Continuing

Originally I had thought to add to the Wendell Berry quote on this bit of cloth, filling the columns to the left and the right with words. But I ended up creating a stitched impression instead, of a tree and fire escapes like those that so often appeared in Michelle Slater’s blog

And as I stitched, I left 2020 and journeyed back to Mineola, New York in the early 1960s. There I lived on a tree-lined street where the roots of massive maples buckled the cement sidewalks. Where I was confined, at first, to staying “on the block,” strictly directed not to cross the streets, especially not the heavily trafficked First Street.

There were apartments on First Street, much like Michelle’s I imagine, with oak trees that would shed massive quantities of acorns each fall …

While our street was dappled with light, First Street was shaded by apartment buildings reaching four stories high. The fire escapes fascinated me back then, but not in not a good way. Afraid of heights, I tried to imagine climbing down the open metal work stairs, and having to jump at the end …

We rode bikes on the sidewalks back then. Roller skated around the block enough times that we knew every crack and heave in the cement … and still we fell, barking our knees, abrading our hands, because there were no knee pads in those halcyon days, let alone helmets.

I remember the mailbox at the corner of Marcellus and First …

it’s still there on Google maps, but I wonder if it has been removed of late. We knew our mailman back then. Would watch as he unlocked the green box to pick up the day’s mail, carried in a huge leather satchel over his shoulder. I can’t remember his name now, but surely I knew it back then.

My old house is still there, too, but no longer the buttery yellow of my childhood. The trees in front are gone, the sidewalks repaved, flattened out …

The Dutch door is also gone, but it’s there in my mind’s eye. My bedroom was on the second floor, to the left. I was always reassured knowing if there was a fire I could climb out on the porch roof and wait for help. After rescuing my little brother from his room, of course.

Yesterday I once again “walked” to Jackson Avenue School through the magic of Google Maps … turned left at the last minute, and yes, found the public library still there, alongside the park …

“Don’t ever walk through the park on your way home” is imprinted on my mind. Bad things happened there, apparently. But I also remember the playground with its squealing swings and blazing hot metal slide, the tennis courts that were flooded with water in the winter for ice skating, and the bandstand where music played on long summer evenings. So many memories.

All this and more floated through my mind as I stitched Michelle’s memento mori with Deb’s magic threads

When I stopped, it hit me that the dizzying fire escapes in stitch brought to mind the tortured steel remains of the World Trade Center after 9/11 …

And that too seemed right and true.

Addendum: Having finished drafting this post, I returned to where I had left off in Whispering White

finding myself here …

which linked in turn to a post that held a chorus of Kindred Spirits

together once again, still.

All over the place

So much-ness … dyeing with windfall lichen gathered with our Austin grandkids …

playing with miniature bookmaking (and no, this is NOT the way to do it, but it photographed beautifully) …

this is more like it …

Inspired by Annick, I played with letters, names …

wondering how they might find their way onto cloth.

Meanwhile, the yard is slowly becoming, so different from the Hill Country, but yet …

echoes of that time continue.

And of course, there is stitching …

and learning, how linen and flannel may not nestle as well as one might hope …

but well enough …

And last is best, as stitching down this tiny bit of cloth …

the naming of the larger bed cloth came to me …

my heart’s compass.

Therapy

I’ve been loving Acey’s collage challenge and my mind is bubbling with ideas for today’s treasure box prompt, but …

I have missed cloth. And as the impeachment trial begins, hard on the heels of the angst-inducing gun rights rally in my one-time home state of Virginia, I crave the calming, familiar rhythm of stitch.

So this then, row upon row of discontinuous backstitch in variegated Valdani #12 perle cotton …

which looks like running stitch …

but when worked on the “wrong side” it leaves a wonderfully wonky trail of stitches on the “right side” …

And since I’m testing the new light box …

here are some progressively closer views (because I very much like progressive views) …

And pulling back, the big picture of a thrift store linen shirt, previously dyed with windfall lichen …

and obviously not ironed anytime recently. Nor is it destined to be.