Friday, March 13, 2015

March column

March column


Sometimes we need to do something that is out of your comfort zone. The Fiber Folks of SW Mo that I belong to has a members challenge each year. This year we are to use our chosen fiber and express it in something that will make you see a season in it. For this weaving project I have chosen to do as pattern called Summer/Winter, a form of block weaving using two shuttles. When set up correctly with two colors, one shows on top as the other one shows up on back side. I am practicing the technique now but looking for fabric that will say Fall. If this is to confusing thats OK. Come in the store and I will show you. As I said this is definitely out of my comfort zone. I am set up now to teach weaving classes here in the store and yes I still sell books!

I would like to present the second part of the story by David Jones, who was born here in Granby and raised in Neosho. As I mentioned before he is working on the sequel to High Grade and I just found out the title will be Beyond High Grade. I am looking forward to his new book.

Last paragraph of Installment one:
Upon the return to the house I was ready for the best part of the visit—going to bed with Aunt Mary. We slept in a feather bed, covered by a down comforter.  It was cozy and quickly warm, snuggling into the deepness of the mattress. Aunt Mary would tell me stories until I fell asleep.
Installment number two.

When the stay at their home extended beyond three days, I was allowed to make the long distance call home. The phone, a square wooden box, hung on the wall of the dining room. The speaking apparatus was on the front panel. One side panel held the listening device. The crank was on the other side.
I’d pull a chair to the wall and remove my shoes. While standing tall on the dining chair I’d give the crank three hard turns. A voice spoke in my ear, “Number, please.”
“Neosho, 688,” I’d respond in as deep a voice as I could muster.
“David, are you enjoying the visit with your grandmother?”
 Who was this person? How did she know it was me? My surprise at being called by name by this invisible person was immense.
Mama Jones and Aunt Mary were deeply religious. At every meal and before going to bed, they’d bow their heads and thank the Lord for their blessings. They had little, but it was sufficient and they were happy. On Sunday’s, hand in hand, we’d cross the street to the Methodist Church, attired in our finest clothing. There we’d sing the hymns of praise, again offer up thanks and listen to the minister’s sermon. I’d sit between them, snug as a chick in the nest.
One day, when I was about ten my parents took me to Granby for another short stay. I headed for Aunt Mary’s bedroom to stow my suitcase.. Mama Jones stopped me. “You can’t sleep with Aunt Mary, anymore.”
Stunned, I turned to face her. “Why, did I do something wrong?”
“No, you did nothing wrong, you just can’t sleep with her anymore.”
Again, I struggled to comprehend, asking, “Is she mad at me.?
“No, David, you did nothing wrong and she’s not mad.  Take your suitcase upstairs. You’ll sleep up there from now on.”
Innocent tears of frustration and anger welled in my eyes. I plead, cajoled, cried and begged. I didn’t want to sleep upstairs. I wanted what I’d always done—sleep with Aunt Mary. There was never an explanation given for this edict—from Mama Jones, Aunt Mary or my parents.
 Other than for that one night, I don’t recall sleeping in that cold, lonely upstairs room.  It would be years before I comprehended those few words closed the door on the innocence of childhood and placed me on the long road to becoming an adult.
The last installment will be in my April column.
Thought for the day: To make an end is to make a beginning....TS Elliot

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Weaving, (borrowed from a friend)

"My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me. I cannot choose the colors, nor all the pattern see. Sometimes He chooses sorrow and I, in foolish pride, forget He sees the upper and I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly, will He reveal the pattern or tell the reason why. The dark threads are as useful in a weaver's skillful hand, as the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned." (Author unknown)