To Tree or Not to Tree - Update

This past January I reflected on not having put up a Christmas tree for the past 10 years,  ( To Tree or Not to Tree ) so I thought I should begin the holiday season with a happy update.

We have a tree!

It's a small one, but it's lovely and full and vintage and smells sooooo good!  It takes up gallons of water and sheds needles and tinsel every time I come near it so it's perfect. Wait - TINSEL?  Oh yes, I did the tinsel thing. I bought it as a joke - the packages were $1 - but when I finished trimming the tree in those lovely vintage 40's and 50's ornaments I thought, "What the hell - try a little!"  Well, a little became a little more and while it does not look like the tinsel fairy threw up on the tree, it is tinseled and it looks wonderful.   Normally I loathe the stuff but for some unknown reason this year it just seemed... right.

When I come downstairs in the morning and saunter into the family room with my coffee and my iPad,  I smell the tree's fragrance and I smile. I sip coffee and unlock the Angry Birds Seasons episode of the day and look at my tree and feel peaceful. Evenings are good, too, with the teeny blue tree lights that make the silver tinsel look blueish. It soothes me to see that icy blue in winter because it brings back a favorite childhood memory.

While driving home from a visit to Grandpa and Grandma Major, the sub-zero cold of a Nebraska night made for a spectacular, star filled sky. The clear, dark sky made the white snowy fields turn a kind of blueish tint.  It was like a fairyland, and to a young girl at Christmas it was magical. Everyone else would fall asleep, Dad would be driving at breakneck speed (it was legal then) and I would ask him to keep making the headlights change from dim to bright - and he could do it with no hands!  I though he was a genius - little did I know the button to toggle  the bright headlights was on the floor by the brake. I thought he was magic. The night landscape was enchanting. Such a simple thing, but I have remembered it - vividly - my entire life.

Many, many years later I was driving around Gloucester looking at Christmas lights, feeling homesick and miserable. Then I saw it - a big house with a massive front lawn lit entirely by....blue lights.  The snowy front lawn had that same blueish tint. I pulled over, got out of my car and snuck around the hedge and just stared at the whole scene. (It was very late, no one was up.)  I got a little weepy.  Happy weepy. I felt better.  I got back in my car and went home. *

I'm one of the fortunate few who aren't driven to distraction by the holiday shopping  and the stress of holiday cooking.  I love to cook - so does my husband - and we really have limited resources so gift buying is at a bare minimum.  It's very liberating to take such control over the holiday madness. It is a gift unto itself. Light those Advent candles and enjoy every ritual of the season.  I truly am, for the first time in many years.

*Happy Update #2 - I later met the owner of that house and he has since become one of my dearest friends. He still puts up the blue lights but now I enjoy them with a cocktail in my hand beside a roaring fire - he is also a kindred, pyromaniac soul.  Every year, every time - it's magical.

Why Quilts Matter - to Me

As a museum (and quilt museum) professional, I have a major chip on my shoulder formed by years of friends and acquaintances dismissing what I do as not a "real job".  Tell people you work at a quilt museum and they tilt their head a little and say something like, "(pause...) Well....isn't that niiiiice! You must lovooooove it!" They act like it's just a big 'ol quaint, cozy sewing bee.  Let me tell you something - there is nothing cozy about it. We have layoffs, budgets, deadlines, evaluations and performance goals. We are dealing with decreasing revenues and increasing costs - AND we have to deal with the general public e-v-e-r-y day. Believe me, it's a real freakin' job.

I promised a review of this program and here it is. I really did not know what to expect when I popped a copy of Why Quilts Matter: History, Art and Politics into my DVD player. There are some quilts in the series from the collection of the New England Quilt Museum  (where I have my "pretend job") so we received an advance copy.   I was so afraid it was going to be all Sunbonnet Sue and ditsy prints and old grannies with their white hair in a severe bun at the back of their neck - or go on to reinforce other negative stereotypes about quilters.

BOY WAS I WRONG.

I was positively thrilled at how wrong I was.  Shelly Zegart has taken the quilting bull by the horns and put it all out there - the good, the bad, and the dicey politics. There are nine programs in this series, each featuring good scholarship and interviews with experts. These are interspersed with photographs, images of many beautiful quilts and some good b-roll of exhibitions and colorful locations.  I downloaded the nine episode guides to my iPad so I could follow along with the narration. When I saw a particularly beautiful quilt all I had to do was look down and see the name, maker, location, etc. Nice touch.

The best pat?  Oh, how I bonded.  I bonded with the Gee's Bend quilter who said, "When I finish the top I love it, and then when I take it out later to quilt....I get another breath of it."   I nodded knowingly when Shelly Zegart talked about how quilting is often dismissed as "just" the work of women or looked upon as a domestic chore - not an accomplishment or an art or craft. I stood up and cheered when Shelly took on The Sun Sets on Sunbonnet Sue, threw down about the MYTH of the Underground Railroad Quilts, and called out THE QUILT POLICE on their marginalizing hostility. I felt proud to be a quilter, I felt my peeps were finally getting some respect.

As a museum professional I especially enjoyed Episode 6: How Quilts Have Been Viewed and Collected.  There was a wonderful discussion of how quilts are appraised and evaluated (just because they are old doesn't mean they are priceless, people)  and what makes them historically important. It was so gratifying to see it put out there for all the world to see and learn what epic changes and the rise of authoritative scholarship that has come about in the past decades.  The existence of The Quilt Index is one shining example of the tremendous knowledge base that has been created. The database of over 50,000 quilts, essays, lesson plans, and images has become the preeminent starting point for quilt research and exhibit planning.  Let's not forget the mothership - The International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska.  I guarantee that if you visit their website and play with the Quilt Explorer you will look up 2 hours later and say, "WHAT? WHAT TIME IS IT?" There are numerous organizations that promote quilt scholarship and research. The American Quilt Study Group is one of the most preeminent of them, and I am proud to note they are also based in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Fair Disclosure: I was born and raised in Nebraska.  When I hear people disparage the fact that the IQSC is located in Nebraska I get a little sideways. I grit my teeth and nicely point out what a great idea it was to locate it in the CENTER of the country where everyone has equidistant access. I then take the opportunity to educate them about the outstanding textile studies programs in place there long before the IQSC was founded.  

Let's wrap it up: this program is well worth the purchase price.  Yes, you'll see it on PBS but you won't see it all because you'll miss an episode and you won't be able to realize the full impact of this production. It will move you, inspire you and enable you to carry your head a little higher. If we truly want to promote and continue the work, art and craft of quilting we need to make it a priority.  We need to support this kind of scholarship and PR  with our blogs, our actions, and our money.  Buy it from the Kentucky Quilt Project. Buy it from your locally owned quilt shop or from a museum.  Just be sure you share it with as many people, guilds, neighbors, townspeople, church groups as you can.  It is a wonderful production that will entertain, inform and enrich anyone who appreciates something truly beautiful.

Quilts really matter to me.  I've given up more financially rewarding job opportunities to do what I do.  I don't want to burn out for a corporation. I don't want to come home exhausted to benefit a bunch of faceless stockholders. Don't kid yourself - I come home burned out and exhausted all the time. My daily commute is a 100 mile round trip. The cost of gas is killing me. I do it because I want to be around this kind of art. I learn from my co-workers and visitors every day. I'm willing to do it as long as I can because I thrive on the emotion I have always felt when seeing a quilt for the first time. It never lessens. I have the curators trained to call me when they are opening boxes for the next exhibit.  I want to be with them and see them first. When I go upstairs to open or close the galleries I have my own private time with the quilts and it just. fills. me. up. I am inspired, I feel creative, and I feel proud knowing I use my daytime hours to care for, promote and share this art. I can then go home and use my talents (and what I have learned at work) to create my own beautiful quilts.

Quilts have always mattered to me. From my earliest childhood I have always felt and known hand-made objects to give off a sort of emotion, energy, karma - I'm not sure what to call it.  I feel it when I touch quilts made by others - especially old ones. They almost whisper to me. Willa Cather (another Nebraska girl) called it, "That irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand." This quote says it best:

It took me more than twenty years, nearly twenty-five, I reckon, in the evenings after supper when the children were all put to bed. My whole life is in that quilt. It scares me sometimes when I look at it. All my joys and all my sorrows are stitched into those little pieces. When I was proud of the boys and when I was downright provoked and angry with them. When the girls annoyed me or when they gave me a warm feeling around my heart. And John, too.  He was stitched into that quilt and all the thirty years we were married.  Sometimes I loved him and sometimes I sat there hating him as I pieced the patches together.  So they are all in that quilt,  my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates.  I tremble sometimes when I remember what that quilt knows about me. 

Marguerite Ickis, quoting her great-grandmother in the book,  Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.

Sweet Corn Wars

Indulge me. I am locked in my annual sweet corn battle with my husband and I need to vent.

Growing up in the Platte Valley of Nebraska learned a few things about farming, seasons, and when the hell you eat sweet corn.  My husband (a barnacled coastie from Gloucester who has an umbilical cord that won't reach over the bridge and wouldn't know a farm implement if it rolled over his foot) thinks sweet corn is pretty much available 24/7, 365.  Consequently, he started bringing home this "stuff" from the local grocery stores in May, crowing about how this is going to be a "good batch" and asks me EVERY NIGHT IF I WANT SOME CORN ON THE COB.  Every night I say NO I DO NOT WANT YOUR FAKIE, TASTELESS YELLOW JUNK.  Does he stop?  No.  Does he give up?  No.  Will this be the cause of his death someday?  Highly likely.

I have an almost religious fervor for authentic sweet corn. Even the proper way to cook it is a bone of contention at our house. Joe boils (yes, boils) his fake yellow pellets-on-a-cob while the chicken is still on the grill.  I am serious. I am not making that up.  I explained how the water should be simmering and everyone seated at the supper table before you even SHUCK the corn, but my vast experience is lost on him. It is apparently his culture; it seems to be a big problem out here because I see people at the grocery store shucking their sweet corn AT THE STORE and then putting it in their nasty produce bag to cart it up to the register.  This effectively starts the dehydration process before they even pay for the corn, insuring by the time they reach home it is suitable for feed corn (that's for animals, people) and nothing else. Let it sit in the frig for a few days before you cook it and....well, I can't even go there.

One of the last times my parents flew out here was in August, about the time of the Perseid meteor showers.  I remember when I went to Logan Airport to pick them up I saw them come off the plane with luggage and nothing else.  I shrieked, "Dad, you didn't bring sweet corn????"  He stopped, turned to my Mother and said, "You know, we drove past all those farm stands on the way to the airport (180 plus miles) and we didn't think to, did we?"    I wanted to turn around and leave them both at the airport.

I recently found the blog of a classmate who talks about living and working a farming operation in 2011.  It is unlike anything many of you would imagine.  His Platte Valley Farmer blog gave me a huge lump in my throat.  It brought back so many memories, made me terribly homesick, and positively despair over ever tasting proper sweet corn again.  I've pretty much given up on consistent sweet corn it out here - every store in town calls it "local corn" WEEKS before anything planted locally could be ready to eat.

At least now can visit my friend's blog, watch the corn grow and learn more about how positively amazing the science of farming has evolved.  Every August I enjoy looking back on the night of the Persieds with my parents, my mom's peach pie & cobbler,  and  pretend that on that mid-August night we  perfected the evening with some authentic and buttery fresh  sweet corn.

PS - The next time Joe tries to get me to eat his impostor sweet corn I am going to buy a really expensive piece of fish, boil it, cover it with ketchup and serve it to him for supper. Maybe then he'll get my point.

A Visit to the Mothership

Two weeks ago we left for what  (we thought) was going to be a week-long vacation on Key Largo.  Since Joe and I carry the dubious distinction of being the oldest people from Gloucester that have never been to Florida  it was kind of a big deal.  We had a wonderful time, realized that the ocean in Florida was just like Gloucester (only warmer and with palm trees) and managed to be spoiled rotten by our wonderful host and bestest-buddy ever.  Things came to a screeching halt about four days in to the trip when we got the call that my darling Dad had joined my mother in eternal rest. (That is about all I can say about that right now.... I need some time.....)

We found ourselves at the mercy of American Airlines  ( FYI - they HAVE no mercy) and flew back to Gloucester, dumped all the summer clothes in the dining room, repacked the late-winter clothes and flew off the next day (on Delta, thankyouverymuch)  to Lincoln, Nebraska.  The next few days are a bit of a blur (again,  I need some time here......) but on the day before we flew back to Massachusetts my sister-in-law and I made a visit to the International Quilt Study Center (AKA "THE MOTHERSHIP") in Lincoln.  I always go when I am home  and it never disappoints.  With luck (and the divine intervention of my quilting mother) the Marseille: White Corded Quilting  exhibit was there to give us a fall-down-on-the-floor,  shut-my-mouth-wide-open look into the stunningly beautiful art of French quilted and corded needlework.  I was so blown away I forgot to get the exhibition catalog.  RATS.  (I'll order it from the IQSC because they need the funds much more than Amazon and for pete's sake  you have got to SUPPORT these places, people.)

As luck would also have it, the other exhibit was Nebraska Quilts and Quiltmakers. We have covered (at great length) my goobering admiration of the quilts of  "Amazing" Grace Snyder.  My personal favorite, Mrs. McGill's Cherries, was there hanging in all it's glory:

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IMPORTANT NOTE:  The IQSC allows photography (no flash) in the galleries.  It is very important to take note of and respect ALL  museum photography policies.  I'm just sayin'......  These are grainy because they were done on my phone, sorry.

It was so nice to have another  up-close  look at Grace's fantastic quilt.  It reminded me that my attempt at copying it has languished, needs to be revived,  and put on the very top of my list.   This was all made very clear to me by the fact that not only was I standing in front of it (duh), but 24 hours prior I was putting flowers on the grave of my Grandpa and Grandma (wait for it......) McGill.  It also marked the 100th anniversary of her arrival on Ellis Island on board the RMS Campania.   How great is all of that?   Jack and Mac are back together and Mrs. McGill's cherries (in the form of her children, grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren)  were all there in the ultimate celebration of life, love and the Resurrection.

A blessed Easter to you and all you love.

My Name is Jo, and I am a Craniac.

Disclaimer:  I am not a "birder" by any means, but  growing up in the Central North American Flyway I just assumed the migration of  cranes was something everyone got to see.   Not true.  Ever since  I moved East  I have to miss  the annual migration of Sandhill cranes, now taking place....back home.  I am a craniac.  A lover of those long, leggy birds that come by the thousands and fill the skies at sunrise and sunset. They are a wonder to watch - they dance, they call, they huddle, feed, and sleep.   They are tall - three feet, plus.

From the International Crane Foundation website:

Mated pairs of cranes, including Sandhill Cranes, engage in unison calling, which is a complex and extended series of coordinated calls. While calling, cranes stand in an upright posture, usually with their heads thrown back and beaks skyward during the display. In Sandhill Cranes the female initiates the display and utters two, higher-pitched calls for each male call. While calling, the female raises her beak about 45 degrees above the horizontal while the male raises his bill to a vertical position. All cranes engage in dancing, which includes various behaviors such as bowing, jumping, running, stick or grass tossing, as well as wing flapping. Though it is commonly associated with courtship, dancing can occur at any age and season. Dancing is generally believed to be a normal part of motor development for cranes and thwarts aggression, relieves tension, and strengthens the pair bond.

Watching them dance  moves something inside you that cannot be put in to words - it is primal, intimate  and awesome.  I am so thankful to the  Audubon Center at  Rowe Sanctuary for soothing my homesick soul with their wonderful CRANE CAM.  Viewing is best in the early (sunrise)  or late (sunset) hours of the day - do remember they are in the Central Time Zone.  If no birds are visible, it's still nice to listen to the Platte River ("a mile wide and an inch deep") roll past.
Remember when CBS Sunday Morning used to have that nature piece at the end of every show?  Now they call it a "moment of nature" because that is how long it lasts. Back in the day  it used to roll about 2 minutes long, with extraordinary footage of some fabulous location, animals, or volcanic activity.  ( If you are listening CBS -  I miss that.  Anyone with the attention span longer than that of a gnat misses it, too.)   I remember several years ago on  a Sunday, watching that show on my 2nd or 3rd cup of coffee when the nature segment came on and the  announcer said,   "We leave you today on the Platte River in Nebraska, where the Sandhill cranes are making a stop on their annual migration."  I watched with pure delight - and then I burst into homesick tears.   It was fabulous.  I have a connection with those birds.  I am a craniac.

PS - the camera at the Rowe Sanctuary is Flash based, meaning  we can't watch it on our iPads.  Along with CBS Sunday Morning butchering their nature segments, the lack of Flash capability on their devices has also earned  Apple and Steve Jobs a special place on my  "Turd in the Punchbowl" list.

Decking the Halls

Have a few hours at home this morning and thought I better get started decking my halls.  The feathered star above the mantel is actually a table runner my mother made, but I like it up here much better.  It's visually gorgeous and no one can spill anything on it!  The mantel  is a work in progress, but I like what I've got so far.

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The quilt on the left is called "Reflections" and is another one of mom's wonderful quilts.  The piecing on it is just amazing - the work of the insane.  It is hanging in my Dad's room so he can see it from his bed.  I'm not sure if he knows what it is or remembers who made it, but I like the idea of him having something beautiful to look at and that it was made by someone he loved - and who loved him - so very much.

The GO BIG RED Nebraska plate was an early gift from Santa - I LOVE IT, and it will be up and around through the Big 12 Championship  game this Saturday, and for the bowl game season.

'Scuse Me While I Miss the Sky

It is Sunday night and it is  happening.  Again.  You wouldn't think so after this long, but it is definitely happening again.

This Labor Day marks the 26th anniversary of my moving to Massachusetts. I was 26 when I moved here, so my time-life  pendulum will officially swing to this part of the country in a few short weeks.  You would think after 26 years I would not still get the August blues but I do.  I have them now.  Neck deep.

August is always the time of year I am most homesick. I'm not sure why - the change of seasons, the memories of school starting  and that fresh new start feeling you'd get purchasing textbooks and notebooks and wondering what (and who) the new year would bring.  It always seemed to me the new year began in the fall  when the last bloom of summer dies and the whole process begins again. Football season starts - college ball, what's not to love? It is also thee best time to be outdoors and see acres and acres....of sky.   I miss the sky terribly. I am surrounded by dense populations, buildings, wide stretches of  concrete highway.  There is very little sky - it is either blocked by buildings or by trees. I need sky - serious sky - 360 degrees of sky.  It is nowhere to be found out here.   I need to get out where I  can breathe and walk or drive for miles and just see open space and sky.  I need to go home. I am homesick.

When I fly in to the Lincoln, Nebraska airport (my favorite airport in the world) I begin a ritual.  It starts with crossing the street from the 4-gate terminal to the parking lot (yes, across the street) and getting my rental car.  There is a ticket stub you feed into the machine so the arm at the gate will swing up and let you pass.  But get this - written in beautiful scroll across the gate/arm is the phrase "WELCOME HOME."  I burst into tears every time I see it. I am weepy just writing about it - I am so homesick.

Then I'm out on the road, flying along (speed limits are much higher!) and the whole sky opens up.  My head unzips and my shoulders relax and I can't begin to express the  feeling of weight lifting  off my spirit.  I am most at home under the sky.  When I was little I used to stretch out in the grass for hours and watch clouds to see if,  from heaven, my Grandma McGill would peek over the edge. (Okay, I was very little.) Then I'd find shapes of things and wonder where the clouds blew off to and whether I'd see distant lands myself someday.  My mom was a huge fan of a good sunset - I think I have loved the sky since I was a fetus.

I feel saner and calmer under a wide swath of sky than just about anywhere else.  I miss the Nebraska sky, the slower pace and the kinder people.  I don't know that I could move back there, but I definitely need to go home and recharge the batteries of my psyche, inhale my family, sit with my Dad  and maybe eat some  proper hash browns.

The picture above is of the Platte River (a mile wide and an inch deep) which will be my final resting place someday.  I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered somewhere  along that river.  I hope to be near a cottonwood tree (it exemplifies my "if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be" spirit) and bonus -  I'll have an eternal view of wide open sky.  Heavenly.

With the Help of Amazing Grace

Grace Snyder is my quilting idol. I am unabashedly a groupie.  I even have some of the Salem China company dishes that inspired the Flower Basket Petit  Point quilt - the holy grail of quilts.  Seriously.  There is plenty about her on the internet, but if you want to get the real story you must read No Time On My Hands.    Even if you aren't in to history, the story of this woman's life and what she accomplished is inspiring and amazing.

I've had the book Nebraska Quilts and Quiltmakers for many years and have always enjoyed looking at Grace's quilts in that book.  The one that really GETS me is Mrs. McGill's Cherries.  It's gorgeous, it's timeless, and my Mom's maiden name was McGill - so, total sign from God, right?  As if.

Yesterday I skated out of work to get to the Fabric Corner in Arlington, Massachusetts.   Yes, it is a schlep from Lowell.  Yes, they were having a sale, and my quilting sherpa Debbie raves about the place.  So I checked it out - and it was terrific.  I got there about 1/2 hour before closing time, but managed to scope out the place and establish it in my head as a "definitely go back to" resource.  I also ran smack dab into a bolt of Kona cotton CHINESE RED.   "Oh heavens," I thought, "these would make the most beautiful cherries....."  About $14 later, I left the store with the red (and a nice sold green) and decided to take a whack at my own cherry tree. I'm not sure if it will end as a single block (probably) or a wall hanging, but as long as the Bernina is out of commission, I need some focused hand sewing and this might just be IT.  Wish me luck - I'll need it.