Grandma’s Blues, Part II: “ ‘Anonymous’ was a Woman”

A nagging question for quilters and historians, especially women historians, is: Why are there so few signatures on our grandmothers’ quilts—or any other kind of hand work for that matter? Why is it so difficult to trace the women who preceded us? This makes "Grandma's Blues" not just a color, but a melancholy-worthy thought. 
         One of my favorite inherited quilts (albeit, green and not blue) contains my grandmother’s signature, of sorts, and the year it was made. This makes it the only one of her quilts that is signed and dated, to the best of my knowledge.

Was it signed and dated because the occasion was important? I think so, for this block is in the center and she made it for her first child and only son, my dad, born in 1920. His name and birthdate appear in a center block as well. 
         My grandmother loved to read and some of my dad’s fondest childhood memories were of his mother reading to him. This quilt testifies to that past, as it contains images from the Peter Pan story, a book she probably read to him when he was six or seven years old. Better yet, it contains an image of Mother Reading a Story, which does not appear to be connected to the Peter Pan story.

The quilt came to me in poor shape. My mom (a devoted knitter) had understood that this quilt was to be used along with several others. She didn’t quite see its uniqueness.

By undoing several stitches of the lighter green border fabric, I discovered that it was added by my grandmother (possibly in the 1940s or early 1950s) to cover the worn out edges. This suggests that this particular quilt had some sentimental value for her, as she took the time to repair it and then gave it to my folks.

My mom had machine zigzagged the holes that had developed across the top (for quilters, this is like nails on a chalkboard—so sorry). However, thanks to the zigzags, the quilt managed to hold together until it landed in my hands. I picked out the zigzag stitches in the mending process.

Using closely matched fabrics from my stash, I have inserted the newer fabrics into the worn blocks (occasionally taking out the quilting) and sewn down the shreds of fabric to the newer fabric in the worst spots. Consequently, the quilt appears whole again from a distance, but upon closer inspection, the repairs can be seen. As some of the quilting had already disappeared through wear, I will eventually re-quilt it.

The images come from a distant era, the 1920s or earlier. Much of the embroidery had worn away, however the pencil marks remained so I was able to bring the images back to life. Besides Wendy (shown at the beginning), there are pirates, 

the Lost Boys, 

an Indian,

and Nana, the nanny/dog. And Peter?

It seems that this is Peter, an elfish child playing the flute and with a feather in his hat. Other images lend a magical note. There is a mermaid,

an impish elf teasing a cat,

and, of course, Tinkerbell.

While writing this post, I went to my mom's 1930 book: 

Two thoughts: first of all, if memories of Walt Disney's movie color your vision of Peter Pan, then read the original version by J.M. Barrie. It's sophisticated and funny and written with a great deal of depth--obviously written for adults as well as children. In fact, I can't imagine kids understanding the half of it.  Second thought: In a later edition, Wendy lost out when the title became simply Peter Pan. And that's a pity for she is associated with a mothering role, however, Peter Pan will replace her again and again--as if mothers are interchangeable.
        So I would like to hear from you...what about your grandmothers and great-grandmothers? Do you possess any traces of them? What would you have liked to possess? Why didn't they sign and why have they been erased? Are there exceptions to that in your family?


And thinking of my children and grandchildren, I will sew a tag to the back that tells the history of this quilt that includes three generations: I count my mom as her zigzag stitches will remain forever visible.

_________________________________________________________________
Update: Created by Ruby Short McKim, this quilt pattern appeared in 1926 in the Kansas City Star newspaper. See: http://baltimorealbumquilts.com/ and click on "Peter Pan". Thanks to Michelle of Michelle's Romantic Tangle for drawing this to my attention. 

The Art of Accumulation

One of the drawbacks of living in a small country is that certain activities cannot be done if you don’t want the whole town mocking you or, by the ricochet effect, mocking your family. Consequently, one of the few things I can complain about is that I’m not allowed to go junking or foraging for castoff items when I leave the safety of home. When my husband sees me eyeing rocks (for my garden) from the car, he says sternly: “Do NOT go take those rocks from that dump.” Ok, ok. 

Then there’s the shop we drive by regularly that has old doors, windows and wrought iron in all stages of decay—very tempting.

However, the owner will inevitably ask ten times the normal price when he sees my pasty white skin and blue eyes that mark me as a foreigner. Even with bargaining, I would still pay a higher price than a Tunisian. This I know from experience and it’s annoying to be swindled.

     There is a silver lining: Tunisians of my husband’s generation—and older—accumulate. That is, they find it difficult to throw out anything because it might be useful…someday. This character trait probably developed during colonization when the colonized population tended to be poor, and continued after independence because of laws regulating currency and tight restrictions on imports. Thus, one could never count on stores to carry regular stocks, especially of imported items. Tunisian currency simply did not (and does not) carry clout on the international money market. This explains why I have a small collection of useless miscellaneous items that includes old radios, fans, and irons.

      TRUE story: a French woman married to a Tunisian neighbor (for semi-rural zones a neighbor is anyone living within a 2-mile radius) decided it was time to clean out their basement, which she could barely get into because of the boxes of accumulated paraphernalia and odds and ends. While her husband was absent on a business trip for several days (obviously, she knew him well), she hauled the boxes to the closest garbage pick-up site on the main road—and was quite pleased with herself.

         Unfortunately for her, the garbage pick-up is not a daily occurrence.  When her husband drove home, he spied the boxes overflowing with his possessions sitting by the side of the road. He screeched to a stop, loaded up the boxes, and returned home with the whole kit and caboodle. His wife could only laugh. Can a leopard change the color of his spots?

         Although I do not have a basement, the garage (and the house, for that matter) contains an accumulation of "stuff" that would delight anyone who likes to repurpose and recycle. So, taking into consideration the look of pain on my husband’s face every time I have attempted to toss out something, I have adopted a new version of “use it or lose it”: it is simply “use it.” And this forces me to be creative. Examples:

Small, hand-woven wool rugs became pillows when they frayed and wore out.  The table is the sink hole from a bathroom marble counter and the feet are a beat-up stool painted black. The hooked rug belonged to my grandmother. 

I was told that these particular flat weave designs are no longer produced, so I am thankful I didn't toss them--could this accumulation character trait be rubbing off on me?

The patio table (shown in a previous post) is made of an old portable radiator and a house step removed during remodeling. 

The hanging wrought iron pieces with grape leaves are the legs to a small table that fell apart. The legs are attached together with wire. Nests, seashells, and rocks--including foot-shaped rocks that have walked across my path--decorate the table and seem cat-resistant.

         Final thoughts about the art of accumulation: The younger “consumer” generation does not seem to accumulate because laws controlling currency and imports have loosened, allowing a flow of goods into Tunisian markets—to the detriment of the Tunisian economy and to the benefit of corrupt leaders. With the Revolution, Tunisians must face the reality of a faultering economy in which unheard  of shortages now occasionally take place. Items that have always been available in abundance have been disappearing for periods of time from store shelves, such as bottled water, sugar, and pasta. The art of accumulation may take the upper hand again.

Of course, I still have a mountain of “stuff” to work through so I don’t really regret not being able to junk; many a happy hour of creative thinking and play await me. Right now I'm trying to figure out what to do with a bidet removed from the bathroom during remodeling. The makeover could be blog-worthy, so stay tuned...

Grandma's Blues, Part I

My grandmothers were the old-fashioned variety. They were plumpish and had wrinkles, glasses, white tinted-blue hair, and soft bosoms, yet the angry blue goose represents them well, for they were strong women in their own ways and worked diligently to protect their families. One was smiling and gentle and the other was formidable--and I loved them both. Everyone should have one of each in my opinion, because we need those examples. Neither grandmother jogged, swam laps or worked out, they just gardened. And their lovely gardens linger in my memory. The gentle one went to teachers’ school and loved to read. The formidable one obtained a degree in music, then became a high school music teacher in a northern town until she hooked the most eligible bachelor around, the doctor. 

My formidable grandmother is the first person on the right in the third row. Certainly, the majority of readers cannot possibly be interested by old family photos, however the 1915 University of Minnesota graduating class in music is an interesting group. In fact, it's a noteworthy group because women students outnumber the men at a time when few had the opportunity of attending universities at all. The problem with history remains that women are generally forgotten and a major problem for women is that they do not have a history. As a researcher in cultural and women's history, I delight in bringing forward the forgotten achievements of women--our grandmothers--to demonstrate that women must not be described as victims, but as participants in our mutual history. If I had the know-how, I would insert a "one-hundred-gun-salute" here.

         Back to "Grandma's Blues". My formidable grandmother did sophisticated embroidery and apparently had some notions of how to quilt because her daughter made a crib quilt for the new baby sister (my mother).

I particularly like the cat with his strange tail and perplexed expression.

My formidable grandmother also possessed a quilt of fine fabrics made by her mother, however, this is the extent of my grandmother's quilting history, as far as I know. Apparently, she wasn't a quilter.

This log cabin shimmers because of the fancy fabrics, however, they are disintegrating. It was draped on my grandmother's baby grand piano.

On the other hand, my gentle grandmother was a quilter who sewed only by hand. My mother kept several quilts carefully to pass on. Here is one of "Grandma's Blues," a nine-patch probably made in the 1930s or 1940s:

A lovely purple quilt with a basket design:

This bear paw quilt was made in the 1930s for my grandmother's youngest sister who taught primary school. 

Age has not faded the bright yellow.

It contains some cute fabrics of the period. 

I also inherited several worn out quilts that nobody wanted (fortunately for me), which I am slowly mending and restoring. Here is a second "Grandma's Blues."

This much-used quilt still has my name tag on it, so I apparently took it to summer camp when I was eight years old. Of course the most wear has occurred at the top where there is the most pull. I have begun repairing it (upper left) by inserting a similar used fabric and then doing needle-turn appliqué to sew the frayed fabric onto the inserted fabric; I call it "sewing the holes." Truth to tell, my mother asked my grandmother if certain quilts were for everyday use or should be preserved and my grandmother told her to use them. On the other hand, one specific quilt was to be carefully preserved and passed on as it contains blocks from my great-great-grandmother.

My grandmother took the time to quilt it with precision.

This quilt will probably never be used as the fabrics bleed, however, it will be appreciated for the memory of grandmothers that it provides.

Black & White, and Red

Obtaining a selection of colors in tiles is more complicated than building a fabric collection. I occasionally stop by the building supply stores where tiles are sold to see what they’ve got, but one of the hardest colors to find is red. How many people want a red tile wall, after all? Even the idea is overpowering. So red is scarce…I began to get desperate. Something that can’t be possessed becomes extremely desireable…

Then one of the merchants mentioned a company that might have what I sought. So I checked their website and headed over to their showroom on the other side of Tunis. There I found lovely, but expensive, tiles—generally three times the price of normal tiles. The price reflects the amount of hand work required to achieve such fine quality. And yes, they had red tiles.

When the saleswoman showed them to me, along with other wonderful colors, she eyed me as if I was going to start frothing at the mouth because I couldn’t hide my excitement. With some trepidation she asked what I was going to do with the tiles. “Oh, I’m going to break them.” She visibly winced and groaned. I tried to reassure her: “Don’t worry, I’ll use every little bit.” That didn’t help, so I explained about my mosaic plant containers. She became more pleasant and offered to sell me a square meter of a mix of colors. This was definitely close to paradise.

So I went home, sanded down the back ridges, and began breaking the tiles with my “nippers” (I still find that to be the strangest word—it tickles my funny bone) in an effort to get small, somewhat even pieces. My first pot (and one of my favorites) in the black, white, and red series:

One 30-year old pot required cementing to repair the disintegrating rim. 

The Before or rather the right-after-I-began-gluing photo:

And the After:

Then I saw several examples of mosaicked balls or “orbs” on the internet. Lightbulb! So I gathered the necessary forms. The dogs had four shrunken soccer balls, so I left them with one. They don’t seem to have noticed. One day, while grocery shopping I found Christmas tree ornaments on sale so I bought a dozen balls in two different sizes. Synchronocity at its best: I have never seen Christmas tree ornaments for sale at my grocery store, much less on sale! And meditating on how to display the soccer ball mosaic, I came upon the idea of the tuna fish can. The Before:

The family portrait:

Spirals on the rounded surface are among my favorite design elements. Some crossover has been showing up lately on textile surfaces. A work-in-progress using needle-turn appliqué and running stitch, to be cut up for a larger piece: 

For me, the spiral represents a contradiction: it provides movement and yet it turns in upon itself and comes to a dead-end. Related to the circle, it lacks the symbolism of protection and eternity because it does not close. Consequently, in my personal visual vocabulary, the ambiguity of the spiral makes it a design element that adds interest by creating tension.

And, if you should be interested in home décor and interior design, check out the Dorémail tile company’s site here. Just click on the British flag to view in English. It’s well worth the visit, especially to the "traditional" category.

Black & White

What is it about black and white that makes it so appealing? The absence of all colors and the sum of all colors, two extremes. Is it the clarity? You can’t argue with something that is black and white; you can’t squabble about it or dispute it if gray areas do not exist. With a click on the computer or the choice of a pen, we can write in any color of the rainbow, still, black on white strikes me as the best choice for getting ideas across and for communicating clearly. Visually it is a dramatic combination that is stark in its beauty and simplicity and yet does not shun other colors to join in. It’s difficult to resist the temptation of using it…I admit to succumbing frequently.  Even in the garden.

And so, I introduce my garden chairs--they looked bad. The Before:

All right, “bad” was an understatement; this is heavy duty recycling. The After:

Phew! Just love that black and white paint. The local carpenter cut mdf boards to replace the disintegrated plastic backs and seats. As no kids were around at the time, I got to do all the spatter painting myself…the kids are so envious.

Because our roof is flat and made of cement, it requires treatment every two or three years and so over the years a number of plastic buckets accumulated from said treatment, which I planted about ten years ago. When I began doing mosaic plant containers, I hoped to get rid of the buckets (plastic: how un-green, how un-ecological), but, upon closer inspection they proved to be holding up well, much better than the buckets in which the roof products are now sold. Black and white paint to the rescue…The Before:

Of course, the smaller paint bucket asked to be included as well. The After:

Here they are lined up on a curb that will someday be mosaicked… someday.

That's the ol’ throw-the-paint-at-the-bucket treatment in which young visitors participated (hard to calm them down after that activity). Notice the tall spindly-looking succulent behind the bucket with circles?  It's a cousin to the "Mother of millions" succulent and drops its offspring from the tips of its leaves everywhere. More importantly, however, it puts on a winter show of flowers from the end of December to the end of February that is spectacular. Consequently, I overlook its scraggly appearance.

Yes, that's January in Tunisia.