It hasn’t been as quiet around here as you’d think from the blog activity. Lightroom went on strike because it was feeling so outclassed by my fast new computer; I finally caved and bought the upgrade so I could unearth these pictures from a month ago, when my eight-month-old was making his first real headway under his own steam. It’s tough to capture a crawling boy in low light with a fixed lens! (And sorry about his slimy nose. Poor guy is finally feeling better and there are now days when I go a whole five hours without wiping someone’s drippy snout. Don’t let the door smack your @$$ on the way out, Winter.) But perhaps these shots are particularly apt for the lack of focus I’ve been feeling across realms of late. It’s time for Blue Garter to go into the chrysalis and emerge as something better. The content won’t change a lot, but I’m feeling out a new name—Blue Garter began as a play on words when I was schooling my fingers to the craft of knitting and also planning my wedding, eight years back down the road now—and a new sense of purpose that I hope will freshen up this log of my life for the next decade. I want to be my own handywoman in the construction and maintenance of the new site, so my progress may be a bit like Jolly’s at first. (Though if I can move on to the equivalent of balancing on my knees and reaching for the high shelves just one month on, I’ll be chuffed!) Blue Garter will stay up for a while as I work, and I should be able to feed you tastes of the extraordinary Portland spring and a couple of comical shortlegged people in knitwear now that the camera-computer relationship is off the rocks. I’ll smash the champagne over the nose of my new vessel with the publication of the Pomander cardigan. And now that I’ve written all that in public, there’s nothing for it but to plunge in and swim, right? Here we go!
A lemonade recipe: car accident > lots of chiropractic visits > an extra day of nursery school for the baby > Creative Thursdays! (It was a minor smash, as these things go; the littles were mercifully unharmed and Mama is going to be fit as a fiddle again in a few more weeks.) The upside is a whack of personal time this one day a week, the likes of which I haven’t seen in two and a half years. Today should have been about a spit-and-polish of the Pomander pattern, newly improved by a group of savvy and thoughtful test knitters. But friends, it is impossible for a Portlander not to be swept up in high-hearted pursuit of new visions when the heavens shake off a forecast of Typical Wet Gloom and give us, instead, a glorious halcyon day. So I made these:
Come on, spring time! The fabric is Kelly Lee-Creel for Andover Fabrics; it’s called Storybook Lane Flowers.
This one is a button eater. I am going to need some very enticing props—better than the stuffed dinosaur on wheels I planted right in front of him—if I’m ever going to get a decent picture of his Tomten jacket.
Lately I have been opening boxes. In a strange convergence of family moves seven years ago, a surprising number of my ancestors came to live in my house just as I was buying it from my aunt. My great great grandparents gaze mildly down from their gilt frames in the living room, apparently serene about the move from their brownstone in Gilded Age Manhattan. Great Aunt Priscilla watches over my daughter’s bedroom from her faded pencil portrait, her wide blue eyes and little mouth reminding me of my son. Here are my grandmother’s purple chairs and here her needlework, here her desk and here her Shaker broom, and there on the mantle the giant sugar pine cones she brought home from a trip to California long ago. On the shelf below are a few of the dishes a world-traveling great grandfather collected in China. It’s cozy in here with all these generations crowded together. And there is far more family residue still to sort, still in the brown boxes stamped Arnoff Moving & Storage.
One large carton contains the innards of Granny’s desk, which spanned a whole room with large windows from which she could watch the cardinals and wild turkeys and chipmunks and all the creatures of the Connecticut woods about their business in the leaf litter. There are large boxes of “boilfast” thread (I tested each wooden spool to winnow out the rotten ones and take them to my children’s school, where they’ll be put to creative use) and assorted buttons (I smiled at the good—cunning tiny badminton birdies carved of wood—and frowned at the bad: large handmade pink ceramic freeform shapes that strongly resemble feminine anatomy I shan’t mention on the internet). There is an ivory mechanical pencil printed “On To Alaska With Buchanan;” Professor Google tells me a Detroit coal merchant named George Buchanan led expeditions of young people up north between 1923 and 1938…was my grandfather one of those adventurers? There are ancient knitting pins—and I use the old term because pins they are. My modern needle gauges haven’t enough zeros to tell you just how fine they are. About the diameter of a standard paper clip, some of them. And folded into a stack of fabric squares was a girl’s needlework sampler. From 1796.
What does one do with such a treasure? It’s in poor shape, full of holes and bleed marks (the green dyes must have been particularly difficult to fix), badly faded on the front side, with much of the text simple vanished where the black thread has disintegrated. The most tantalizing details, the girl’s name and her age, are lost forever. Miss -bottom, we’ll have to call her, which isn’t a very dignified moniker for an artist. But the year stands proud. 1796. Twenty years after the Declaration of Independence. (But is this sampler even American? Granny’s family was half English, so perhaps not. And would an American girl have stitched crowns on her sampler? Someone out there probably knows enough about the iconography of the time and the needle arts to tell me.) I don’t know how to begin to preserve this piece of history… clearly not folded in quarters, but I daren’t even try to iron it out now.
At some point the little wheels began to turn in my mind. When I was at Bowdoin College I encountered the photography of Abelardo Morell. At the time he was working with books and maps as his subjects. I was hooked. Seriously, go click through his gallery. I’ll wait. Don’t miss this one near the end.
And now I’ve started to wonder if there might be way to translate this venerable piecework into another medium. Sadly, I don’t have Morell’s skills with a camera. But when I turned my lens to these threads and looked closely, I found fairy tale beasts…
… and allegories: beware, little girl. The fabric is frayed. You are standing at the raveled edge.
There is something so touching about the human imperative to impose beauty and order on an uncertain and often brutal life. The verses this girl chose, stitching each letter so neatly and minutely, framing them with a fretwork of flowering vines and an exuberance of embroidered blossoms… I looked them up, relying on the salient phrases I could decipher to lead me to the origin.
“LORD, I confess thy sentence just, That sinful man should turn to dust; That I e’er long should yield my breath, The captive of all conqu’ring death. Soon will the awful hour appear, When I must quit my dwelling here: These active limbs, to worms a prey, in the cold grave must waste away; Nor shall I share in all that’s done, in this wide world beneath the sun.” –The Works of Philip Doddridge, Volume 5, Lesson XXI, On death
In 1796, how many people had this child already lost? How many playmates dead of fever, how many aunts or cousins in childbed, perhaps her own brother or sister tucked in the earth after accident or illness? It grieves me to think of someone her age calmly (and, it must be said, with a fine eye for typography) working those resigned phrases, feeling their weight as she must have done. And yet I have to admire her gumption in juxtaposing those somber reflections with that fanciful botany. The other passage she chose was from James Thomson’s 1726 poem “Winter:”
“Father of Light and Life! thou Good Supreme! / O teach me what is good! teach me thyself! / Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, / From every low pursuit! and feed my soul / With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure; / Sacred, substantial, never fading bliss!”
(Our Miss -bottom sensibly reigned in the punctuation.) Knowledge, conscious peace, morning glories, and exquisite little red deer against the cold grave. Wise child. I will treasure your tiny stitches.