Her favorite color was red

My grandmother’s voice has been in my mind this week because I have been sitting at the sewing machine almost every day. She was a constant, loving presence in my childhood and may be the reason I continue to work with cloth. Here she is (wearing her favorite color) at her 90th birthday party in 1983, waving off the camera.

She – we called her Nanny – was from a big farm family with German/Luxembourg roots that settled in Kandiohi County in western Minnesota (flat, glacial lakes, rich black soil.). (Interesting fact: kandiohi is from the Lakota language meaning “where-the-buffalo-fish-come.” After that lots of Germans, Irish, Swedes and Norwegians came.) She had an 8th grade education and after that went to dressmaking school. Her sister, my great-aunt Mary, also handy with the sewing machine, made her amazing wedding dress. She married my grandpa (“Pop”) in 1917.

I can evoke her presence when I call to mind her kind voice and her hands. During overnight visits, she would set me up with little sewing tasks, worked on mostly by hand, but sometimes using the old cast iron Singer with the knee pedal. There were bound buttonholes, pot holders, doll clothes. (My sisters developed great sewing skills making doll clothes.) I learned about finger-pressing – it works really well on linen!

 

Earth day, birch bark

When I heard it was the 40th anniversary of Earth Day, I skimmed my scanned family photos to see if I could find one from 1970. Lo and behold, I found this photo of the only family vacation we took after some of my siblings were “adults.” I was 13 going on 14. This was taken in the summer of 1970, shortly after my brother Skip got back from Vietnam (he’s the one in back sporting his Army hat). My dad took us (except #1 son, who was starting his career as a Prof.), to Bayfield, Wisconsin, gateway to the Apostle Islands, for a week. I remember the sailing, the fresh air, and playing (beating) my siblings at Blackjack. An earthy (and watery) crew we were.

my family in 1970

This afternoon, 40 years later, I sat on my patio and stripped the windfall branches that fell from my neighbor’s birch tree. Birch is supposed to yield some lovely earthy pinks, according to Jenny Dean’s book, Wild Color. Over the coming weeks I’ll play with this and see what happens. Still too chilly today to revisit my (2nd) vat of freeze-dried indigo.

windfall white birch branches

Another one for the ancestors

 

My dad had a serious hobby taking pictures, which he explored deeply while recovering from a serious illness in the mid-1950’s. He left the family with a treasure trove of hundreds of 35 mm slides, which have been stored in boxed carousels for decades. Recently one of my sisters had them scanned, 3 sets at a time. The photo below is one of the many photos that conjure up the presence of beloved ancestors. My brother’s words enrich my experience of this photo of my grandfather and great-aunt, which was taken before I was born.

“The picture from the latest batch was taken in the living room at Pop and Nanny’s house on 2nd Avenue South in 1952 or 1953. It brought back many good memories. As you can tell from the houses across the street, this was a nice south Minneapolis neighborhood with elms arching over the street. The west side of the street, where the house is, was taken for the construction of 35W. The east side may still be there but I am not sure about this. Date is based on our 1952 Buick parked at the curb. Must have been Thanksgiving or an early Easter. On his Banker’s day off, Pop wears a fancy silk-like shirt that would be fashionable today. Notice the well-chewed stogie in hand with more in the shirt pocket. That’s not coke in Aunt Margaret’s glass.”

During the sacred time around the death of my mom last month, I was keenly aware of how memory and story weave past into present, and present into future, and yet how everything seems to be here simultaneously. My mom passed away on September 17th. September was her favorite month. She was buried on the autumnal equinox the day before what would have been my dad’s 96th birthday. I’m reminded of the line from the lovely Stanley Kunitz poem, “Live in the layers, not on the litter.”

Here’s to the ancestors.