Christmas Eve, Bright and Sunny

It was a beautiful day today, so somewhere between wrapping the last presents, prep work for tomorrow's dinner and Ray's dusting and window washing (nothing like a sunny day to point out these needs—) we decided a good walk was in order.

Since we moved to our present home, we drive, almost daily, past a large, densely wooded tract with a small sign labeled "Lowami Hart Woods Park."  I knew that the little creek that runs through our property disappears into that wood, and I have been interested in exploring some of the trails. Today seemed like the perfect day. We crossed "our" creek several times as we made our way deeper into the forest. Our little creek was widening as it traveled along through stands of tall Douglas fir.

The sounds of traffic disappeared, replaced by chirping birds and and water softly splashing against rocks. The pale winter sun filtered through the trees casting long shadows.

Snowberry

Oregon grape and salal.

Fresh air, exercise and the beauty of the forest was energizing. It was a perfect break in a busy day.

And now I am off to bed and looking forward to Christmas with my family. I wish you all a lovely day and the joy of Christmas present and memories of Christmas past to warm you.

Love, Terry

Feeling very sad tonight. My Aunt Susie passed away this afternoon. I wasn't prepared for this. Aunt Susie was a pistol!—beautiful, clever, vivacious and full of life. She was the adored baby of the Howard family, sister of my father and my Uncle Bill, who left us only a couple weeks ago. She had the kindest heart, the biggest smile, the most glorious laugh and a wicked sense of humor. Everyone loved Susie. The world is not as warm and bright and fun without her. I couldn't bear the agony she was suffering this past week, but I can hardly bear the thought of her gone from us.

All my aunts and uncles are gone now. I am now the oldest living member of that part of my family.

Tacoma

I am a little embarrassed to even tell about the dumb-headed error we made regarding our quick trip to Tacoma this week. One of our goals was to visit the Glass Museum and another, The Tacoma Art Museum. We discovered when we arrived on Tuesday that both museums, indeed all the museums in Tacoma, close on both Monday and Tuesday during the winter months. What?? Impossible!—Sorry. Possible. My error. I know museums tend to be closed on Mondays. Tuesday didn't occur to me and I didn't check. So we threw ourselves into the Puget Sound and that was the last that was seen or heard of us  re-thought our strategy and had fun in spite of our poor planning.

Lucky us. We had decided to stay at the Hotel Murano, named for the famous island of glass artisans near Venice, Italy. Tacoma's identity, you see, is all about glass art since native son Dale Chihuly became famous and built his Museum of Glass in Tacoma. The Hotel Murano took the theme and ran with it.

I took this photo of the front desk as Ray was checking us in.. Everything about the hotel is cool and beautiful.

Even the elevators are beautiful with fused glass panels similar to the one at the front desk.

The hotel is filled with art, mostly glass art, but in the lobby I spotted a screen print by a favorite artist, and another Washington native, Chuck Close.

In a large display case was this intricate piece by Italian artist, Lucio Bubacco.

A closer look shows that it includes figures blowing and forming glass over glass flames. Magical.

In the grand corridor and staircase leading the meeting rooms off the lobby is this installation of three glass "Viking Boats" by Danish artist, Vibeke Skov.

Each floor of the hotel  features a different glass artist, with an example of their work and photos of them at work in their studios lining the main hallway. Beautifully presented. We started at the top floor and walked down each hallway, viewing each display. Did we miss the glass museum? Maybe we did, but this was certainly a wonderful art viewing experience. Here is the piece featured on our floor—the first thing you see as you exit the elevator.

Fish Hanger #49, Hiroshi Yamano

Another that I loved. These are Danish, but made me think of the Japanese rice bowls I keep coming back to. So cold and lovely.

Nests, Tobias Mohl

And so much more than I am showing you. We spent hours wandering the hotel, looking at the art.

We walked through the theater district and the old downtown, across the Bridge of Glass and into the shops around the museums. A cold mist rose from the Sound and we headed back to the hotel for a drink and a card game.

Twilight view from our hotel room.

We walked down the street to the beautiful Thai Restaurant that my friends and I dined at last summer, when we were in Tacoma for the APWQ show at the convention center. We justified a sumptuous dinner and extravagant bottle of wine by reminding ourselves of the museum fees we had saved.

The next day, the Solstice dawned, with the sun rising from behind Mt. Rainier, seen out that same window.

The train trip home, along Puget Sound and the Columbia River was frosty and beautiful. We read and napped and arrived home ready to take on Christmas.

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

  

Perhaps it isn't the bleak midwinter yet, given that winter doesn't even start for a couple more days, but it is bleak—dark in the mornings and dark in the afternoon. I am convinced that is why we love to festoon our homes with lights this time of year. Christmas, I suppose, has a lot to do with it, but really I think it is a primitive yearning for light that gives those seasonal decorations their ability to so fill our eyes and hearts with such sensual joy.

The lack of winter light is the one thing that I do not love about our home in Oregon. I remember snow-covered, bitterly cold days in Idaho when the sun would shine so intensely that the whole world sparkled like crystals. You could breathe in shards of light and ice that crackled in your lungs. Perhaps it was not so bracing as I remember, but on dark, foggy days I remember those brilliant winter days with clarity and longing. So I light candles and sit in front of the Christmas tree and absorb what light I can.

We are taking the train to Tacoma tomorrow for a short getaway. Good food and a visit to the Glass Museum. Tonight I learned that there is an exhibit of Mexican Folk Art at the Art Museum. Could not be better. Puget Sound, glass, Mexican art—should reflect enough light to get us by through the Solstice.

Light in a dark season

It was a good day—mostly

Off I went, this morning, to the Columbia FiberArts Guild quarterly meeting, with a hot latte in hand and money in my purse. This lovely organization is one of the highlights of my life these days. There is a lot to be said for a group that meets only four times a year. Sort of makes it an occasion, you know? Today was our annual silent auction that funds the guild's outreach program which is teaching quilting to women in the local women's prison. It has been a wonderful program, giving imprisoned women an opportunity for fellowship while learning sewing skills and self-expression. The quilts these women make sometimes represent one of the first really creative, positive things they have ever done. I did not donate anything to this year's auction, so felt morally obligated to treat myself to something—only supporting the cause, you understand! Lucky for me my friend Georgia French had donated some lovely little pieces of stitched art. This one came home with me.

I also bought a small book of Japanese Samurai designs which are very inspiring.

The program for the meeting was Jean Hicks, from Seattle, a felter. Click on her name to see some of the most whimsical and astounding hats imaginable. She also does really thought provoking felt sculpture. Felting is not something I have ever had much interest in. To be very honest I think most of what I see is pretty dreadful—reminiscent of something the cat coughed up— but Jean Hick's work is sublime. And she was a good, very engaging speaker with great slides and samples to share. Toward the end of her lecture she passed out puffs of wool roving to everyone in attendance and had us roll it between our palms to create little felted wool balls, demonstrating the magical simplicity of the process. Excellent program.

When I got home I found that my copy of "The Best of Quilting Arts" book had arrived. It is a compilation of selected articles from several years of Quilting Arts magazine. My article about an edge finish for a small piece was included.

It was shaping up as a very good day, then Ray tried to cut his thumb off with a saw. OK, that's an exaggeration. He was trimming the trunk off the Christmas tree and the saw slipped, cutting the base of his thumb badly enough that it required some stitches. He's fine and came home from the urgent care clinic and finished the job on the tree, which is now standing in the living room awaiting lights and decorations.

Ho, ho, ho. It's always something.

And life goes on...

I made a quick decision Thursday, late, to fly to Boise on Saturday for my Uncle Bill's memorial service. His death hit me hard for several reasons. It seemed it took me a long time to appreciate him and that was a lesson in—well, I almost said how people change—but really I think in how age often reveals the real person. Under his bluster, which faded away as years went by, was a man who cared deeply about his family and friends, and in old age found ways to express it. He was my last uncle, the last, closest link to my father. The survivor and, though shaky and frail in recent years, clear-headed and still clearly the patriarch of the family. His daughters planned a remembrance both moving and true and filled with the humor he would have so enjoyed. My plans for the weekend were put aside and I am so very glad I went. I will catch up.

Meanwhile, here on the home front, I am getting quilts ready to show and working on the next. I continue to tweak the studio. The cutting table, which I located under the stairs, was not lighted well enough.  I thought we still had a hanging light I bought many years ago for my first studio space in our old laundry room. Ray unearthed it from the shed and after I cleaned it up, it looked almost new. It does the job perfectly.

And hearts. I think I am finally loosening up and getting to where I really wanted to be.

Little gifts in little boxes

Our STASH* group has a tradition of little gifts. When one of us goes on a trip or at Christmas or other occasions, we give each other little gifts. Nothing expensive, nothing much, but it has been fun to find nifty little, inexpensive items. When I was in Houston the vendor area there was overwhelming. It was so much visual overload that I could not even focus and didn't buy very much, but I came across a booth of tools that I spent a lot of time in. There I found the perfect gift for the STASH members. Finger lights!

It's a little light that straps to your finger with velcro. It looked like a great aid for hand-sewing. I got one for each of the STASH friends, and one for myself.  When I showed them to fellow Twelve, Diane, in Houston she noted that they were perfect little gifts—useful, but also a little bit funny!

Yesterday STASH met for lunch in downtown Portland—our annual holiday splurge. We went to a lovely Vietnamese restaurant and I took my little gifts to my friends. I made little boxes from recycled magazine pages and I think everyone liked them. Reva said the light was perfect for—chickens. She has urban chickens. I don't know where the light comes in, but if it makes her a better chicken wrangler that's a good thing!

Aren't the little boxes pretty? I finally found a good use for my copies of Cloth, Paper, Scissors magazine. After subscribing to the magazine I found it just isn't my kind of thing, but it's full of pretty pictures. Want to know how to make these boxes? They are easy.

The ones I made are about 2.5" square and an inch and a half tall. You need to start with a square piece of paper. For this size I start with a 7" square. I choose a page with a nice image on it. The more image, the better, but if there is text toward the edges it ends up inside usually. So it isn't a problem—or the text can be part of the design. Don't be too picky about where the image is or how centered, etc. You never know how the final piece will look and it is usually better than you expected! The serendipity of it is part of its charm. You will need two sheets for a box, so choose two pages that coordinate, more or less.

One will be the top of the box. Trim that page to 7" square. The box bottom needs to be slightly smaller to fit inside the top, so trim that sheet to 6.75" square.  Find the center of the top, on the back side, by running your ruler from corner to corner diagonally and making a mark across the center. Mark it on the opposite diagonal so you have an X marking the center.

Fold each of the four corners into the center.

You will have new, smaller square. Fold one side into the center and crease it sharply. Open it back up, but be sure you can see the fold line. Repeat with the other three sides.

Lay it flat with the last side folds opened so you just see the crease lines.

 Using the fold lines as a guide, cut into two of the opposite sides, to the fold line, as indicated.

Open up the center sections of the sides you cut, fold the other two sides into a box shape, then fold the opened side sections over the folded ends to enclose them.

You can secure the four points in the center inside with a dab of glue or piece of tape, but I usually don't find that necessary. The folded points seem to sort of lock together.

To make the bottom half of the box just repeat these steps with the smaller sheet of paper.

Slip the smaller box into the larger one. Voila! You are finished.

You can vary the sizes depending on the size of your paper. Just be sure to make the bottom from a sheet that is approximately .25" smaller than the larger one. Available paper usually limits the size to fairly small boxes, but larger boxes can be made using pretty shopping bags or posters. The larger boxes should be made from heavier paper than magazine pages.


* STASH = Second Thursday At Somebody's House. There are currently six regular members— all fabric/textile artists/enthusiasts.

 When I was a child my Uncle Bill seemed like such a grouchy guy—not so interested or comfortable with children (though he ended up with six of his own), and unlike his brother, my sweet and gentle father, Uncle Bill was gruff and blustery.  I mostly stayed out of his way for a lot of years. As I got older I started to see his softer side, his love for his grandchildren especially; his intelligence and humor; his generosity; and found a warm and loving uncle. I'm sure he mellowed with age, but my perceptions probably became more tolerant as well. He and Dad were business partners and our families were closely intertwined. When my Dad died no one took it harder than Uncle Bill. They had spent nearly every day of their lives together. As an adult I loved talking with him. He had always read something interesting or had a story to tell.

Four years ago family members contributed memories for a book to celebrate his 90th birthday. I sent this:

Dear Uncle Bill,
I am sorry I won’t be there to help you celebrate your 90th birthday, but I know you will have a lot of family surrounding you, who will make the most of this auspicious occasion.

I’d like to add a memory to your book—one of many, many. There were so many Christmas breakfasts and funny stories about General Sherman, the dog, but one time that stands out in my mind was the night you and Dad, and all the kids, slept out in your orchard to watch the meteor shower. 

You and Dad worked so hard, and such long hours back in those days, that it was rare for us kids to get to spend much time with either of you, much less both at the same time, but you two decided we should have a sleepover in the orchard. I think we cooked hamburgers and hot dogs and we kids played in your big yard and spent some time clearing apples off the grass to make a nice soft spot to sleep that night. Then, when it began to get dark, we spread our sleeping bags and settled in to watch the sky. It started slowly with a shooting star or two, then increased as the sky got darker. That was back when you could still really see a lot of stars (maybe you still can, from your orchard) and you and Dad pointed out the Milky Way and some of the constellations.

One of the kids asked a question about what it had been like when you and Dad were kids and you started telling stories. That night we heard all about life on the Huntley Project and how you could go out the bedroom window and over the fence and be at school in two minutes. We heard about building motorized vehicles using Grandma’s washing machine engine and rolling Dad down a hill inside a barrel and playing and finding buttons and bits near the Custer battlefield. We learned that when you went away to college you and Dad shared an overcoat, I think handed down from a relative, so only one of you could go out on a date in the winter—the one whose turn it was to wear the coat. I can’t even remember all the stories, or especially the details, but I remember the picture you painted of your early life. It sounded like such fun, such an adventure. I lay in the dark listening to you and Dad talk and laugh and I could picture you as boys.  We all drifted off to sleep with the stars still falling overhead. I woke up later and listened to the sounds of everyone sleeping and watched the stars for awhile, then went back to sleep, but I remember thinking, “I’m going to remember tonight.” And I have.

Have a wonderful birthday celebration!
With love,
Terry

He left us, last night in his sleep. He had a good life. Rest in peace, Uncle Bill.

Foggy

Not me. I'm not foggy—at least not today. But it has been foggy and cold here all day today. A good day to stay indoors and notice how delicate and soft the fog outdoors is.

The grandchildren were here today and we watched Ray fill the bird feeder with seeds and hang suet blocks for the birds. Lots of little birds fluttering about looking for something to eat.

All this through the windows today. I haven't left the house, not even to get the mail. Played "Go Fish," made Christmas candies with Sofia, sketched while the kids napped.

I think I have been over-thinking the heart design.

The fog never did lift today and I never left the house. OK by me.

Music and memory

In the fall of 1968 I began working as a "traveling secretary" for my college sorority. November found me in Montreal, visiting the chapter at McGill University. I'm not sure I had ever been as far from home and I was outside the United States for the first time in my life. Provincial as I was, it seemed a world away from my family and my roots, and by then I was very tired from a non-stop travel schedule. I arrived in Montreal with a sore throat and an ear infection and a fever, but I was warmly welcomed and soon ensconced in a charming brownstone apartment shared by several of the chapter members. It would be my longest chapter stay to date—2 weeks. The girls in the apartment all had tickets to a Gordon Lightfoot concert a couple days after I arrived. As luck would have it there was an extra ticket, as one of the group had to attend to a family emergency in another town. I went to the concert, not knowing a single thing about Gordon Lightfoot, despite the fact that he seemed to be on magazine covers and posters all over Montreal. I was carried away by the music and his themes of longing spoke to my state of mind. The next day I walked down a snowy street to the big Eaton's department store and bought his album. The next two weeks, as I recall, included lots of tea, a visit to the Hospital Emergency Room when my ears became so painful I could not ignore them, interviews with the lovely girls and alumnae and the Gordon Lightfoot record playing in the background through it all.

Montreal was beautiful, the people I was with were kind and funny, and the early snowstorm had blanketed the city in pure, silent white. I felt like I was in a dream most days and wondered if I could possibly remember every detail. How I wished I could share it all with someone and for the first time it occurred to me that this year of travel was such a solitary experience that I would never have anyone to look back on it with. I would carry these cities and people with me, alone in memory, as indeed I have, with no one to share those memories. And somehow it was the music that was the most tangible thing I took away.

I missed my family. I missed my friends. I had a boyfriend, who I knew was never going to be the right person for me, but I missed him too. It was the deepest homesickness I have ever felt and at the same time the adventure of a lifetime. And when I listen to this music I feel it all again.

I looked for a photo of Montreal in 1968 and found this painting: John Little, R.C.A. (b. 1928) November Snow, Jeanne-Mance Square (corner of Sherbrooke Street), Montreal, 1968. It actually looks like the street where I stayed, and, amazingly is titled November Snow. This is what I remember.

Summoning up some spirit

This is the time of year I remember this song. I know I have posted it here before. It reminds me of a time when I was homesick and missing the people I loved. Early winter, holidays coming. It is funny how a song can attach itself to a memory and the attachment stays forever. December is always a joyful time, but underneath I always feel a note of sadness. Christmas, the end of another year—it all makes me realize how quickly time passes and reminds me of Christmases of the past and people I have loved and will never see again.

Yeah, Happy Holidays to you too!

This feeling will pass and I know I will get caught up in the here and now and another special season with friends and family. Having grandchildren has renewed my appreciation of the holiday season, but I always seem to spend the first week of December feeling a little nostalgic and blue.

When I was moving things into the studio last week I came across this quilt/Advent calendar that I made in 1982 for my children to count down the days until Christmas. It was my own design and I had fun making and using it. I thought Sofia might enjoy it this year, so I hung it up this afternoon.

Maybe you can see, in the closeup, that there are black metal snaps sewn all over the wreath—24 of them. Each numbered pocket contains a holly leaf and berries with the other half of a snap sewn to its back. Each day a child would snap one of the leaves onto the wreath. The pocket also contained a candy or small toy for the child. I am never sure whether to start with 1 and count up to 24, matching the numbers to the date, or start with 24 and count down how many days are left until Christmas. I think I will start with 24. Of course we have a few days to catch up with tomorrow.

We talked about hanging lights on the studio. Not sure if that will happen or not, but I thought a little lighted tree in the round window that faces the road would be pretty. I went out and bought a little tree and string of lights today and put it in place.

Tonight it was a pretty blur of colored light in the window.

I am never one to jump into the whole Christmas deal the minute Thanksgiving is over. It takes me awhile and I don't want a tree in the house until closer to Christmas. We work our way into it little by little. I took my first steps today.

Off in a whole different direction

Yes, everything you said about that heart yesterday was right—too spiky, too fussy, too much reminiscent of hot air balloons, though I hadn't noticed until you mentioned it. Really, nothing to be done for it. No, Jeri, no amount of stitching will save it.

So today I was off in a whole different direction—curvy, swirly. I think this is much better for my uses.

Could it be any more different?! What would you call this? My idea was a little bit traditional Valentine, a little bit Victoriana, but not. This will be part of a much larger piece and will be about making Valentines. Does this give you more of a cut paper, homemade Valentine vibe?

 added note: Omigosh. I just noticed that there is a face in there. A lion, maybe? Do you see it? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?