have done for so long, find meaning in the base and the needful, interpret creatively what could be merely an animal skin. I respect the maker’s impulse, the push to bring out from the heart or the deep interior frontal cortex through the fingers and into the world. That means no shortcuts for the sake of shortness, because that means missing out on some part of the process that feels like it needs to be there. If I set the parameters of my project, whatever they may be and however arbitrary they may seem, I can only then respect them and go where they take me. To not respect them is to disrespect myself and the validity of my impulse to make.

This is where I don’t accidentally pour tea all over the quilt and computer.

Coming back to the world.

I’ve been sick.

It’s been a weird kind of illness–no sneezing, very little coughing, but four or five days of laying in bed, sweating and freezing, and now a week later and I still have far less stamina than I did.  My legs get very cold, very easily.  Every day I can go a little longer, but Chris comes home at the end of the day and asks how I am and all I can say is, “I’m tired.”

But oh, I feel pretty well at the beginning of the day. I’m almost back to my 6:30 wake up, and over the last few weeks as I’ve worked on quilts I’ve been doing so in the front room (the library-playroom) on the worn-out little sofa in front of the big east-facing window. It’s San Diego, so as such we don’t as a rule have Weather;  but still, it’s been nice, looking out that east-facing window, at the sky so grey and cloud-covered that you’d think (if you weren’t used to it) that there must be rain coming. And the birds are so excited that it is spring, so I sit and listen to them chatter as I pull stitches through. Occasionally we get a hummingbird with a brilliant red throat come and sit on one of the willow branches outside the window. Then the sun comes up behind the grey sky cover, and warm fuzzy patches develop like wool has been overlaid on the sky, and suddenly the sun is up and there are runners and people with dogs and cars beginning the trek to Sorrento Valley.  I feel like a spy then, curled up under the half-finished quilt, watching.

Journey on.

Ah, the Hobbit quilt is finished.  It’s all quilted and I’ve sewn on the binding.  I’m pleased with it–it’s nice to snuggle under and it has one red line of quilting visible, because Bilbo likes to mark his rambles on maps in red.  It’s fun to let your finger pick a line and follow it from the Shire all the way in.  So,

His journey makes its way all the way from the Shire (seen here in green) through “pony rides in May sunshine,”

to the trolls (the stone print) and then Rivendell (the dark ferny green).  Then it’s through the dark goblin caves of the Misty Mountains, then into the forest and agh!  Fire!

After the fire in the treetops (here represented by a line of squares sometimes flamy red, sometimes very fiery leaves), rescue by eagles is good (swirly blue “sky”).  Visiting Beorn in his lovely flowery golden honeybee fields (some of these are flannel, yum!).  Then, a long trek (two rows!) through Mirkwood, and the swirly brown/purple represents the under-mountain lair of the Elven King and and the bumpy journey of Barrels Out of Bond.

Then, the journey down the river and finally, to the Long Lake. Much blue here.

The Desolation of Smaug.  Doesn’t that khaki just look desolate?  The Battle of Five Armies in the flashy bright red.  And, in the center, the Lonely Mountain…

…the Lonely Mountain, awaiting its dragon.   B designed it, and I embroidered it.  (A little emotional support there from Alicia Paulson‘s book Embroidery Companion:  Classic Designs for Modern Living–I’d never embroidered on a quilt before.)

And, the completed quilt (except that I now notice that this was before Smaug was embroidered, but you get the idea!):

The backing is a million tiny gold rings on yellow.  A dragon has to have his hoard.

Just like Carlotta.

There’s a house down the street that I’ve often wondered about. It looks to be built at about the same time as ours–around 1921–and it’s a soft lime green, two-story, flat-front house with a porch that spans the whole front. I’d wondered from time to time who might live there; I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave, nor have I seen the lights lit in the evening, but it gives the impression of being inhabited, somehow.
This morning, the front of the house was entirely enveloped in plastic. Just the first floor; it’s not being fumigated. But this includes the bushes. Everything, down to the sidewalk. I stared curiously as I walked past, but there were no signs of movement.
Coming home from my walk, I passed it again. But there was a difference, this time. There was music, festive fiesta music, and laughter and–this is what told me it wasn’t just painters and a loud radio–conversation, men and women. And the plastic rustled.
This is what happens when you are reading about General Vallejo and the Bear Revolution with your child, and your son goes to D&D and you end up watching an old VHS copy of Vertigo while he plays that is staticky and somehow the jumpy nature of the film makes it more real. Somehow, the front porch of that strange old house became a time portal to Old Mexico. Somehow, people in there were experiencing life in a different time, right now. You can’t prove to me I’m wrong, can you?

More journeying. Also, peril.

Ah, the Hobbit quilt continues. It’s all quilted and I’ve been sewing on the binding. I’m pleased with it–it’s nice to snuggle under and it has one red line of quilting visible, because Bilbo likes to mark his rambles on maps in red. His journey makes its way all the way from the Shire through “pony rides in May sunshine,” to the trolls and then Rivendell. Then it’s through the dark goblin caves of the Misty Mountains, then into the forest and agh! Fire!  Rescue by eagles is good.  Visiting Beorn, a long trek (two rows!) through Mirkwood, and Barrels Out of Bond. Then, the journey down the river and finally, to the Long Lake. The Desolation of Smaug. The Battle of Five Armies. And, in the center, the Lonely Mountain, awaiting its dragon.

I’m kind of glad it isn’t done yet. It’s a fun project and almost more fun in my imagination.  I like best that it doesn’t have anything absolutely identifiable that says This Is A Hobbit Quilt, unless you are wondering and you ask me.  Or if you walk in my house.  I might just attack you with this information.  Because it’s fun to talk about.  And Geeklet likes to trace the quilted “journey” lines to the center… where does this one go?

The other day, poor G fell and came in to ask for comfort.  He was truly quite upset, and I tried to figure out what had happened, what was hurting.

Me:  What did you hit?

The Boy, incredulous:  The floor.

Supplies!

Happy New Year! Okay, so it’s a little bit later than New Year’s. If it helps, I only just this Friday hung up our January page of the new calendar. It’s taking a bit of time to glue all the bits of paper together, and I’ve discovered that if I want us to make our calendar from scratch, planning to make it during the week before New Year’s just isn’t going to work. It has to be, say, November. Or August.

However, I became tired of looking over to see what day it was and finding that it was still December, because I know that this is not true and I don’t like my calendar to lie to me.

I hung up the new January page and voila! It was 2013! Try it sometime when the novelty of the new year is fading. It’s surprising how startling it is to see “January” on the wall, the first few days that it’s up. And, because I’ve only just hung it up even though it is now, admittedly, more than halfway over, it is refreshingly free of calendrical items. It looks so bare and clean after December. It looks… relaxed.

I spent some time in the early part of the year making kitchen towels.

Why, you ask? Well, many of ours had gone the way of overused fabric, and my beloved kitchen towel shelf, the one that gives me hopes of living in a Brambly Hedge cottage (sans mice) someday, was threatening to empty. I didn’t like most of what I found, so I made some. It feels good to put in supplies for the new year. New pens, new calendar, new socks, and kitchen towels. Piles of plaid and stripy goodness that are just the right size to use as a bread towel.

I am continuing the quest to blanket our house, or at least our home. I finished the Little House quilt and laid it on the bed to photograph, back in November. It has just stayed there. I mean, it gets used and taken off when I strip the bed and such, but its home is now on the bed and it makes the room very happy. I enjoyed it so much that I started another one, this time based on The Hobbit.

Now, I am not going to comment on the film. I have very strong feelings about it. Enough said.

But I love the book.

And so, I started a Hobbit quilt. And I’ve been rather pleased with it so far. All of the fabric for the top has come from my stash, so it may not have been what I envisioned when I first began, but it’s turning into such a warm and inviting little quilt. Now to embroider on the spiders and the dragon…

 

Notes from our trip, continued.

We had arrived in London, and it was our first night.  I had decided that one reason I was experiencing so much stress about this trip was the feeling that there were so many things I should do.  I lay there, trying to sleep because I knew I’d wish I had later, and thinking maybe I would read a book, but I shouldn’t, certain there were more important things to do.

Really? What is more important at 3am?

So I had some tea (funny how hydration helps those headaches!) and some of the dried apricots and nut mix that the Boy picked out for us, and it was time to curl up under a blanket and not make plans, not be worried about anyone’s edification (though did I mention how interested the Customs agent was in Homeschooling?) and not be worried about the dreaded Missing of the Train. Rather, I read some Pratchett (Small Gods) and drank more tea (kava kava) and listened to the sounds of the world waking up and of B whistling to himself as he read.

Good night, San Diego. Good morning, London.

Later…  The room is quiet. Outside I hear the sounds of people talking, cleaning the kitchen after late-evening guests. We’re staying in t’Hert (“The Deer”), a tavern in Genk, Belgium, and outside, from the thin metal balcony, I can see through the greenhouse-style skylight and white-and-gold gauze curtains to the diners below.

I love this little balcony. When we booked this hotel (sorry, tavern), we had the option of a room with a bathtub or a room with a balcony. Immediately B chose the balcony and I was with him. It didn’t really matter what it looked down upon. I just liked the idea.

The little white pressed-metal balcony looks out over the roofs of other buildings, a few trees in the distance, nothing special… Except for the area directly below our room.

I cannot figure out the topography here. There are the skylight and a differently-shaped one, more like a transparent hangar, and a completely flat one the size of a double bed, and they are all in a sort of hidden trench between the rooftops of this urban landscape. A few fruit trees grow in pots there, and every time I’ve looked down on this hidden space, an older man was sitting there, on a metal garden chair, smoking something smelly and smiling up at us. I cannot figure out how he has inserted himself into the space (where is the door? The urban equivalent of a rabbit hole?) and I am reminded that so many of my favorite old tales began in places like this.

We did not stay long in Brussels, but Bing and I really liked Genk.  He, in particular, likes the fountain that we discovered in a kind of courtyard–long and flat, maybe 1″ – 3″ deep but 40′ long by 15′ wide, with spouting water that he chased from one spout to another until he was soaked through. He walked home to the hotel, happy and squelching, with a bag of mystery cheese and mashed potatoes for our dinner.