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

This Memorial Day, my friend and shopmate Brek Jacobson showed in our nothern hills from far and flat Ohio. He and his wife Kelly were taking a belated honeymoon. I spent a year in close quarters with Brek, but had never met his love. Kelly is a hot ticket — a translator and educator, a wise, calm, soul, and a good conversationalist.

Brek and I hadn’t been face-to-face since we worked wood together in 2004. With the water, craft, and wood under the bridge, it’s no surprise we were up almost to sunrise around the fire in the front of the sauna catching up.

It was unusually cold for May, so the late hours took energy. I slept late today.

It was a wonderful experience. Brek (who is an undoubted master in wood) looked with wonder at my Cranbrook and touched the warp with sensitive hands. Although I never found the time to give a weaving demonstration, it was wonderful to feel the reverence a true craftsman feels for (I hope) another.

My long loom is becoming desperately pretty. All her battered parts from my initial discoveries have been replaced with clean new wood, chosen for strength and sweet lines.

It’s working up to be a pretty fair summer. I traded my last hot ‘n’ horny whitewater kayak for a much more sedate canoe today. As much as I’d like to be hanging it out in the “big”, I don’t think my eight-year-old buddy would take the same view. We’re going to do some canoe camping on lakes and ponds first. I’m sure as the the boy approaches his teens, he’ll surpass his Poppa in skill and daring.

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

I always get a little hot when anyone in high government  weaves — it is so rare. Canada has a long tradition of supporting hand skills, but our neighboring Kay-becker the Hornarable Oscar Beriau went well beyond that. As the Canadian Minister for Agriculture, he published several books on hand weaving (which are worth a read) and apparently would wander throughout Quebec City with a little notebook sketching out drafts.

These were gentler days — one could run headlong into a passer-by and get away without a pummeling by explaining one was helping the commonwealth through teaching hand-crafts.

Oscar B has my vote as today’s swanky fish. He was a snappy dresser, too.

http://oscarberiau.com/

Tim

People ask me why I became interested in weaving. The general perception (which is wholeheartedly wrong) is that is a feminine past time. As I came into the fiber arts through machine knitting, weaving could considered a step up in butch. I’ve been a mountaineer, flown float planes, and done a stint as a white-water raft guide. I know my way around a chainsaw. Sometimes it’s hard to explain to the fellow at the garage what one actually does for a living.

My machine knitting era was interesting. The ex (a superb hand knitter, to her credit) worked with fine yarns. Something relatively simple and utilitarian (knitted tights, for example) could take a month’s hard graft by hand. I invested in a Passap knitting machine. When I brought it home, it was clear she “wanted none of the pie.”

As I couldn’t return the machine, I decided to learn it. I started with simple stuff in stockinette, and gradually progressed to more intricate pieces. When I discovered Susan Guagliumi’s Hand Manipulated Stitches for Machine Knitters, and purchased a very well-used bulky Singer machine, I thought I’d arrived. The old Singer still works. I swear one could pour sand through its mechanism and keep rolling.

I’m still proud of some of my cabled sweaters. Unfortunately, I discovered it was no way to make a living. If one can go to Land’s End and purchase a cabled sweater for $50 (often less than my material cost), there was no room for making a living for me. As I’m OCD, I’d be up knitting ’till the wee hours. The only piece I ever made a profit on was a skirt I knitted for Chris’ pediatrician. As a European, she understood the value of hand craft. I made her a winter skirt in fine lambswool and baby camel hair blend, in a fairly complex double-knit. That was gorgeous yarn, by the way. Almost like cashmere. I still have a cone or two in inventory, which I’m saving for an inspired weaving moment. It’s long been unavailable.

Unfortunately for me, I wanted the level of my finishing to match the level of my pieces. Finishing has always been my nemesis, and frequently took me longer than the knitting.

Finishing woven pieces can be a heck of a lot simpler. Sewing is one proven technique, and works well. It’s often a failure for knits.

I discovered then– as I’ve rediscovered with the Damask and Opphämta book — that there are many ways to interpret a particular design into cloth. Weaving is a simpler form of interlacement than knitting by far. The most complex form of interlacement happens to be crochet, which is fully psychotic to describe mathematically. This may explain why crochet is one of the slowest ways to build a textile.

In any event, to tie this wandering missive up:

The thing that gave me the most hope in the fiber arts as a man was a conversation I had with my good friend Commander Putt, RMG. (Registered Maine Guide). Mr. Putt makes his living flying airplanes very precisely over specified areas for an operation that takes stereographic photos, and then analyzes them for various purposes. The flying can only be done in clear air, which in New England means rough air. His work is hard. The Commander is a man’s man, who lives in a log home on the end of a seven-mile two-rut road in the Maine woods. He built his house completely by his hand, and cleared his land stump by stump. This all occurred in the latter half of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first.

Mr. Putt and I have a conversation every half-year or so. His telephone connection isn’t reliable, and it costs him to talk.

A fair piece ago, he called, and asked what I was doing. I said I’d been flogging on my knitting machine. I confessed with some degree of trepidation.

“Oh, you bought one too? They’re great. I found one at a yard sale, and learned it. I made socks, sweaters, and tights for the whole family.”

Mr. Putt thinks well of my looms.

Don’t just teach your daughters, your sons need skills too. Hockey and Football not included, we only get two knees.

Tim

A recessional: a piece played in a church as a congregation exits. The opposite is the processional, when the congregation enters.

I attended a funeral today. My friend was diagnosed with cancer three months ago, more-or-less on the day of my birth. I’d thought to invite him and his wife over for a quiet celebration.

I was told he couldn’t come, as he’d just gone through his first session of chemotherapy.

Last Friday, his son called, and told me the date of his memorial service.

It seems that we spend the first half of our lives attending weddings (at great expense, in rented uncomfortable rooms), and the second half attending funerals.

The advantage of a funeral is that one’s speech need not be so witty if one is asked to talk, and people will overlook the fact that one’s only good suit hasn’t been to the cleaners in some time. Besides those facts, I can’t see many advantages to speaking in that particular venue.

I will miss my friend.

Tim

Some time ago, I gave a few looms to the Orleans County Historical Society, and started a weaving program in their historic buildings.

The museum’s directress and I had a bit of a falling-out. As I’ve said before, strong people should hold strong opinions. Peggy is strong, and I hope I am. We’ve come to detente.

I’ve been invited back into the newly renovated Samuel Read Hall House. I hope it’s through strength of character on my part. The museum is a singular piece of American history. See http://www.oldstonehousemuseum.org/.

Hall House here:

To those not up on African American History, the buildings around the Old Stone House were constructed in part by the Reverend Alexander Twilight. The Reverend Twilight was the first African-American graduate of an American university (Middelbury College in Vermont), the first African-American elected to a state senate, and formed the first Academy in Vermont. He was a respected educator, pastor, and social leader.

As my friend Hollis, a somewhat later educator, African-American, Reverend, journalist, and a true poet says, “If this gets out, it will turn the interpretation of Black History on it’s ear.” It’s one project I’m working on with H-Dawg. The other is a revisionist history of the Massachusetts 54th Volunteer Infantry, whose story can be found in the film Glory.

While stopping for a sip of water while riding my Italian Job scooter last summer, I found something about the 54th that has immense promise in understanding our history. And you all thought I was just a weaver.

However, if you don’t care one whit for history and just want to weave (or spin, knit, or quilt, there’s a militant group for each at the museum) drop a line. I’m trying to put together a schedule for sessions into the fall. I can’t promise that classes will be free of charge. They will be exceptionally reasonable in price.

Up there in Brownington, one can hear the wind working through the trees. It’s an amazingly calm and peaceful location.

Tim

Yvette kindly remarked on the “subtle center design” of my latest rug.  Subtle, perhaps. Intentional, not exactly.

I’d wanted a pin-stripe design across the “table,” which is what I wove. Almost.

Over twenty-five years ago, I had the honor of working with a skilled finish carpenter building an English-style frame-and-panel Pub and bar. I’d hired on as a “hand” for the renovation of one of New Hampshire’s grand hotels. Most of the work was brutal — ripping up 150 years of construction prior to replacing it. After a few months of this, Karl asked me if I’d be his “go-fer.”

Karl, to put it politely, was a “rig.” He was tall, gaunt, with a drooping black mustache, dark eyes, and an unfiltered Camel hanging from the corner of his mouth. He played the “great” bagpipes (aka the “warpipes”), and had his grandfather’s Imperial German Navy battle flag and photo proudly on the wall of his small, cluttered apartment. He looked chillingly like the old Fregattenkapitan.

Karl had a degree in Philosophy, as do I. It’s why we were working construction. Karl had studied under the Jesuits, I under the Methodists. Karl rightly saw me as a member of the junior service, and took my education in hand.

“Kid,” he said, “Sometimes you’re going to mess up.” (He used stronger words, but we’re not on a construction site at present.) “When you mess up, you can sometimes fix things. If you can’t fix them, fer Chrissake make it look like it was something you wanted to do.”

Toward the end of the Pub Job, we were short on wood. I cut a piece the wrong side of a pencil line, and one mullion showed a gap. We could have stuffed filler in and called things good, but that wasn’t Karl’s way. When I arrived the next morning, he’d carved a medallion from a scrap to cover the offending piece.

My discovery wasn’t a bug, but a feature.

In my current opus, I’d been under the loom sweeping up dust bunnies. The light came through the window just right (the colors are danger close), and I noticed that shuttles two and three had swapped about the time Chris began playing his new computer game. I’d somehow woven nine passes in the wrong sequence.

Cutting back sixteen inches of rug is a mug’s game. Even if a weaver manages to recapture the sequence, the correction shows in the work. A warp that’s been woven never behaves as fresh.

I made a note, and replicated my error on the other side.

This is what makes handweaving wonderful. If a weaver could make perfect cloth all the time, the business would be too much like work. Details are always there, and God lives in details. This gives us the permission to create stories in our work.

Tim

Back when I learned to write, some few years ago, the essay was a viable form. A student would write a dozen or so a year under the sharp eye of his or her teacher. We’d thumb through collections of them, by Twain, E. B. White and others.

The essay died around when Thomas Wolfe first said “heewack.”

Now we need plot structure, a mystery ending, and a “hook” to begin things. It’s a daunting task simply putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. A few years in university aren’t sufficient to begin.

Consider, dear readers, the gentle essay. In the smallest form, an essay is a simple, written conversation about an event in one’s day. It need not be shocking, or mysterious. A good, soundly-written piece can arise from anything.

In modern parlance, we call this “blogging.” I prefer the older term.

Tim

I’m a working weaver. Writing on this blog can take time from other, more profitable things. Don’t worry, I’m having fun, too.

If you’ve found my words useful, I’d like to make a small request. The next time you’re at the grocery store, there will likely be a place to donate items to a local food pantry. If you can see it clear in your budget, drop a can of soup or a box of cornflakes off.

There are many out there who need food now.

Thanks.

Tim