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."

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.

"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!

Subscribe in a reader Add to del.ici.ous

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.

More heart projects...

The therapists who come into our home every day to provide therapy for our son are just the best... To show appreciation, since I have so little time, I think for a while and then give them gifts that are unique, and based on something I know about them.

For Aaron's occupational therapist, I made this bag...



because I know how hard it was for her to find suitable bags for toting around all of her equipment. It is large and durable, with padded straps, and a zipper that will allow the bag to be opened entirely, if she chooses to spread her things out on the floor. It also has a drawstring top for easy and secure closure.

Our speech therapist talked about a special purse her Grandmother made for her when she was a teen. She no longer wanted to use it as a purse, but it was important to her history, and she wanted it near her, and usable.


I turned it into a bolster pillow, with a potpourri pocket, so she could fill a little satchel with lavender (which her grandmother loved), and she could always have it near her. I figure, even if it doesn't go with her decor, she can use it as a casual sofa "huggy" pillow or something.

The hand that rocks the cradle...

I've been working so much lately, but everything has been really slow-going. I plan, rearrange, rethink, plan... I need a vacation, I think.

I am a mom, and an EXTREMELY busy one at that, but I just can't break down and wear mom-type clothes, and I can never find what I want in stores. When I don't do any personal sewing, my wardrobe shrinks. I bought some fabric that just spoke to me, and have had a hard time deciding what type of garment it should be. The denim-look linen is from Rosen and Chadick, and the printed cotton is from Britex, bought on my PACC trip to San Francisco last year.




Believe it or not, I remembered a favorite dress from about 10 years ago, found the pattern (with notes!) in my collection, and View B (long) is what I am creating...



I am also still working on a quilt (yes, a quilt) reinterpretation of a painting created by my sister in 1976. This is a quilt that will belong to my family, that we will actually use for sleeping... Finding the fabrics, colors, and the bits of time I have dedicated to working on it has taken two years so far... what a journey. How far am I from finished? I don't know.

As you can see, I am still in the "fabric collage" stage, organizing and positioning cut pieces, and making sure the colors pop vibrantly next to one another. I have it hanging from the ceiling post so I can see how it works as an image, as it grows and grows. It is about 3'x3' right now, on its way to being 6'x6'. It is meant to be childish and fun, but is far from what it will be when done - this is 25%, maybe? Forgive the picture quality and the drag lines from the way it is hanging - but I can't convey what it looks like in words...




Over the past weeks, I have also made a big, colorful bag, a Barney Rubble costume (yes, its true), and a variety of repairs and redesigns.

Above all, though, I've been enjoying my kids. They're only this small for a short time... Watching them run and play and laugh today made me happier than anything I could ever imagine. They inspire me creatively. The quilt will get finished when it gets finished.

Success, Significance, and Legacy

"Like lace and embroidery,(drawn-work's) first traces were discovered hundreds of years ago when, according to present history, the countries known to man were yet in a primitive condition, and the times were those now referred to as "the dark ages."

Even in those days, needle-work of various descriptions, though of rude contruction, was found in the tombs of those who had lived in other centuries even then long since passed."

- The Art of Drawn Work (Butterick Publishing Company, 1896)

This is a motivational message to all creative procrastinators...

If you never take out the machine, you will never begin the sewing project. If you never pull out the knitting needles, your grandchild won't have the blankie. If you never start typing, that screenplay will never exist. As they say, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step".

Why do you sew/knit/embroider? It is so much trouble! To the casual observer, it may seem a waste of time to repeadly stab a piece of cloth, making a delicate swirl on a collar, that will be nearly imperceptible to passers-by. When you finish a successful garment or accessory, that beautifully calm feeling is priceless. But it really isn't about the finished product. No, it isn't. It is about the process; the journey, really. You can't buy that at Target!

Seriously though, when you make something for someone you love, it has a special significance that trancends the object's function. When made carefully, and made to last, every detail, every slight irregularity, adds to its beauty, character and uniqueness. That project educates you along the way. Not only did you need to make it; it needed to be made. When you create something that will outlive you, that extends your reach into future generations, that is where legacy comes in. It is a gift, a service...


Vernice Armour, the first African-American female combat pilot in the US Marines, is a beautiful example of how viewing one's life goal as a service to others can lead to self-discovery. She is a big picture thinker, and presented such a motivating description of her life's calling in a TV interview ith Tavis Smiley, that I felt compelled to share the link.

On a personal note, my grandmother is 95, and lives in a nursing home in PA. She has had an Altzheimer-like condition for most of my life, so we have never really had a conversation that made any sense. Her nurse told me that, although my grandmother no longer speaks, she seems to be doing something all the time... a repetitive motion... "It looks like sewing", she said.