The Hawthorne Works

This is completely off-topic regarding looms, although there is some connection. I’ve lived this winter in a constant state of worry over finances. “The whiskey stream’s light, and the money tree’s low,” in the words of singer and poet James McMurtry.

At times, when opportunity arises, one has to take the “bull by the balls.”

This bull image is far more palpable on my end. I grew up on a farm. We kept bulls. I have a visual. It’s not a comfortable one.

I have a dream of riding a classic motorcycle east to west through Canada. I adore Canadians, and could be deeply in love with one in particular. I want, before my strength and manilhood fades, to motor through Thunder Bay, Nippising, Sault Saint Marie and all those other small, welcoming towns in our last best country on earth. If I had my druthers, I’d start up in northern Newfoundland, and “bimble” my way over to Vancouver and up into the territories. I want to say I’ve slept in Yellow Knife.

In the past three days, I searched through my finances, and purchased a 1976 BMW R 90/6 in good condition. The bike is old enough to have at least a Master’s Degree, if not a Doctorate. It has a cafe fairing, luggage bags, Napoleon mirriors, and “the right sound.” I’ve wanted one since when. Guess my convergence came this year.

She was built in 1976, as I entered fifth grade. At that point (I remember it clearly) the last of the wounded were arriving back from our military adventure in Vietnam. Disgusted with subterfuge and dishonesty, we’d just elected an honorable man by the name of James Earl Carter as our president. We didn’t understand Mr. Carter then, but through the absolute strength of his character, he has become a national treasure through his good work in diplomacy and humanitarian causes. ‘76 was another hopeful time, the Bicentennial of our nation, and as important to my family, the time that social programs loosened up to a point where we could get food stamps and a delivery of WIC cheese, eggs, milk, and boxed cereal on the farm’s doorstep weekly. That made a difference. I remember going to bed hungry prior to ‘76.

In the words of Jerry T, my kayak paddling mentor and the oldest of seven, “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.” Jerry raised  his six siblings after his father passed, and always greeted me with a ready smile on the rapids. I intend to follow his example.

Aesthetics are important. What was as important in my decision was that the gentleman who decided to pass this torch was a fellow traveller, a pilot, had a sound aesthetic, cared for his machinery, and asked a reasonable price. I didn’t tell him through our conversations about film and literature, but I’d have stayed and talked with him if he’s been offering me a clapped-out Yugo.

Here’s eye candy, the new flagship of the Warped Warriors Motorcycle Club:

Dead sexy.

Shame she’s got nil for front brakes. My genius resident wrench Evs will sort that out, I hope.

In other news, and likely more meaningful to most of my readers, I’ve designed the “drawbridge” on the damask loom, and begun the not-very-thrilling job of drilling in the bolts that will keep her frame in position. In the next version, I’ll use glued joinery on some parts of the frame, and wedges on others. For the current model, the steel bolts will allow me to modify things without having to do surgery. A prototype always incorporates compromises.

I’ll try to post pictures tomorrow. It’s been a long few days.

Best,

Tim

Late in the evening, I take a walk down the drive to the shop and engage in a little meditation with whatever project I’m working on.

I don’t usually do any work. By this time of the night, I’m spanked. As I’d like to be sent off with all ten fingers the Lord accorded me, I keep the machines quiet. (Send me off in a a hand-made Viking longboat, please, shrouded in cloth of my own creation — with a piper playing the “Garry Owen” on the war pipes. Weeping ladies a plus.)

A very talented architect I knew some years ago called this “dream time”, which I find to be a more appropriate term than the strictness of “meditation.” Geez, “meditation” sounds like they want something from a fella.

Today’s dream time led me to the conclusion that my long weaver is becoming desperately pretty. I made her beams today of jatoba, a tropical hardwood nearly as dense and intractable as granite. The wood polishes up to a firey color, and isn’t likely to wear out.

Here’s my Shadowlands bed in the same material, with panels of beeswing makore. Sorry for the poor picture, but I trust you get the idea. This is the one that nearly cost me a finger.

Here’s how the beams look “in the raw.” My girl will get her second warp beam tomorrow.

She’ll also get a fly shuttle and rotary temples. I have both items in inventory, and they will make her sweet to weave on. Go big or go home. . .

Another view, this time from the side. She’s looking very “Arts and Crafts,” which I find appropriate. I had a slot for an upright in the frame that didn’t really need to be there (a vestigal tail left over from the Mira days), so I filled it with a piece of nicely figured cherry. I don’t generally hold with cherry as a loom wood, as it’s been ruthlessly cut over, and the best stuff costs the world and offers few benefits other than its mellow color. NoMora’s material is far more sustainable, but at least she’ll have some pretty ear rings.

In other news, the first annual Weaving Down the Road meeting of the Warped Warriors Motorcycle Club is on for Labor Day! Mary Rios and hubby John have thrown their hat in the ring for the event, and will be trucking over from near MoTown. I was expecting a crowd of thousands, but we can start with three. I forgot to tell Sister Mary to bring her riding gear, as we’ll have three bikes to ride. My man Evan at Big E’s solar-powered garage has fixed the nasty, tappy valves on the ‘77 Suzuki twin, and otherwise fettled the beast. I’ll ride the Half Kaff. I figure a pair of former Harley riders may be able to handle a pair of scooters, if they’re willing to humble themselves and ride something that weighs less than a ton.

Space is filling up (very slowly) for the event, so get your dibs in! Bring your fav’rite ride and a shuttle or two. . .

Tim

Over a year ago, my favorite source for hard-wearing work pants (aka “Trou”) dried up. The Canadian firm that made ‘em stopped.

I was an anti-jeans person for over twenty years. Working on “the Hill,” cotton isn’t the fabric of choice. I had a vintage collection of wool whipcord carefully purchased at various second-hand stores, and many pairs of shorts which I wore until scraping ice off bare legs became too painful.

I went through a transitional period wearing “Carhartts”. Duck weave (a form of canvas) dries better than Jeans twill, and the pants hold up. At some point, the fashion-conscious discovered the brown pants, and the price shot up. Sorry, but this frugal Vermonter won’t pay suit-clothes prices for work gear.

If you really want the top, and cost isn’t an object, I suggest Filson clothes from Seattle, Washington. Made in the US and supported without reservation. My friend Commander Putt RMG visited their factory wearing his 20 plus year old Guide vest.

Upon entering the factory, the receptionist asked if they could strip him and repair his tatters.

At the end of the tour, they gave him back the vest, completely rebuilt. Filson’s motto is “Might as well have the best.” Filson gear is the best, and so is their attitude.

On a bimble through the coastal range of California, I came across Bailey’s Logging Supply.

Before we get into an environmental brouha about logging, let me say this. I despise corporate logging. I spent six very demanding years working for an environmental organization. My knees remind me of this every damp day. Being a wood person, I also know a number of people who make their living through cutting trees. Logging is a skilled, brutally demanding occupation, where danger is always close. One only needs to hear the evil sizzle of a tree “barber chairing” once to drive this home. One friend who works alone took a rogue tree in the face, and lay in the woods six hours in sub-zero weather before being discovered. Another friend from the Forest Service recently died of pleurisy because he took a commercial flight home after battling the fires in Montana, which is the equal of smoking about ten packs a day.

We remember you, Eric, tall and proud.

If you are truly an environmentalist, don’t spike a tree. Spike a corporate headquarters. The fellows (and an increasing number of women) who work in the woods are merely trying to feed their families, and have a hard go of it in the best of circumstances.

None other than Henry David Thoreau observed of the cutters, “They are reckless, generous, and social.”

Anyway, Bailey’s is the sole distributor of “Wild Ass” Jeans.

This is what one of my tattered pairs look like:

They come with suspender buttons. Gitcha some “spendies” to go with your new trou, and you’ll be living large.

www.baileysonline.com

For historical references, you might read Tall Trees, Tough Men, by Robert E. Pike. Pikey lived just down the road here. A good and vivid writer.

Tim

Some time ago, I announced the formation of a club for motorcycling weavers, and was surprised to find that there were a few kindred souls out there who not only want to throw the weft, but also want to “feel the wind.”

I am pleased to report that none of the long, distinguished list of applicants for membership look like this:

Yep, that’s the Boozefighters from the infamous Hollister California riot of 1947. We hope to have a little more style.

In connection with Mary Rios, the Village Weaver, her very talented husband John, with some powerful computers and a complete lack of adult supervision, the club is proud to report we now have a name and “colors.”

Drumroll, please:

Wearing the “colors” allows one to do things not allowed to mere mortals: 1: Swagger into your local fiber shop. 2: Hog the buffet at the workshop dinner. 3: Drive through Sturgis North Dakota or Laconia, New Hampshire and not worry about one’s only clean tee saying “Friends of National Public Radio.” 4. Engage in turf wars with rival Weaving Guilds. 5. Recognize the twisted (ok, plied) readers of this blog on sight.

Currently, there are two chapters: Vermont (the mother chapter) and Greater Detroit (the other mother chapter.) You can be the first on your block (or road, if you’re rural) to start your own Warped chapter.

“Tim,” you ask with ‘bated breath, “Where oh where can I obtain such glorious habiliments?”

Mary graciously put together a wide assortment of merch for the discerning weaver on wheels. It can be found at http://www.zazzle.com/hawthorneworks.

I am attempting to put together a club meeting, tentatively scheduled for Labor Day weekend, 2009, here at Ice Station Zebra. Proceeds from sales will go to fund the event. I’d like to invite interested parties to come and camp (there are various hotels, motels and B&Bs also), discuss various weaving techniques, and attend a free workshop on making and modifying your own weaving equipment. This would be open to all weavers, of the two-wheeled persuasion or not. (Wot, no bike?) Northern Vermont is a lovely area, and well worth seeing.

Tim