Trial of the Century (Revised)

Reposting: (original post date 7/25/11)

My great-grandfather, who is the father of my paternal grandmother, was born in 1895 in the same Hot-As-Heck dismal place in North Carolina as my grandmother was born, and eventually my father. (Although my Dad made a run for it at the age of 16, and never returned.) My grandfather's profession, based on information from Ancestry.com, was "farmer".

Uh-huh...

Born at a time when birth certificates weren't necessarily issued for Black Americans, he managed to carve out quite a career for himself. He had five children, a wife, and LOTS of land. Nearly 250 acres at his death. None of his children ever had to buy land of their own; they simply built their homes on the land he owned. Large enough to farm, but there was no farming going on. The prevailing rumor (the one I choose to believe), is that he was a bootlegger, and whatever other activities would gain him some cash and kind treatment from a town that didn't welcome his "kind". The town had a lynching tree. Interesting that everyone knew that, especially considering that for a long time, there were only one or two families in the town who would have been candidates for it.

I always imagined this place as a very tense, hostile kind of environment for the family, and I imagine that there probably weren't close personal friendships formed between them and the neighbors. Dating was impossible; you had to leave town to find a mate, especially since you risked being the first casualty on that tree if you pursued romance outside of your race.

So, you understand, as the family grew, and the children had children of their own, they spread out across the United States. Most of the original set of kids stayed and grew old in North Carolina, but the grandkids went north, west, and east. Chicago, New York City, and Los Angeles were popular destinations among them.

When you grow up in a town with a lynching tree, it is tough to undo the ideas you have about racism and how you are perceived. One of those grandkids moved to Los Angeles, and, oddly enough, was called to jury duty in LA in the mid-90's. She served as a juror in "The Trial of the Century." Yes, THAT one. Seriously. And we know how that turned out...

So, I'm particularly struck by the text of these pages in an old craft/etiquette/idea book of mine, written around the time of my great-grandfather's birth. Despite the language, it gives a glimpse of what race relations may have been like then, and how there was a certain fascination from the point of view of the author, that reminds me of the way the Grinch watches the "Who"s in Whoville celebrate Christmas with no presents. Note: no comparison intended between the Grinch and white people...

(Taken from Day Entertainments and Other Functions - Metropolitan Handy Series September, 1896)

This passage is about the Easter celebration, from the point of view of the (white) author.

"The little negroes, attired in the the latest styles...wend their ways to Sabbath schools, where they are to repeat verses in public... The children have brought from the woods loads of pink honeysuckle, yellow jasmine and wild laurel, so that the rude walls enclose a measure of sweetness and beauty not to be attained in the city cathedral at many times the cost, and it is safe to presume that the songs assiduously practiced for a week or more are sure to out-distance, in the literal acceptance of the word, any vocal efforts of a surpliced choir.... Singing, paying and preaching go on intermittently the rest of the day and nightfall witnesses the climax of the festival, when Easter becomes a veritable Candlemas... Everybody participates - the venerable, long coated elders, the fat cooks, swagger dining-room boys, house-maids gayly flirtatious, and children by scores, each and every one holding a candle in inverse ratio to the bearer's stature. All other lights are out and the candle beams waver weirdly upon intent, dark faces, as the procession moves along the aisles to the rhythm of of some rich far-sounding chant, such as we may hear only in the south from the lungs of a lusty negro congregation."

Mom's 80th b-day

The greatest family celebration ever!  It was so nice to be surrounded by all of my brothers and sisters, their children, spouses, and even their children's children!

Ressurection

Using the train from a grandmother's wedding gown, I was able to create a Christening gown for a client's daughter. The grandmother had passed away prematurely, and the mother wanted to have a piece of her mom for this special event. Knowing that the grandmother and granddaughter would never meet in this life, I knew this was meaningful and important for ALL three of them, and it was as if my hands were really inspired to give the dress a new life for this family. When I met the mom, she was early in her pregnancy, so it was more than a year before this project was completed, but I was able to spend those months picturing what I wanted to create. With very little interference *ahem*, direction from the mom, I was free to create what I envisioned, and she was thrilled to pieces with the outcome. The mother just trusted the process, and left it up to me. Fabulous! I met the family yesterday to deliver and try the gown, and it was just perfect. That felt great. She has promised pictures. I hope to get some, with permission to share them.

The threads that tie families together, even beyond death, are so meaningful. An old shirt turned into a teddy bear, a quilt made of beloved, well-worn aprons, a vintage dress given new life... they carry a meaning, a comfort, a message. It is more than clothing, and participating in bringing such messages to life is endlessly satisfying to me.

Over-ambitious

Tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen;
pour myself a cup of ambition,
and yawn, and stretch, and try to come to life...

-Dolly Parton, Nine to Five song lyrics

Originally posted 9/28/08, and still true (except for the coffee part... I now have maybe 3 cups a week...?)

I've done it. I actually plugged in, and started using... the coffee maker! A few months without regular doses of coffee, and I've been craving it. As much as I like to keep my counter tops clutter-free, I think this is a necessary contraption right now.

A nine-to-five life sounds like a dream vacation right now... But, the danger is, my workaholic personality would get me so tangled us in my life as a cog, that if I actually had a 9-to-5 (which is a rare schedule in New York City anyway), it would rapidly expand to 9-to-9 somehow, and the rest of the REAL stuff -- connecting, quality time with the kids, conversation, creativity, and other important details of life could whiz past in a blur as my spinning wheel accelerates.

On a rare outing about two weeks ago, with two women I really respect and admire, I found myself listening to their conversation about how stupid and pointless blogging is. "Who reads them, anyway?" they asked. (Guess they forgot... or I forgot to mention... I have one????) Rather than defend it, I just listened, and thought to myself, "Anyone who wants to read something specific, real, not necessarily motivated by the desire to sell you something, or push some agenda... Don't you ever long to read or participate in, appreciate, live vicariously, or just be a fly on the wall for, some one else's life?"

Okay, maybe the blogosphere isn't interesting to EVERYONE. I fully accept that. But it clearly isn't a waste of time, either.

I am a faithful reader of the www.Bittersweet.wordpress.com blog. The writing is so beautiful, I recently decided that there was probably some very astute marketing whiz with a talented team of writers and photographers creating the posts. But, whoa, Hannah has come out of the shadows, and if things are as she claims, this wonderful blog is the work of one exceptionally talented 19 year-old. I love spending time inside her creative brain every few days. Mind you, I've chosen an extreme example of greatness here... but it seems people who dismiss the blogging world don't know what they're missing.

But alas, I'm preaching to the choir, I guess!



Above, my daughter, and my GRAND (or is it "Great"?)niece and nephew. Yes, really!!!

In the weeks since my grandmother's death, I have come to realize a few things... It is only natural to want to slingshot past the accomplishments of my parents. I have been working hard and long at having more, doing more, blogging more and being more, in an endless attempt to build the perfect mom/wife/entrepreneur resume. And why? I have to learn to appreciate that we already have more than enough, and that everything else is just gravy.

My parents did the best they could, considering the opportunities they had. And they did a phenomenal job of that, too. Good gracious -- my own parents couldn't even choose which water fountain to drink from. My Mom-in-law just recently mentioned that the water fountains for "Colored" people in the North Carolina town of her childhood contained warm water. Imagine a hot day in the summer, stopping to quench your thirst with dirty, warm water from that fountain. The water in the "Whites Only" fountains was clean and cold. When my own mother was a child in Cincinnati, she could go to the local pool only on a specifically designated day of the week, after which, the pool would be promptly drained and cleaned, so that it would be suitable for use by White people again the next day. My own grandmother grew up in a town in North Carolina where she was a member of the only Black family living there. The town had a lynching tree.... Can you imagine? A lynching tree? In a town where there are only about seven people who are candidates to be hung there? Can you imagine the pressure?

Wow, when I look at our lives now, I am just AMAZED at how different my children's opportunities and experiences are. Ambition is good, and improvement is always good, but keeping it in perspective adds an attitude of gratitude to the people who, despite daily assaults on their self-esteem, sought to place their hopes and dreams in their children, raise them in an environment full of love and respect, and not harbor any ill-will towards those who treated them like second-class citizens. What a journey that must have been!

Maybe I've come to this realization later than most people do. But it gives a new meaning to a quilt made with pieces of a grandmother's house dress, a grandfather's work shirt, a baby's receiving blanket... It gives a new meaning to the recipes that have been handed down from generation to generation, the home remedies that got you back to work/school sooner, the dimples, hair color, or the gap-tooth smiles that characterize a whole line of descendants... It all matters. Much more that I realized.

I will not lament the absence of a 9-to-5. While I don't have an inbox filled with papers needing signatures and projects to complete, my inbox is full of lessons to pass on, children to raise and nurture, and a lot more to learn.

The Tree

I have a Sequoia theory, which is my own interpretation of a scientific fact I once heard, but have never again seen in any book anywhere... It resounded so deeply within me, that I keep it in my heart, carry it with me, and deeply believe it. Someone said (well, maybe it was a dream, ?, but I heard it loud and clear), that although Sequoias seem to be free-standing individual trees, when you study a group of them all together, they appear to be one organism, with a shared root structure. Dig down, and you can't see where one tree ends and another begins. They are endlessly intertwined and tangled together. I think families are the same way. Every member may grow on his/her own...some thrive, some wither, some in the sun, and some in the shade, but they all connect, and are indispensable in the life chain, and to each other.

"Hi, my grandmother is a resident on your floor, and, I know she won't know me if I ask to speak to her... I'm just checking in on her. How is she doing?" I would call her senior residence every once in a while to find out if she needed anything.

"Oh, what a sweet lady!" (I think the nurse was lying, but I'll never know for sure.) "Sure, she doesn't talk anymore now, and we're not sure if she can see, but she's comfortable, and I've noticed she moves her hands a lot. Did she sew? It kinda looks like she's sewing."

I used to hate the state of North Carolina. Somehow "hate" doesn't seem a strong enough word. I really thought it was absolutely the devil's very armpit. I was about 16 years old on my first trip there, on a spur-of-the-moment trip with my parents to see my grandmother. She was a woman I didn't understand. I only got to "meet" her after her death, and now, finally, it all makes sense.

I wish everyone could get an opportunity to have a "full circle" experience like mine, which will probably take a few posts to explain... but my father never mentioned her... EVER. I mean, we were aware that she existed, of course, but kinda silently agreed that we all suspected some huge scandalous backstory that we didn't want to hear. It may seem strange that a person would never have ANY stories to share about his mother, and that he only sent money, checked in with others regarding her welfare, and only reluctantly called her to say "Happy Birthday" or "Merry Christmas", never forced us kids to get on the phone with her, never pestered us to send cards or acknowledge her in any way... But, what is even stranger, is an outta-the-blue announcement that we would be going to visit her.

So she lived in a ridiculously little town near Charlotte, NC. Well, not near... but there's no other way to identify it. It was mid-summer, and so brutally hot I thought I would absolutely fry. My Grandmother's family (funny how I don't refer to them as my Dad's family) was, for far too long, one of the only African American families in that town, and BOY, could you tell when you got there. In what seemed a relatively affluent neighborhood, my grandmother occupied a very large lot, and lived in, what appeared to me (or to anyone, really), absolute squalor. Was that a house, a shack, or what? Someone had been regularly clearing the weeds and trees, I could tell. This little lady came out to greet us, and her face brightened. I didn't want to go in. I didn't want to stay. She hugged my dad, my mom, and then me, staring at me in amazement, saying "You look just like me!" Geesh, I hoped not. She wasn't bad looking, and in great physical shape, but she must have been about 80 then. So you know what I mean.

We sat down in the front room, which seemed to be her bedroom, living room and parlour, all rolled into one. A huge photograph of what looked like some random native american (I would later learn it was my paternal grandfather), a very old, beautiful sewing machine, a pot-belly stove (seriously), her bed, and other random stuff. We talked in polite, circular conversations for what felt like an eternity. She would disappear in her thoughts, forget who we were, and need to be reminded. She would occasionally glance at me, brighten, and shout "Oh, you look just like me!" The surly teenager in me would repeatedly respond, "I'm your granddaughter" over and over again. This was news to her every time I said it. And she kept looking at my legs, repaeating "Pretty little legs!" happily. There were several doors to this room, but it wasn't until she was distracted for a bit outside, that I got to see the world they were hiding.

My dad got up and explored the kitchen. As long as I live, I will never forget what we saw when we opened it for the first time. I know people eat squirrels, but she had caught them herself, and stored them in the fridge, fur on... Yeesh. In retrospect, I think this trip must have been for my dad to verify for himself that she couldn't live alone. The kitchen was tidy, but showed no sign of an awareness of sanitary storage procedures or food safety issues. This may have inspired my deep love for beautiful kitchens and knitted dishcloths. Just the greatest symbols of nurturing and love, which were absent in this place.

This is a page from Needle Craft: Artistic and Practical, published by Butterick Publishing Company, Ltd. 1889.

Everywhere a foreigner...

It seems everywhere I go, I am asked, "Where are you from?" But somehow, I know this means I am an outsider everywhere.

Often called an "out of the box" thinker, I can no longer find the box. I'll need to be okay with that, since, apparently, it isn't going to change. It isn't something I learned, chose, or decided to become. It just is what it is.

I haven't worn a watch in over a decade. It has been so long now, that I no longer consider that unusual. My reasoning is, while it is often important to know what time it is, it is almost never necessary to know exactly what minute or second it is. When I need that kind of precision, I refer to a stopwatch or a wall clock with more hands. I see no reason to be constantly tethered to a timekeeper. If I leave for a destination on time, barring circumstances beyond my control, I will arrive on time. Checking my watch frequently won't help me to get anywhere faster, or change anything at all. I found it liberating when I first began, and never saw a reason to go back to wearing one again.


My son is afraid of his new shirt. Really afraid. Like, he runs and screams at the site of it. I can laugh about it, but it kinda sucks after the time investment. Somehow, it doesn't look like his other shirts, and he finds that disturbing. My daughter had a great suggestion, though... She thinks I should show him some cartoons with the Droopy character, so that he can get used to, and possibly start to like the idea of the shirt. We'll see.


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"Aim High!" - oh, and Knitting and Cheesecake

In the years since my dad's death, I have carried his business card around in my wallet. Don't know why, really... Just something I haven't parted with... makes me feel that he's with me. Recently, I cleaned our my wallet, and decided to put the card away in my business card file, when I noticed some writing on the back...

This must have been the reason I started carrying the card, or maybe it was to remember his work telephone number... but in the years since then, I just thought of it as my Dad's card. I know I put it every wallet since high school, and probably before... so at least a good 20-30 years now...

Well, apparently, the reason I started carrying it in the first place, was a short note written to me on the back. It read "Aim High!"

Did my Dad write me this note?

Nope.



It was from Shirley Chisolm... the details of that encounter are fuzzy now, and I only vaguely remember it.

“I had something important to explain,” recalls Chisholm in the documentary. “I ran because somebody had to do it first. I ran because most people thought the country was not ready for a black candidate, not ready for a woman candidate. Someday – it was time in 1972 to make that someday come.”

Considering our current democratic candidates for the US presidency, isn't it funny that I would find this RIGHT NOW?

Okay, strangely enough, while looking for relevant links to flesh out this post, I came across a reference to a documentary film that I remember knowing existed, but possibly forgot about? Anyway, I clicked on the About the film-maker link. Uh... you're not going to believe me... we went to high school together.

Progress on the DNA scarf.



As an inexperienced knitter, I think I'm aiming pretty high with this DNA scarf pattern. Having completed my sample, and practiced the cable sequence, I bought the yarn for the scarf I actually intend to complete. I feel the width of the scarf is narrow for my taste, so instead of the 1:2:1 ration of border to cabled area, I am knitting mine in a 1:1:1 ratio, if that makes sense. Right now, I am 4 rows into my seed stitch, forcing myself to relax and knit slowly, only at night, to peacefully wind down before bed.

On Cheesecake

I don't like having tools that serve only one purpose, taking up precious space in our kitchen. So, I don't own a springform pan. I thought that meant I couldn't make cheesecake, which I love, and have been craving.



But... guess what? Disposable foli baking cups allow you to make cheescake cupcakes!
Man, I have eaten more of these than I care to admit today!

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Hello and Goodbye...

Energy can be changed from one form to another, but it cannot be created or destroyed. The total amount of energy and matter in the Universe remains constant, merely changing from one form to another.

-The First Law of Thermodynamics

In the week since her death, I have finally gotten to know my grandmother. Family stories, documents, information, and legal complexities have been swirling all around me, and now I see, with absolute certainty, why this has happened right now, and why these responsibilities have landed on my plate. I am not one of those people who talks about spirits floating around us, but this morning, I got a divine "wink", in no uncertain terms.

Far too complicated to explain here, but I needed one obscure piece of information, and I went to the library, with no idea where to begin searching for it... a very dedicated library staffer, was able to retrieve exactly one piece of information on the topic I sought, and it just happened to be EXACTLY the information I needed. It might not seem so strange to you, but if you only knew how obscure this information is, you'd be floored.

The family stories I've learned in the past few days would make a fantastic novel or movie, but since they involve people who are still living, I can't go into details here. Suffice it to say, many questions were answered, and now so much more is understood. I am truly at peace with this whole process, and it has given me important information for my own life.

Here's what I learned:

Make sure you have a Will. Make sure you indicate what should be done if the beneficiaries die before you do.

Love your family completely for exactly who they are, and not who you wish/hope/manipulate them to be.

If you absolutely cannot agree with someone, keep your distance, while maintaining respect for them.

Don't worry about what you were meant to be; decide who you are gonna be, and be it! (That one is from my Dad)

Listen to your heart at all times.

Like the first law of thermodynamics insists, her passing has set another set of cosmic wheels in motion, pushing her family to forge new relationships with one another, think beyond ourselves, make positive changes... ah, the circle of life.

Now, I must sew. My heart says so...


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When will it end?

Be what you is...
not what you ain't...
Cos if you ain't what you is,
You is what you ain't.

-Luther D. Price

I chose these words because sometimes something so true is best expressed simply, plainly, even if grammatically incorrect.

I recently had a conversation with a really talented dressmaker who started honing her sewing skills during a long childhood illness. There was a time (Great Depression-era) when it was not uncommon for family doctors to "prescribe" knitting, sewing and embroidery-type activities for anxiety and depression in their patients. Gratitude journals and other new-age pursuits get a lot of press, but nowadays, the medical landscape is so much more dangerous.

What is a dimming pop star? I am just so sad for Britney. I hope she can find who she is, and not dwell on who she isn't. My heart aches for her. Doesn't this facial expression say it all?



We really have to stop beating people up in the media. It is clear that she has problems that need to be handled away from the glare of the spotlight. There outta be a law preventing this kind of voyeuristic, predatory pursuit of people on the brink of disaster.

When the teacher becomes a student...

This stream of conciousness post is just bursting out of me, so I'll just write, and you'll get it straight from the heart that way, okay?

Funny thing about blogging... I'm always thinking about what I want to tell, but not necessarily getting quiet and still enough to listen to what I want to know, and, more importantly, need to know... or better yet... might not know I want/need to know.

Make sense?

I was thinking about my Pay it Forward projects, and realized that I'm always thinking about what I want to make, but not necessarily what the people I'm doing it for would actually want to have.

Well, after teaching and preaching all the time, I spent the past week as a student.

Of everything.

Well, maybe I'm lying a little bit. What I did, was slow down (no, that's a lie, too)... we moved this week... to what is an incredibly great new apartment. I always felt that living in a free-standing house in New York City was an incredibly inefficient (environmentally, logistically, socially) and expensive way to live, and we are soooo not do-it-ourselfers...

So, with much drama and many glitches, we finally moved.

On meeting the neighbors:

Who knew there were this many nice people in this city???? We have had people offer to help us with EVRYTHING... hold open doors, introduce themselves, offer help with the kids, disposal of boxes and wrapping stuff... the welcome has been incredibly warm. I really didn't know people could be this nice.

This building is in a rapidly changing neighborhood and seems to have no racial, religious, or cultural majority. It seems to be an incredibly tolerant and respectful atmosphere. After 3 PM on weekdays, the building is alive with children. It is so great that everyone is being noisy at our noisy time! What a gift to be able to give our kids... they can run around freely in this space, in a way they never could in the house. No stairs!

The move was a lot of work!!!!

I've always been a person who tried to be great at everything. Guess what? I'm not! And there is probably a good reason for that. We all have different talents
and abilities. I've lived long enough to know what my main talents are, and I've chosen to embrace them. I have wasted so much time worrying about why I'm not better at this or that... who cares? I'm not great at baking - but my mother is. I can't remember birthdays to save my life, but my aunt and sis-in-law are pros at it. (Shoot! Tomorrow is her birthday!) I have a hard time organizing all of my sewing stuff, and professional info. It is always a mess. Guess what? No pictures of my studio are likely after the initial setup photos, if I post them.


So what does this mean?

I leraned the importance of listening to people, appreciating their unique talents and abilities, and discovered that even someone who doesn't speak your language, may, in fact "speak your language".

So I'm slowing down a bit now.

I took an actual nap today. (20 minutes!!!)

I will aim to be more patient, make a conscious effort to be a student, and find quiet moments once in a while.

Full circle (or, why I cut class in high school)

The weather in Manhattan was GORGEOUS today!

Today, was a "full circle" kind of day. We played hooky. All three of us. I took Nadine to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for an "art day", and cancelled Aaron's morning therapy, so that we could just enjoy the beautiful weather and the grand re-opening of the Uris Children's Center.

And this day was for my own enjoyment, too...

I went to high school in the 80's on the edge of Museum Mile, and when I got really bored in class, I would take off early and go to the museums and study my favorite pieces.



I have always loved the way this section of the museum feels. And the wishing pond, where I gave my daughter coins to toss in, after making her wishes.



And we went to the roof garden to see the current Stella exhibit.





I remember one particular day, after an intense exchange with my "World History" teacher, I complained that to study Western European history as "World" history excluded the history of about half of our class. Being a PhD smarty-pants-ish teacher, she took offense. I wish I had the words to really express myself in a way she could have understood. I know my point is valid, but I really couldn't be heard, in the way I chose to express it. I think that's why I gravitated towards artwork that acknowledged the diversity of the American Experience.

I always loved to just stare at intricate textural work, too, and Faith Ringgold's art has always been just magical to me, while "speaking" to my heart.

Ringgold's work excites me, and it speaks to my inner child, who is still very much alive... I have read her books to my own daughter, and hung a calendar of her art in my daughter's room.

A few years ago, I attended a quilt exhibit at the American Bible Society, and a family friend (who curated the exhibit) introduced me to Faith Ringgold. I nearly fainted! Meeting her was so exciting... and not for the reasons you think --- no lightening bolts shot out from her fingertips... she just greeted me like a REAL woman would - a person, a human being! It inspired me to continue to really create what resonates in my soul... because somewhere, maybe I can be what she has been to me... to someone else.


So today, at the Uris Children's Center opening.... who was there???? Yes, you guessed it! And she agreed to pose for a photograph with my daughter!


I wish I could have really had a moment to express why I was so excited to see her, but I should have rehearsed/prrepared something... because I could only muster that we have a friend in common, and would she mind posing with my daughter... Oh well.

And today... she did look pretty magical.

It was the absolute highlight of my day!

So I am nearly finished with my quilted interpretation of my sister's painting. Mine will likely never hang in a museum. My own family and possibly future generations will be able to actually use it. And, today, I think of my grandmother's sewing fingers. Maybe we can't communicate with words, but our fingers dance to the same rhythm. As for the quilts I make, my family will sleep beneath it ... and dream.

On lace, running a business, and raising a child

It has become so much the fashion to worship all things ancient that most lovers of fine lace would prefer to have it a century old; and yet there never was a time when laces were more beautiful, more artistic, and more unique in design than just at the present day; for modern laces preserve the best features of the laces that have gone before them, and have added so many new inspirations that except for the sentiment, the romance, or the history connecting this scrap with a title, that with a famous beauty, and another with some cathedral's sacred treasure, the palm would certainly be given to the gauze-like production of the poor flax thread spinner of the present day.

-The Art of Modern Lace-Making (Butterick Publishing Co, 1891)

I came across a scrap of the lace I used to make a wedding gown last year, and decided to give it new life as part of the design for my new pillows...




It looked too new, pristine, and precious, so I gently tea-dyed it to give it some maturity, and to make it blend in with my color scheme. The subtlety might be lost in these photos, but now it has a golden hue.



The aging of this peice was completely artificial, and, although it serves my purpose, I will always be aware of this fact. As I tea-dyed this lace, I thought about my own maturity, and how glad I am to be able to look back on yesterday, last month, last year, fully appreciate how much I am learning and changing.

If running a business is like raising a child, my business is a teenager.

The past year for As You Wish, and for myself, as its sole proprietor, has been characterised by great successes, happy clients, crazy outbursts, fitful tantrums, delusions of grandeur, lapses of judgement, long peaceful flows of projects, boundless energy, quickly followed by miserable fatigue. I am now emerging from it, having learned some painful lessons about who I am, who I am not, and who I want to be... and my business is better for it, although three of the past year's twenty-four clients' projects, unfortunately, were casuaties of my own inner conflicts.

"Sure, you can, but you'll have to eat your young..."

Is what one very wise client said to me, when I lamented that I wanted to be able to endlessly produce perfect and beautiful garments. To pretend that I could just work myself ragged and produce happy result after happy result with no errors was a ridiculous prospect, especially on no sleep and full-time mothering. My superwoman complex is winding down... thank goodness. Today, I am spending two hours (TOTAL) peacefully working on a project for a client with a long deadline, and very clear and straightforward instructions. I feel rested and happy.

A diet that works! (Literally, the happiest days of my life)

Destiny grants us our wishes, but in its own way, in order to give us something beyond our wishes.

-Goethe



I've been a bit distracted from writing any sewing posts lately, for reasons you will soon understand. I am, quite literally, experiencing the happiest days of my life. If you are a friend or family member, you already know why!

Last week, I was feeling like making some more interesting foods, and I decided to make falafel (which I love). Because my son, Aaron has so many food sensitivities and sensory issues, the only way I can control what he eats, is to cook it myself. I had a suspicion that falafel would be something he would like. Turns out he does, but that isn't the main reason for this entry. On my search for tahini paste, I popped into a health food store, with a sign that read "Gluten-Free products".

So yeah, whatever... I've heard all the crunchy granola-types espousing this gluten-free diet, but not understanding what gluten is, or why a special diet is supposed to help some autistic and ADHD children, the information just rolled past me. I've seen a few moments of Jenny McCarthy hawking her book on Oprah and other shows, talking about autistic children and their diets, but after tossing her cutesy child-rearing books in the trash in a fit of rage a few months ago, I didn't really care too much about her opinions. I also have almost NO time for TV these days, but I guess it made me a bit curious.

Well, I asked about this gluten-free philosophy (which no doctor, or any respected professional had ever mentioned to me), and the heath food store worker/owner? explained exactly why a gluten-free diet might be helpful. He suggested I simply replace the gluten products Aaron currently eats with gluten-free versions, and see if there's a difference.

We started the diet on Monday. Aaron was different on MONDAY. In more ways that I can even list here. Call it coincidence, magic, whatever... I'm just grateful. Naps that last two and a half hours... UNHEARD OF before this week. We have never seen my son nap longer than an hour or so EVER... Sleeping through the night with no 4 AM screaming... He is calm, peaceful. He knew one speed before this week -- and it was RUNNING! Frantic purposeless running has stopped. He will let me read him a book. He is not flailing, crying, screaming. It is like this diet peeled away a veil, revealing this sweet, loveable bundle of a kid. His bowel movements are different, his ability to pay attention, his steadiness on his feet, his tolerance level for different textures and changes... I can take him out with me, and he is completely cooperative. This is only day four, and he is absolutely a DIFFERENT child!

Since I've been on this cooking and health-food store binge, it just so happens that the meals I've made over the past week or so have been in the vegetarian or vegan category. The unexpected side effect is that everyone is in a great mood, and sleeping really well. We are all waking up early, with lots of energy. It makes me think about how much our diets affect every aspect of our lives.

So anyway, I'm just grateful. It is like giving birth again! And I've gained about 2-hour block of quiet nap-time in my day, that I can use for a little work, writing emails, whatever...

Stitches from the soul...

I once had a bridal client, with a beautiful wish. She had her late mother's wedding dress, which had been handmade by her mother, and wished she could modify it for her own wedding. Problem was, her mom was a tiny woman, and the bride-to-be was of a much more modern, athletically healthy build. We examined the dress, and determined no flattering alteration could be done.

I took her mother's dress partially apart, and we agreed to incorporate sections of it into a new gown, for her relaxed, outdoor wedding. We went to New York Elegant Fabrics together, and bought a creamy silk that complimented the yellowish tint her mother's aging gown had acquired, and a lovely floral embellishment for the neckline, waist, and godets.




From the fabric, I made a custom, plain halter-style gown for the bride. Using the lace from her mother's dress, I made a waist detail for the new one.




I kept her mother's hand stitching on two long triangles cut from the original gown, so that the bride could walk down the aisle with the feeling of her mother's "hands".





And it was a beautifully fulfilling project. This one is a good example of when a dress isn't just a "dress".