Cattails
On the west side of 205 heading towards Fly Creek, there are dried cattails standing stiffly in a frozen pond, each with its perfect cap of snow. We go to the Fly Creek General Store for breakfast, sharing a western omelet sandwich on rye. The General Store is warm in every sense. We’ve gotten to know the owner, Tom, and bonded over his time as a young man in Santa Cruz. The look on his face, even with his mask on, as he remembers that time in his life speaks of a well spent youth. Jay draws him out with memories of places where they both hung out. Tom’s daughter was born at Stanford hospital. We have a world in common. The General Store with its gas station sits at one corner of the main intersection in Fly Creek. Hartwick has only a four way stop, but Fly Creek has a flashing light. When it’s warm again there will be tables outside.
I always want to write about the snow covered world. There are two black crows on the white roof of the garage against a grey sky. There are Charlie’s footprints on the back steps, rabbit tracks all around the house, the hoof prints of a lone deer who came nearly to the patio, and the delicate tracks of the crows heading for the snow covered compost pile. And now, there are the great ridges of snow Jay has pushed up along the side of the driveway. I watch him run the tractor up and down the drive, patiently and perfectly, pushing the snow aside, snug in the heated cab.
I am watching from the weaving room, the small former guest room at the front of the house. It is a perfect setup for weaving. The loom takes up most of the room, but there is space to walk all the way around it which is very convenient for setup. I have an excellent worktable, a storage cabinet, and a closet that my yarn shares with the extra tea that doesn’t fit in the pantry and a few odds and ends that have never found a better home. Jay mounted my warping board on the inside of the closet door. It fits perfectly, and is closed away when I’m not using it. We keep the door to this room closed so as not to waste heat all day (and to keep curious Hazel out), but I have a small electric heater that has the little room toasty in about 10 minutes.
The ancient loom is new to me, but it seems to hold the wisdom of the competent weavers who used it before me and it’s easy to use. I splurged on an automatic bobbin winder and two excellent rear feed shuttles. These new tools take a little learning, but I’m getting there. My first project is a set of place mats in light and dark green cotton, straight out of Rabbit’s weaving book. It uses only four of the twelve harnesses, so it’s a weave I could have done on my old loom. I figured I should start modestly to get used to the loom and the new tools, and I’m glad I did. I’m using a fine yarn, easy to make mistakes with, and I have the familiar experience of seeing mistakes an inch after I’ve woven them and deciding to leave them in. There are the comfortable sounds of the frames rising and falling, of the beater sliding to and fro, of the treadles shifting. I love the attention weaving requires, not enough to strain the brain, but enough to free it from other thoughts. And row by row, cloth appears.
It still amazes me to see the cloth grow, to see the pattern that I planned for actually emerge in the cloth. It is a sweet reminder that we can make things. Weaving is a process for making order. The warp is measured on the warping board and wound onto the back beam. Each thread is pulled through the proper heddle in order, and then through the proper slot in the reed. Then groups of threads are tied to the front beam so that all the threads are at the same tension. Then the weaving can begin, one throw of the shuttle to the left, one throw to the right, over an over. Each step takes patience and accuracy. There are so many ways to make mistakes. There are decisions to make in the cloth, changes in color, shifts in the pattern. I start with a plan, but then the cloth makes suggestions and the plan changes. I can weave as slowly as I like. If I’m not happy with what I’ve done, I can take it out and do it over, and no one will ever know. Weaving is private. It is the perfect occupation for an introvert.
Outside, the snow covered world feels private too. A seed sets out with a pattern for becoming a tree and then wind, light, nutrients, water, neighbors make suggestions and the plan changes. The white of the thick wet snow clinging to the branches and the trunk reveal the pattern of the tree’s growth. Weaving, watching the cloth come into being, watching Jay push the snow and clear the driveway, watching the black crow on the white roof, we are all part of the pattern, all at peace out here on the hill. Like the cattails with their caps of snow, we are perfect.