I can not believe we are almost done. I feel like we are just beginning to know each other well enough to have long conversation filled with observations and revelations over coffee. Thank you all for taking the time not only to read this wonderful book, but to also allow yourselves time to wonder and dream and ponder the information. And of course for trusting each other to tell your stories.
We are going to change things up a bit. If Makers is our historical reference and timeline which gives us a context for all these craft movements, then Craft in America is our spiritual and philosophical guide. This gentle book gives us a personal look into the lives of working crafts people and their everyday life. If you watch the DVD (which is perfectly fine) the voices and accents and speech patterns brings it to life even more. No longer are we reading about names, we are now introduced to neighbors. So with that thought and your final project in mind I am going to ask you to simply write short essays on each section. I will propose the theme or question based on the readings for that week. Write from the heart. I am less interested in documentation or defenses of your ideas than I am in your willingness to share your philosophies .
Part I, Communities of Culture
Think about one handmade object in your home. It can be the same object you have maybe spoken of before or it can be something new. Tell us the story of that object. Describe it, how it was made, by whom, when and where. How did you come to own it. What do feel when you are around this object. What meaning it has for you. Why is it important to you. In other words make us fall in love with this object of your heart. 300-500 words. I do not count words I am just giving you a general framework. Think more than a paragraph or two. Be poetic. Be romantic. Be a storyteller.
I am lucky. I was born into a family of immigrants whose history matches the timeline of our country. My great grandparents, Ziesel and Mamie Sopher, came from the Ukraine to the US in the late 1890's by boat. They embodied the picture of tired, poor, down-troden, huddled masses yearning to be free. They were escaping oppression from the Czar, and the "pagrums" or massacres of large groups of Russian jews. They brought what they could carry. They landed in New York at Ellis Island and made their way to Baltimore City. Like many immigrants, they were old before their time, experiencing the hardship of beginning a new life in a foreign country where they didn't even speak the language. Ziesel became a wallpaper hanger and Mamie made candy and sold it from the house. Mamie's candy was popular and began to become sought after in the community. In fact, the candy sold so well that Mamie earned enough to purchase the house they were renting, and Ziesel quit hanging wall paper to help her produce the goods. Shortly thereafter they opened a storefront candy store in their home and by 1903 had begun their family. The candy store prospered and over the years their family grew to six children. Their oldest son, Isadore, a handsome boy, and hard worker, attracted the attention of Bess, the daughter of the Morris Richman, the local real estate tycoon. Richman, who also came to the US from the Ukraine with virtually nothing, had also "made good" and respected the work ethic of Isadore's family. A match was soon made and the two were married. It was 1920, WWI had taken family members, but both families were continuing their financial good fortunes. To celebrate their success, Zeisel and Morris got together and purchased a handmade German mantle clock for the home of Isadore and Bess.
ReplyDeleteThe clock was large for a mantle. It had modern sleek lines for the time. It embodied the Bauhaus traditions of modernism; form follows function with impeccable design. The face of clock had copper numbers set on a highly polished field of silver. The works were highly polished brass that were housed in a handsome smooth red-brown cherry cabinet. The dark housing highlighted the highly polished face and numbers. The clock gleamed in the light. The chimes could be set for the quarter hour and resonated with the reminder of their good fortune. The clock held a prominent place in Isadore and Bess's home for the rest of their lives.
ReplyDeleteIsadore and Bess started their family, and followed in the traditions of their parents. Isadore open a hardware store and became very successful, and Bess worked in the Richman's real estate business, learning to manage the accounting. The clock continued to shine in their home for two generations. Their children, Zisy, (named for her grandfather) and Irvin grew and married having children of their own.
I am Zisy's daughter. Upon my grandmothers death in 1973, the clock was passed down, and came to live with my family. I was 8 years old and decided quickly that the clock was mine. I immediate began to polish the silver face, wind the clock weekly, and dust and polish the case regularly. It was odd behavior for an eight year old, but the 53 year old clock had me under it's spell. I was blissfully unaware of the history of the clock or how it came to my family, but I was none the less captivated by it's presence in my home. I had a somewhat rocky childhood experience, the details of which seem cliche by today's open attitudes, but none the less, it was painful going through it. The clock stood in our home as the beacon of stability. The clock could be counted on to chime hourly with it's familiar solid sound. It was a sign of endurance for me and as I grew up, I still maintained the clock with the same love and care as when I was eight.
Beautiful words about a beautiful object. I can tell that the constancy of character you found in the clock was something important to you. And no matter how times and attitudes change, your experience-the pain, difficulty, or joys--is important and valid.
DeleteI had always wanted a chiming clock growing up. Hmm...maybe someday.
Clocks are one of my favorite items in my home, I have several antique ones that were given to my by mother on different occassions. Clocks evolke child hood memories of importance and prominence within the home. Usually placed on a mantle, or other highly visible place. This is a wonderful memory you have of your clock. I hope that some day your son will feel about the clock as you do.
DeleteTime passed, I grew up, moved away and visited my mother often. Each visit included my ritual clock behaviors of polishing, dusting, and winding. The clock was my family touchstone, the constant reminder of where I came from, and that somehow, everything would always be OK.
ReplyDeleteWhen I got married twenty years ago, my husband and I purchased our first home. We were very proud of our success and we invited all of our family to join our celebration at our new home. My mother, of course came to our home that evening. She was struggling with a large package and very gingerly placed the box in front of the fireplace, right below the mantle. Without even opening the box, I knew immediately that "my clock" was in the box.
The clock was now 73 years old. It had made it's way through three generations and had been moved to numerous locations in dozens of homes through out the years. It continued to be a testament to the solid workmanship and quality design that made it timeless. in each spot it has occupied, it stood out as strong and proud, but always managed to blend in and become an integrated member of the decor.
Today the clock is 97 years old. I love it as much today as I did forty years ago when it came to me. I now have a 15 year old son who has grown up with Mom's clock, as he calls it. Every time I look at it I am reminded of the five generations of family it has seen, the numerous conversations it has witnessed, and the example of fine design and craftsmanship it has set for me as an artist.
The story of this clock is likely typical for items from this era. It may have been expensive in it's time, for the maker used the best materials which have endured the test of time. What stands out the most to me is the quality of design, and it's enduring testament to fine craftsmanship. It's not hyperbole to say that "I love the clock." It has become a part of my history, and will be handed to my son to become part of his children's history. The clock still looks the same as it did 93 years ago when Zeisel and Morris purchased it from the German clockmaker, Jurgen in 1920. The clock is the embodiment of what we have been discussing all semester, the marriage of function, materials and the soul of the maker. All this is coupled with the life of the user. These two planes intersect in the hearts and history of generations. Each piece has story to tell that connects its maker and its user for generations.
Gail, What a beautiful story and wrote beautifully too! I would also like to see a photo! I loved the fact that you fell in love with the clock at such a young age and showed responsibility for it as well. It’s amazing when you find special pieces that you connect with from that start what kind of impact they have on you.
DeleteGail-
DeleteClocks are so the heart of a home. What a great read. I see your clock as the the back drop or setting of you & your son's life now and the experiences he is creating. It is almost like we need to tune in next year to see an installment of Mom's Clock.
As I was writing this I had no idea that it was so long. Sorry for the saga, but you did tell me to be a storyteller!
ReplyDeletenot too long...a wonderful story of the love of a beautiful work of art/craft. Thank you for sharing. Any way we could get a photo?
DeleteThe table of a marriage
ReplyDeleteOnce together, now apart, the dining room table in my place was made by my parents when they were together. Back when they were in their twenties, getting started in the real world, full of love and laughter, they made a table. They made a table to share meals on, to have friends over, to visit with each other. The idea of making a table was more then just a functional object. It was to share the experience of making a work of art together. They went to the lumber store to purchase the wood, carefully picking out the perfect pieces for their design. Once, they had their supplies, they worked together in building the table. "Honey, pass me the glue." I can hear their voices, speaking to each other in a way a couple would. I think of them working with each other as they laughed and had a wonderful memory. The top of the table was made in a square design that is 6 feet by 6 feet. The geometric, simple design shows off the beauty of the wood. A resin as been poured over the top to seal the wood. After all the effort of making the top, the legs of the table were the last part. It seems as the legs were something that was just thrown together, not made to last a long period of time. See my parents relationship have something related to the table, something with beautiful attributes, is just put together, and now is lost. The legs of the table fell apart when I tried to move the table. However, now I see it as an opportunity for me to add my tough to the table. Since I have a wood lath, I can make the legs and bring love and beauty to finish the table.
My mother has pushed it aside in the forgotten room ever since my parents divorced. As I went off to college and got my first apartment, I was wondering around to look for things to take with me. I noticed the table and it was then I learned about its history. She let me have it. Ever since, every time, I look at the table, it reminds me of when my parents had love for each other. It's a happy meaningful memory for me.
thank you...do the legs match? When you were telling your story I kept seeing unique one of a kind legs..somehow matching but not identical.
DeleteYour story really touched me Melanie. Thanks for sharing that. I keep picturing what the table might look like as well. I keep thinking it is painted for some reason or some parts of it maybe.
DeleteI remember giving my daughter some paintings her father had completed when I was married to him. She was so interested in the story of our life and where we were living when he painted etc. Your story makes me appreciate her curiosity and appreciation. Unfortunately he is not a very involved but...fortunately her stepfather is. I just love the table still being the best of a certain time and place and still being an important part of your life.
DeleteEven though your parents were divorced, it is ashame that your mother had pushed it to the side, probably because it brought back bad memories. I am glad that you do not have such memories, and were able to live through the good feelings of love and joy when you use it.
DeleteI love the connection between building a table together and working on a marriage. I think it's great that you chose to hold on to the happy memories and gave the table a new "spin."
DeleteWhen deciding on which object to write about, I kept narrowing it down between three. I couldn’t pick just one and leave the other two out; therefore, I hope its okay I tell the story of each one. These are three objects I possess, that if something were to ever happen, and I didn’t have these three objects in my possession; I would have a meltdown beyond believe and I would be in mourning as if a relative died. This is how much each one of these objects means to me.
ReplyDeleteGrowing up, you could say, that I had a perfect childhood. I had two parents that gave me love and comfort more than anything. Even when I was 17years old I would still lay on the couch with my mom in the “spoon” position, and she would hug me, kiss me, (I used to say suffocate me) and constantly tell me how much she loved me. My brother is 4years older than me and we were really close. Not growing up with cable or even television really, I was encouraged to play outside with my brother or paint with my mom. Therefore, I guess you could say I turned into a tomboy that painted… I grew up in a development called, “Eagle Tree” right outside of Amarillo. Our development was built in deep canyons with a few small rivers and ponds; and we owned five acres of land. My mom’s parents, “Meme and Papa” lived an acre away from us and they were there every day of my existence. My brother and I would sprint back and forth from our grandparents back to my parents’ house about twenty times a day, even if there was a blizzard or a tornado outside, which I did see my share of tornados growing up on our land. When I went to Meme and Papa’s I would always play with Meme’s collection of old antique dolls and I would pretend that this old trunk Meme had in the living room, was their doll house. This trunk is my first object. The trunk has a rectangle frame and a rounded top. It is made out of wood and had thick boarders of copper on the rounded top and bottom frame. The corners were also copper and a big latch, kind of gothic looking, that was on the front was made out of copper as well. The inside was lined and it had leather straps, which are now thin and tearing. I only ever remember it being a turquoise green color growing up and Meme telling me it was that color because the copper had oxidized. She would always say, “I remember when it shined at one time”. The trunk was my great grandmas as well and honestly, I don’t know if it was her mother’s before her or not, but I do know that it is very old. My brother and I were the closest grandchildren to my mother’s parents since they lived so close to us. We saw them every day and they were actually just like another set of parents to us. I guess this entitled us to have first dibs on their heirlooms. My name was on this trunk since I was 6years old. My grandma even wrote my name on a note and stuck it inside under one of the leather straps, which is still there today.
That is so neat about your experiences seeing tornados. I have always wanted to see a live one from afar. I also enjoy reading about the trunk. What do you keep in the trunk? Trunks are something that you do not see much of anymore. How neat!
DeleteThe only thing in it right now is my wedding dress. It’s a small trunk so my dress takes up most of the room.
DeleteThe second object is a ring; a white gold band that is ¼” diameter thick, with what I call now, “a cloudy haze” that rest on top. This simple, none glamorous ring; has the souls of my Nannie (moms great grandma), Meme (moms mom) and now my mom in it. This ring has been passed down from daughter to daughter on their 18th birthday. You wear it on your ring finger from your 18th birthday until the day you marry then you move it to your right hand. I collected this ring when I was 17years old on Christmas Eve. Four weeks before my 18th birthday. The day I collected it was the day of my mom’s funeral. My mom died of cancer when I was 17years old and her funeral was held on Christmas Eve. Now looking back, I think my mom always knew her time was soon, which indicated the suffocation love she showed me multiple times a day and that I yearn for now. My mom did home hospice at Meme and Papa’s house the last week of her life. There were around fifty relatives at my grandparents’ house the night of her passing and while my father, brother and grandparents were at her bedside, relatives broke into our house and stole anything valuable of my mom’s. They took her wedding dress, china, clothes, and our family pictures. Everything was gone that meant something to us. I was lucky that my dad had my mom’s wedding ring in his pocket, and the white gold band I wear today, was on my mom’s finger still. The day of her funeral the director of the funeral home told us they couldn’t get the ring off and it would have to be buried with her or cut off. My grandma not wanting to break tradition, went into the back, grabbed some lotion out of her purse and slipped the ring off. I wear it today and I have never taken it off since. The imprint of the band is immersed on my finger so bad that if I were to take the ring off today, I feel as if the imprint would forever remain on my finger along with their souls. I don’t know who made the ring, or what year it was made, but I do know the story behind it. My grandma died 3 years after my mom, so the tradition lies within my hands now.
ReplyDeleteI’ll make the last description short since my essay turned into a novel. My last object is a textile and the romantic part of my essay. It’s a textile probably worth nothing at all except to me. The designer was Ryan, my husband and it was made January 16th, 2013, the day before he left on this current deployment. I wasn’t going to write about it because it is simple but the meaning makes it priceless to me. I took Ryan to the airport at 6am on January 17th, 2013 and after saying a painful emotional goodbye, I returned home and he texted me asking me to go check our guest bedroom to see if he forgot anything. He packs his equipment in our guestroom because there is so much gear and I hadn’t been in there all morning or the day before. When I walked in there was a bracelet made out of 550 cord and a note that said,
“Wear it when you miss me,
Wear it when you want me close.
Take it when you want to be near,
Pack it in your purse wherever you go.
Pretend it is my arms around you,
Holding tight, never letting go…”
550 cord, is cording the army uses for parachutes and it can hold up to 550 pounds. My husband is in the 82nd Airborne, and made bracelets out of it for me all the time during my undergrad. This one is different though, because he weaved a design within it and made a real bracelet with an actual closure and of course the poem made it special as well. When I couldn’t get a hold of Ryan or his company for two days, after uncontrollable protesting and a car bomb explosion that happened in Kabul, this bracelet is the only thing that kept me sane and having faith he was ok.
Wonderful stories. I wanted to track down the relatives that took from you and get it back for you till I read the whole story and learned you have the best part of it all..the memory of being totally loved.
DeleteAnd the story of your husband brought back memories when Sam was deplored for the last time and wrote me a wonderful poem before he left. Like you it held me during times of no word.
Brea, I cried while reading about your mother and your husband. Thank you for sharing about these special items and how they are connected to your family.
DeleteMy dad tracked them down that is for sure…haha. It is just crazy how people become entirely different when it comes to money. I would have never thought that would happen. I would never wish that upon anyone because I only dream of having those items now. It kind of seems like it was another life really.
DeleteThanks Emily, It is certainly easier to write about then talk about for me. I think that is why I can open up on the blog better than I can in person.
Beautiful story, as Emily said this was an emotional read. Honestly all of these heartfelt reflections/ stories have made my week. It is wonderful how sharing through writing can sometimes be easier and open.
DeleteI was really touched hearing about your items, especially the ring. How precious. I think that is really neat that your family has a tradition like that. Thank you for sharing that!
DeleteThe poem your husband wrote for you made me cry. In a good way, of course. I can't imagine what you have to go through each time he leaves. My cousin's husband has been in the Army and been deployed several times since they got married. I know the struggles she goes through when he's gone. I just think military wives and families are so strong.
DeleteI didn't know my grandmother. She died when I was a baby. I know she was the caregiver to my older sister and they were very close.
ReplyDeleteI know her from the people I love and who love me without question: her sisters and brother: my great Aunts and Uncle and the 6 children she reared who had a large part in creating the person I have become.
I know her history: in rural Texas, as a beauty, married in the 20‘s. I know she was gentle, cooked for anyone who was hungry, took care of the lonely. I know her from photographs- from wavy hair and wide, open, humor filled face. I see her reflection in my sister's features and twinkling eyes. I know her from family stories.
I know her from the things she made and cherished: from the recipes she passed down, the quilt in my bedroom, the green embroidered purse she carried.
I can find her in little bits in the artifacts of her life.
I know her through her handwork. I find it inventive and useful, beautiful and odd. It's difficult to image what inspired this footstool--hand covered with thick 1940s red and olive upholstery material. It's shaped like a clover or petals on a flower. In 5 round sections, it is soft and just the right height for feet to rest on it when in a rocking chair. She designed her own pattern out of cotton--the way people do when they really know how to sew. Perhaps the original design pulled from the WWII Martha Stewart equivalent or a home economics suggestion from the government.
It was years before I knew that my favorite stool, made by my Grandmom, perfect for sitting--the exact height for my child's legs-- was created entirely from grapefruit juice cans. The substructure of the stool took its shape and support from empty metal Ruby Red cans. They were batted together in pockets sewn in white cotton, padded and covered with thick material. It was soft and cushy but sturdy and cosy/
It has always made me feel a little close to her: to have something she touched, she thought about and constructed. I helps me get a clearer vision of a person who let nothing waste, was inventive and economy minded. She could make utility and beauty out of trash. She was an artist and a craftsman.
thank you
DeleteI love the idea of a foot rest to help with rocking, just add a little fire and it is perfect
I loved your story. I have a complete luxurious picture imprinted on my brain now of your perfect foot stool. I found it funny when you said, "She designed her own pattern out of cotton--the way people do when they really know how to sew”. This literally made me laugh out loud. There have been times that I have told certain people that my bachelor’s degree is in Apparel Design and they think I just learned how to sew…They have no idea the real talent and brains lie within the pattern making! haha
DeleteWhat a great stool! I would never have thought that the understructure was made of cans. How cleavr people can be with they have to, or want to be. In your grandmothers time she wanted something different, beautiful, and served a function, and found a way to make it happen
DeleteI love the fact it was made out of cans! I want to see a picture !
DeleteThere have been several handmade objects I have admired growing up. One that immediately comes to mind is a rocking chair my grandfather made. The chair itself is simple in design. It has turned posts, an arched ladder-back, and a contoured wood slat seat. I don’t exactly know if someone else designed it, or if it was an original design based off earlier influences. I remember having “Hegedy Peg”, one of my favorite childhood books read to me in that chair. I also remember being scolded for “rocking too hard”, I suppose Granny and my mother alike, did not trust the craftsmanship of my Grandpa.
ReplyDeleteThe emotional and sentimental significance of the rocker is what makes it wonderful I think. My grandfather started building small furniture shortly after he married. When my grandmother was pregnant with my uncle (the first of three), she had horrible back pains. So the chair was fabricated for her. She sat in the chair through all three pregnancies and then gave the rocker to my mother shortly after my older brother was conceived. After I was born my family held on to the chair for about ten years till it was passed on to my aunt. I have not thought of it in years till this assignment. Looking back now I find it fascinating that: one, the chair survived for so many decades; two, all the women in the last tree generations of my family have sat in the rocker while pregnant with their children. It is an heirloom, as well a sort of tradition or right of passage. I wonder though, if tradition modifies art and craft? Or perhaps, craft adjusts tradition? I haven’t seen the rocker since I left for college, I assume it is still in good tact and I assume it will be given to my cousin once she is married. I like to think about how craft has an alternate timeline from its own. What I mean by that is craft itself has a time mark. When it was created, what culturally and aesthetically influenced is design, what tools were used? Then there is a mark of time in its use. As we have seen through the semester is how these well-crafted pieces have the ability to survive many decades. The rocker begins to have its own story, its own sentiment, and it has an interaction that can hold incredible meaning with its viewers ( my family).
I like your questions...tradition influences art/art, or does craft adjusts to tradition...good thoughts to meditate on/with
DeleteAs I was reading back over everything. The secondary question came up with: what defines tradition? Im still working on an answer though.....
DeleteIt is a good question, both personally and regionally or even based on medium.
DeleteThis is a really neat story. Every time I think of a rocking chair, I always associate it to babies or pregnant women. It is funny to think that a chair that rocks can bring so much comfort to someone. I love it!
DeleteYour story reminded me of my grandfather's recliner. Like you said, I never really thought about it until now. He spent a lot of time on that recliner and would wrap himself with a blanket and sit there for hours. He wouldn't even get up to open the door for us when we came to visit. My last memory of that recliner is my mom sitting on it and caressing it the day my grandfather died. Although it's a sad last memory of that recliner, I have many more happy ones of him spending time sitting on it, rolling it over to the living room to watch TV with us as kids.
DeleteThis was a difficult choice, as the object I thought of first is probably not the one I would grab first in case of fire but it is a witness and a reminder of what is important to me when I reflect on my childhood and my children.
ReplyDeleteThis object is something my mother bought for herself on a return trip back home from their last post overseas. They were stationed in Malawi I think in the early ‘80’s. It is a toy, a large wooden Pinocchio. It is a bit strange for me to think of this first, as it is not something I grew up with but something I saw my children & the rest of my parent’s grandchildren play with. Sometimes it would be an adult that was drawn to the object.
My parents stopped in Italy and Spain on the way back to the states from Malawi. Though this is a Pinocchio and should be from Italy I think I remember my mother said she bought it in Spain. I could only find one online on EBay and the person selling said he “guessed” it was from Italy, so I still not sure. It is 18.5 inches tall. It is made of turned wood with thick elastic making the arms rotate. The legs are movable with a metal mechanism that allows him to sit and stand-alone. I believe it is a production piece so this is not a one of a kind and though not particularly unusual it is fun and interesting. It is painted bright red, green and white; with the face, arms and legs the natural wood color.
I think for me it represents the sense of imagination my mother had and gave to us. Some of her love and occasional indulgence in the buying of toys might have come from her minimal time as a child. Her mother died when she was about 7, her dad when she was 12. Her sister was nine years older and raised her. I remember her love love of books, reading them to us as children and making up stories on long trips and continuing the stories in an ongoing fashion whenever we traveled. My favorite was about a mouse that accidently traveled with me from Virginia on most of our travels. She started that story in 1961 and continued it off and on for about 5 years. I also told my daughters stories usually based on their current interests or favorite toy. The best was Diana’s yard sale bear she named Gladys, all revolving around Gladys being rescued and being taught to use her magical powers.
Back to the Pinocchio: He stood in her kitchen in various places but usually on top of the refrigerator or high cabinets. Pinocchio was placed so that somehow this toy was a magnet to any child or imaginative person and they would ask to see it. This is not a huggable toy but it can stand and sit on its own. It is not the sort of toy you would imagine a child would want to carry around but they did. His chipped paint and loose shoes tell that story. It has a happy and sweet face but of course a very long nose. Once a visitor child or grandchild chose Pinocchio, they pretty much kept him with them until they went home. When the visitor left the “lost” Pinocchio was found in various places; the near by park, tucked in neatly for bed (with a book), by the pool sunning himself or left in the bathroom with the toothbrushes. Once my mom called to say Pinocchio was left with his feet in the pool. I don’t remember any talk of him representing a lesson in telling the truth, lying or any lesson for that matter. Somehow this toy was another connection for my children and me to my parent’s home. When going through a divorce this connection for my daughter helped, though being loved grandparents was the most helpful. I think Pinocchio reminds me of that. The heart of it was the hope or belief that toys were your friends and could at any moment come alive and be your real friend especially in times of trouble or just when you were feeling very alone. My eldest moved a lot with me and had to leave friends, just as I did moving every 18 months with my father. I certainly believed that toys might come alive for much too long maybe into 4th grade. I know as the youngest I was in a strange way like an only child. Most of my siblings were in school, and later in boarding school when my father started traveling. This gave me plenty of time to read, draw and later be with friends. My mother also spent a lot of time reading maybe too much, but this created a situation for a lot of independence and creativity when I wasn’t doing things I should be doing. I used to receive a comic book kind of magazine in the mail, it was for girls, called June and School Friends. It was newsprint and I believe it was British. Though sort of girly it had various stories/comic with girls having adventures. One of the characters had a doll that was her friend, could talk and they solved mysteries and had adventures together. We all just read everything. My father read Tarzan aloud, when he came home early enough.
ReplyDeletePinocchio was a toy that my mother shared with mostly the grandchildren and when we would visit her she would sometimes be found siting with the grandchild and Pinocchio discussing the day’s plans. She did not make Pinocchio talk he was just a wooden toy that was loved. We did not have television most of my grade school years and my parent’s high regard for reading and playing also was what fed our imaginations. So the Pinocchio reminds me of all of this when I see him in my kitchen.
Because of your story I will never again think of Pinocchio as something to fear..or any other puppet (all of which are a little scary in my world). I do have a stuffed rabbit that has been a part of my life for over 55 years.
DeleteOh, I loved reading this so much!!! It’s funny how he was left in random places all the time. As if he got up and walked to the pool and stuck his feet in himself...just like a real boy! Haha.
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ReplyDeleteNuevo Laredo is my home. It’s the place that still reminds me of my childhood each time I visit. When I think back of growing up in Mexico, I think of our simple lifestyle. We made the best of what little we had and we were happy. As a young girl, my mom wanted to become a school teacher but after being discouraged by her father and brothers, she went to a local academy to become a seamstress. I remember the sound of her sewing machine going on from early in the morning until sun down. She developed a little business and people from the neighborhood would come to her to make them clothes or fix their old ones. She made all our clothes and we accompanied her to the fabric store to pick out fabrics for our Sabbath School outfits and school uniforms. Across the street, my grandmother was sitting outside in her rocking chair crocheting all kids of items. Her most popular item was “tortilleros” which are Styrofoam containers to store warm tortillas. She knitted a cover for it and sometimes sold them or gave them away as presents. When my mom was about fifteen years old, my abuelita crochet a blouse for her as a birthday present. It’s a beige blouse with a single flower design on the front, back, and sleeves. The top portion of the blouse has small square designs and the bottom part has larger squares with flowers in between each square. My mother wore it for her birthday that year and always told me how much she loved it because it was one of the few pieces my grandmother made for her. When I turned fifteen, my mother gave me that blouse and told me she hoped I would love it as much as she loved it. I wore it several times but eventually just put it away after one of the threads came undone and I was afraid to ruin it more. I made sure it was in my luggage when I moved out of my aunt’s house and into the university dorms and in and out of different apartments after that.
have you ever considered having it framed?
DeleteI never thought of that but it's a great idea. That way I'll be able to look at it and admire it more often.
DeleteI definitely agree you should frame it. :)
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ReplyDeleteI moved to Edinburg to live with my aunt and uncle was I was ten years old. My parents, aunt, and uncle agreed that it would be a great opportunity for me to learn English and eventually have a greater chance to go to college. As a teenager and living away from my parents, my mom and I had a rocky relationship. I didn’t call as often as she would have liked me to and when she visited we had little arguments about anything and almost everything. She gave me the silent treatment after those arguments and I just found it so annoying. When my husband and I decided to get married, I called my mom and dad to ask for their approval. They couldn’t be happier for us and prayed for us over the phone. Sharing the details of the wedding with my mom got us a little closer together. She shared some of the things she had at her wedding and the different emotions she felt as the day got closer. I found so many similarities with her that I had overlooked throughout the years. She gave me advice as she always did and gave us their wedding Bible. She had promised my brother and me that whoever got married first could have that Bible. In the past three years that we have been married, my relationship with my mom has been the best. We share recipes and sometimes even complain about our respective husbands. After the wedding, we moved to Austin and I just had to make sure I had my mom’s blouse. I hung it in our closet and felt our somewhat bare apartment feel more like a home. Sometimes I take it out and admire it. I think of the countless hours my grandmother must have spent working on it. I can see the love she put into it as I run my fingers through the spotless crocheting. When I wear it, I feel like my mom must have felt when she first wore it: proud and loved. I find myself becoming more and more like my mom, as a wife and as a woman, and I don’t mind it at all. I know where my mom came from, her struggles and triumphs. I see the woman she has become because of her past and what a beautiful and strong person she is. If I can be half the selfless mother and loving wife my mom is I know she will be proud of me. I hope to one day have a daughter to pass on that beautiful blouse to and teach her all the love lessons my mom has taught me.
Beautiful story of growing and coming closer. Thank you.
DeleteI admire you so much Rebeca. I couldn’t imagine moving away from my family at such a young age. It made me cry reading how you rebuilt your relationship with your mom, which is so amazing. I can see now from your story, how important that blouse is to you. Really beautiful.
DeleteI wept when my grandfather gave me my wedding gift. All my life my Grandpa, and Grammy, have crafted items for their four children, nine grandchildren, and four great grandchildren. Over my thirty-one years I've received hand-braided wool rugs, wooden toys, a dollhouse with handmade furnishings, rocking chair, and a green velvet-lined walnut jewelry box. My Grandpa's love for me is wrapped up in many of these objects.
ReplyDeleteBut the wedding gift broke my heart. I've struggled a lot in the past two years as I embarked on many things that I assumed I'd do with someone else, once I'm married. But timing worked out differently than assumed and I found myself using the money my parents put aside for my wedding to increase what I could put down on my first house. Alone. So when Grandpa brought my wedding gift to my new-to-me house, all I could think was that in his giving me this gift at this time he recognized he might not be there to give me this gift when I am finally married. Perhaps, I should also explain my Grandpa officiated all of his children's weddings and thus far has officiated my sister's and three younger cousins' weddings. A fourth cousin, Rachel, will be married this November in California by Grandpa. I cannot fathom the idea of my grandparents NOT being a part of my marriage celebration, just as I cannot think of anyone else to speak the loving words of commitment and the binding of two lives over me and the man I marry.
Grandpa explained to me that he wanted to give these gifts to his grandchildren while he was still physically capable of bringing it to each one of us and so he could enjoy the way in which we received our gift. For each of his nine grandchildren he built square side tables made from reclaimed 200-year-old oak stair treads into which he inlaid wood of various kinds, walnut, ebony, purpleheart. As long as I have known my Grandpa, he has exuded carpentry. He always smells of freshly sawn woods, sometimes the curls of wood shavings caught in his flannel shirt. He learned carpentry from his father and even when Grandpa moved from the Harlan county farm and into the big city, Omaha, to teach as a professor and preach as an interim pastor in Omaha and Council Bluffs churches, he continued his tradition of making with wood. He has stored wood for years--the longest, if I remember correctly, was a huge unhewn walnut tree chunk that moved with my grandparents four times over fifty years, that he finally made into a gorgeous sideboard and oval coffee table (about ten years ago for their fiftieth wedding anniversary). The wood Grandpa found for his grandchildren's wedding gifts came from an Omaha home that was slated for demolition. He was able to collect the oak planks and store them for many years until he was ready to start making wedding gifts for his grandchildren.
I have my wedding present in my home. Without a husband. I spend a lot of time next to the table--reading for this class, posting for this class, watching Hulu with my cockapoo--and I think of my Grandpa a lot when I look at the table. I know the hours he put into building the nine tables; hours he spent thinking of his grandchildren and praying over our lives. God willing my Grandpa, well all my four living grandparents and aunts, uncles, cousins, will attend my wedding and celebrate that part of my life. I'll have this symbol of my Grandpa's love for the rest of my life. Someday I will pass it down to my own children; they will by then know of the life behind the name on the brass plate on this table: Dr. Russell Gene Jones Sr., pastor and teacher to thousands, author and speaker, carpenter and gardener, faithful and loving husband to Ruth Richert Jones, father to four bright and gifted children, grandfather of nine grandchildren, and great grandfather to four.
What a wonderful story. I have many black walnut trees in my yard, that have died due to the drought. When cutting them down, I saved several pieces to make into things. I incorporated a piece of it into my final project for our class. What I learned about the wood, is that it is beautiful when waxed, no staining needed, and that it a very hard wood, difficult to cut. You have inspired me to pass on art to my three girls for their weddings.
DeleteI love this story and I agree with what Future said. I am glad he didn’t wait either. That is a really neat story though. That was really inspiring of him to build each grandchild a table!
DeleteI wonderful your grandfather did not wait till you married. Maybe he knows that each of us has our own path to follow. Have you ever worked with him on a piece?
ReplyDeleteHandmade Spice Rack
ReplyDeleteOne of my most treasured pieces is a wooden spice rack made by my father in the 1960’s. My father was in UT at the time, we lived in student housing, and cash was scare. When things were needed my parents they would repurpose old items, or make what they needed. The spice rack hangs in my kitchen in a place of prominence; a place where I am able to view it many times a day, it is dimly lit with soft light from a nearby window, over my kitchen sink. It is filled with old glass bottles of blues and greens that I found in the fields around my grandmother’s home, with two ceramic blue birds placed between them. The spice rack is made of oak, with a dark stain, and a matt finish. It has a small drawer, for miscellaneous items, and a towel rack, the design is traditional in style, and practical like my family. The craftsmanship is of good quality, and held up through a hurricane submerged under 6 feet of water. I think of the crafts that my father has created as garage art, for this is where his works of creation come from. Our typical Sunday would consist of going to church and then my grandparents for lunch. After lunch my father, grandfather, and uncle would get together to discuss plans, strategies, tools, and supplies needed to make any number of things; it was exciting to see something being made from inception to completion, with the collaboration of craftsman. Often I would sit and watch outside the garage, for women and children were discouraged from entering. The garage was detached from the main house, it was a large white wooden structure, rectangular in shape with a green peaked roof; It lacked adornment, and had 2 large wooden doors. The inside was dimly lit, a magical place for those allowed to enter. Sound and smells of cutting wood, stains, paint thinners, and glues permeated often from within the garage to the open air outside, evoking passer byes of wonderment and excitement. The materials were often made from wood scraps saved by my grandfather from other projects, for that was the practical thing to do. The garage was filled with every imaginable tool, each with its own place, in a space neat and orderly ready for use. My grandfather being a master craftsman took pride in his work, was practical, and believed that things in the home served a purpose, and that the quality of workmanship was of up most importance, standards that my father lived by. I am reminded of these times while polishing the spice rack with oils, my hand s run along its smooth dark wood, with the smells of oil permeating the air evoking an involuntary spiritual awaking within me, sending me to an ethereal place where purity, warmth, and permanence abound; of memories of my father and grandfather who or both gone, a simpler time where artistic dreams come true, and of a family unity created through art.
I could envision everything you said and even the smells of the spice rack and garage. I grew up with a similar garage smell as well and it brings back great memories of helping my dad make furniture too.
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