elva weaver, my mom. age 13 in the 1920s. after her first bob.
my mom was a weaver, the baby of her family. she made all her own clothes, using the sears catalog as her fashion guide, and sewed everything by hand. she did no fancy work other than embroidery, and she didn't care to quilt. mom taught me to sew on kleenex with thread, before i was allowed to use up rags. eventually i had access to the rag bag to make barbie and troll clothes and whatever i wanted. this meant that by the time i was in seventh grade i was sewing most of my dresses and skirts. i made a quilt for college when i was sixteen. at school i walked past the weaving studio and the looms shouted out to me and i knew i needed to weave. those early connections to textiles are embedded deeply, but also to utility. but i don't often make useful things, even in school my textiles were mostly decorative.
at sunset today, i was thinking how life moves us in directions we can't even imagine. i came to this northern place, where january really can get drag you down. but all i feel like today is books. books and cuddling up for a nap.
this small case holds some of my favorite books, several i made, some made by friends. these books were made by carol blinn, aimee lee, shanna leino, roberta lavadour, joanne kaar, amanda burnham, margo ecke, hannah stevens, susan porteous, mark mcmurray. and most of these books hold stories. stories that connect to me through their makers, a thread, part of the cloth of my life.