A New Year. Blog 10.

The Time of the Dinosaur

Before photos of the thin t-shirts.

Paper thin... even thinner, so thin they have runs in the fabric like cheap nylons, the dinosaur t-shirts date back almost 30 years. My girlfriend, Barb Mortell, and I hand-painted the t-shirts used in these blocks. In the years leading up to movies like “Jurassic Park”, Dinosaurs were IN and, as we were fresh out of art school, we thought we’d cash in big time at our own ‘hand-painted t-shirt cottage industry’...  or maybe we were just doing them for fun.... money didn’t matter so much then, fun did. There was the dinosaur t-shirt series, a bird series, and a floral series. The colours haven’t faded much and I imagine it is because the fabric paints that we used were fairly toxic. Looking at them now, I am even not entirely sure which one of us painted these particular dinosaurs... feeling like a bit of a dinosaur myself. I think it was Barb, a phenomenal quilt and fabric artist who now lives in (and on) her own piece (and peace) of Denman Island in B.C. We have continued our friendship, Barb and I, despite distances and time with a colourful and painterly quality.


One of the dino t-shirts was pulled from my mother’s drawer, the famous pile of sentimentality in the form of worn and stained and faded t-shirts that I came upon in the summer... that same famous pile which is down to only three t-shirts now. The other dino t-shirt was brought back this past November from Costa Rica by my father. Really, one of the dinosaur t-shirts was his and one was hers but as their lives were so intricately entwined, it does justice to the over fifty years of togetherness to have my father’s dinosaur t-shirt become part of the Tekla quilt. It was time for the old boy to retire... no, not my father, but the dino t-shirt. My father, alive and invigorated, continues to evolve, not a dinosaur at all. And with this evolution, I dedicate the dinosaur blocks to him and to the great love and care he gave to our mother, especially through her devastatingly brief and aggressive illness.
 

The four dinosaur blocks, two from each shirt.

Some words stick with you... for me, my mother was, well... my mother, nurturing, nutty, occasional girlfriend, occasional fiend, but mostly just Ma, Mama, Mom. When my father referred to her as a “Lady” in the palliative care ward (as we ushered out some visitors to allow the nurses to attend to her), I saw for a brief moment my mother through my father’s eyes. A Lady is noble, honourable and honoured, elegant, holds her head up and is respected... those were qualities that my father saw in my mother. Qualities that, even as she lay there in her last days, I had only begun to know. That almost archaic word my father used, a word that makes one think of a 40's musical... “Lady”... it struck a note with me. A Lady wears her hair up. A Lady receives guests politely.  A Lady smiles through pain. A Lady dies with her dignity intact.

It takes a gentle man to see all that.
 

Some of the famous painted t-shirts: parrot, dinosaur, and flower.

A Ukrainian Thread

Details of my embroidery attempts.

Winter holidays meant leaving my quilt behind. It was too much to bring the sewing machine, fabric and cutting board with us as we traveled to Montreal and Vermont. I brought some knitting, a book that’s taking me months to read, the banjo I keep trying to play, and my computer. At the last minute, I threw in some of the blocks onto which I intended to hand appliqué pieces. Like quilting, I have never really embroidered. I quickly emailed myself a few embroidery instructions, knowing we’d be without internet at the old farmhouse we had rented in Vermont. As I started to chain stitch with the colourful thread, I thought about embroidery as such an important part of Ukrainian identity. 

Growing up in the prairie farmland of Saskatchewan, my mother’s first language was Ukrainian. My Baba, her mother, was a farmer and quilter and maker of some of the tastiest Ukrainian perogies known to the prairies. The simple and colourful threads and my attempt at fine, even stitches paid homage to both my Mother’s, my Baba’s, and the rest of the family’s Ukrainian culture and background. My embroidered stuffed garlic, although puckered and not entirely successful, reeks of Ukrainian prairie farm goodness.

Hard working Baba and Geido with their children: late '50's and early '80's. Tekla in centre behind her mother.

 

Limping, Walking, Downward Dog, and the Napoleonic Wars

 

How does it feel to walk again?.... a little sore, a little wobbly, scary on ice, and absolutely amazing. After almost four months of crutches and knee walkers and rolling chairs and whatever else I could do to keep off my fractured left foot, I walk with very little grace and agility but I walk... and each day is an improvement. Slowly moving my foot in ways that I will never take for granted again... that complete bend of the toes in downward facing dog is a yogic impossibility right now... soon, though, soon.
 

Napoleon's infamous surgeon, Jacques Lisfranc, and his battlefield.

And for my functioning left foot, I would like to thank science, technology and modern medicine. Named after the pompous and bellicose (yes, I had to look that word up) surgeon, Jacques Lisfranc de St. Martin, the self-dubbed Lisfranc injury became a regular occurrence during the Napoleonic Wars. In Battle, soldiers would fall off their horses, feet caught in stirrups while the horses kept running through the war torn fields... you can almost hear the twisting and crunching of tiny foot bones, metatarsals, and ligaments. The medical treatment by Napoleon's famed surgeon at that time: amputation of the foot. Need I say more? I would take my not-so-pompous and hard working surgeon, Dr. Johnny Lau, over the celebrated Docteur Jacques Lisfranc de St. Martin anytime, with no apologies to Napoleon Bonaparte whatsoever. 
And, yes, born in the right era, for sure.

Dr. Johnny Lau, Superstar of Foot and Ankle, and his battlefield.

Happy for a New Year

2012 will be a year to never forget. Losing my mother, breaking my foot, middle age hard upon me. Still, in the creases that have formed around my eyes, there are no truly sad stories. I am one of the lucky ones. 2012 saw children shot dead, women savagely raped, homes destroyed, fires burned, poverty, war, hatred, bigotry, violence. I know none of this. The cherished life of ease and entitlement that I have... living in this place, at this moment, is something I entirely take for granted. For it is in this luxury of time and space, as I sew and write, that I realize that I have not entirely lost my mother in so much as I have found her in myself. A rich life lived by her, has been gifted to me in my pampered and peaceful existence. Although my sadness is real, I know no unbearable pain. 

Still... high hopes for 2013 to be a better year, if not for me, for the rest of this beautiful and pitiful human race.

Three more blocks to go.

 

Movement. Blog 7.

A broken block.

Broken

 

It was with great verve and anger that I attacked the t-shirt that advertised: “Don’t Play With Your Health”  Indeed!... 'playing' with my health, going up an unsafe ladder, (one that I, myself, had set) and falling to my own broken state has left me with three and half months of crutchdom, crawling up stairs on my knees in utter humiliation, suffering through painful surgery, and fractured bones that may, someday, heal. With less than three weeks until I get the okay to slowly start weight bearing and walking, I am anxious, a little terrified, and completely and utterly fed up. I am headstrong, too fast to judge, and always think I know best... all qualities that I inherited from my mother... in both their good and bad affiliations. 
 
This “Parkdale Occupational Health and Safety Committee” t-shirt was comprised of a series of comic-like drawings of work and home accidents. It was the one word “CRASH” in cartoon lettering that spoke to me the most. That sound of a ladder falling haunts me forever. I wasn’t sure where I was going when I started this quilt block, but, as I kept cutting and sewing, I realized I wanted to make it feel ‘broken’, like shattered glass or bones...  off-balance and sharp. 

Anger to Sadness... if I could just call my mother and have her admonish me for my stupidity. Sigh.
 
Note to all: always have a ladder buddy below.

Fish and leaves to be embroidered on at a later date.

Fish and Foliage

 

I started swimming as part of my physio: moving through watery space with some speed, heart beating, ankle loosening, body thanking me... underwater: I want to be a fish, or a dolphin, an orca whale. (Word of advice to anyone who suffers an injury similar to mine: swim as soon and as often as you can.) I dedicate this block to my harsh but true mantra of late: “move or die”. Swim, hike, bike... move. A family of walkers, my father hikes his way to a renewed life and love through the jungles and beaches of Costa Rica. My husband waits impatiently for our long walks, future travels, hiking new trails and old paths. Our old dog still jumps up when I move from room to room, ‘will she finally walk me?... it is time?’. Soon, dog, soon.

Hiking is healing. As family and friends gathered for my mother’s funeral, we went on a few group hikes to some of her favorite spots. It was a great time to walk together, be together with or without words, share our sorrow and heal.

Some family gathering at the bluffs, remembering.

The freedom shirt.

Liberté, Freiheit, Libertad, Freedom

A road to travel, a desert to walk.

Those words in many languages were spelled on the t-shirt used in this block. I reflect for a moment on my mother as a feminist. Remember the early days of feminism? There was a time when all that I know, and all that my daughter takes for granted, was simply not there for women in this country. Needless to say, in so many other countries and nations, women have no where near our rights and freedoms. The struggle does continue. But in honour of my mother, I harken back to the sixties and seventies when feminism first grew strong as a movement and then as a way of life. She marched and rallied and held her head high as a vocal woman, an educated woman, and a fearless woman. I winced as a young teenager at her diatribes on the importance of the feminist movement, embarrassed at her passionate and opinionated voice in front of my shy and wordless adolescent friends. I struggled with her formidable presence... I just wanted to blend in with the latest fashions, peer pressures, and mindless attitudes. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized how the gift that she gave me, that very same strong voice and feminist attitude, has formed me. A favorite song from those pioneering days of the feminist movement:  Give us bread, but give us roses.

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.
As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too.
As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses.

A Simple Green Stain. Blog 4.

Georgia O'Keeffe, young and old, with Poppy painting from 1927

Our daughter, Rachel, weaves her web around Grandma.

 

Georgia O’Keeffe

 

Exposure to art was one of the greatest gifts my mother gave my brother and I. Weekly lessons at the Vancouver Art Gallery from a very early age were essential in her mind. Despite the fact that she was neither artist nor performer: art, dance, and music were always encouraged. When our young children got into her knitting basket and let loose with a giant and intricate web of all her wool throughout the house, a mess through which none of us could move, they were not admonished, instead they were celebrated for their sculptural abilities and encouraged in their art play. A few days before she died, in a moment of lucidity for both of us, I thanked my mother for all the art, the dance lessons, the piano, the attention to detail, all those gifts. Life and art a web... woven, intertwined.

Tekla's poppy, the day she died.

The Georgia O’Keeffe t-shirt, I believe, was purchased while visiting a close artist friend in O’Keeffe’s beloved New Mexico. Desert rocks, bones, skulls, flowers... poppies that burst orgiastically from their pods. I particularly love the fact that there is a stain of green paint across the Georgia O’Keeffe signature on the t-shirt. 

O'Keeffe Poppy t-shirt block.

 

 

The Dirt

 

The Dirt Shirt from my mother's beloved Costa Rica.

Mom in the garden, a celebration of dirt.

The block that I made from the Costa Rican “Dirt” shirt was fast and fun. Dirt: hands in endless dirt, the smell, the goodness, the creatures, the start and end of life... giver of food, flowers, trees then air. Love dirt.  

Woman’s Faces

Beautiful face.

This is the first t-shirt which I did not cut up, instead, I left the image intact. These sad women’s faces showing so many aspects of grieving. An often worn t-shirt with haunting empty eyes, I hadn’t seen the sadness in it all those years my mother wore it. Until now.

Women's Faces... needs a few more patches.

 

MMMMM... Mother, Mourning, Menopause, Metatarsal, Madness

 

My left foot: first metatarsal good and screwed.

If life comes in waves, then this year has been a tsunami of sorts. My frankly tiresome Lisfranc foot fracture heals with no great aplomb, just little by little, testing my patience each tiny step of the way (or lack thereof) . I swear to stop reading about bone loss in menopausal women in front of the computer. It does not help 'them bones' to heal. Instead, I crutch my way to my little city garden and take what sun there is and munch on something not yet killed by frost.... recommended vitamins D, K, and F-ing whatever! Am I angry at my broken foot?... hell ya! It’s a good thing that it was me and only me who fixed the ladder when it slid off the roof’s edge with yours truly riding it all the way down (sound effect: ladder crashing). Am I angry that my mother died?... I suppose I was, but anger just becomes a kind of helpless sadness. I AM angry still at her unrelenting addiction to nicotine. That sense of anger and betrayal and disappointment of her endless smoking will never go away. They say that smoking takes ten years off your life. Despite any anger, I could have used another ten years of her. 

Mother does not always know best. 

A Rough Patch. Blog 2.

Entwined in Memory

 

 Photo by my husband Ken Woroner. 

I found one of my mother’s hairs electrostatic-ally stuck on one of the t-shirts that I am using for my memory quilt. Long, thin, blonde-grey. As a small child, I remember pulling at her braided hair from the back seat of the car... camping or driving to the mountains or heading to the prairies, maybe one of my first memories. She never seemed to mind my tugging at it. Later, always in the kitchen, her fine hair caught on her finger while cooking, always cooking... “oh, Tam, get it”... I can hear her now with startling clarity (only my mother was allowed to call me 'Tam'). Hair always in her famous loose bun, strands spilling out as fine as a silk web. She never let it down. 

My First Patch

 

Drawing and cutting.

I learned from my mother a pride in excellence, doing things well. She was harsh in her attempted perfection of everything she did, touched, worked at. Her pickles were phenomenal, her dahlias gargantuan, her meals were sublime. When my brother and I were very young, she worked her way through university, a top student in a very demanding Masters program in Psychology. She went from nursing, to teaching, to psychology, and then on to organic farming and eco-politics on the small Gulf Island where my parent’s built themselves a new home and life away from the city. 

As I started to put together my first quilt patch (or are they called blocks?), like my mother, I was stressed about my level of perfection and ability, especially as I have never done this before. I started with some research, looking at a lot of quilting blogs and websites. Then I did a little doodling from some of what I saw. As a production designer, drawing is second nature, so it seemed like a good place to start.

My first quilt patch ever. 

For my first patch, I chose a couple of t-shirts that weren’t my favourites, knowing my limitations as a newbie quilter. One from a sandcastle competition in White Rock, B.C. and one from the 'Prince Charming' printing company, both from the early 80‘s and both stained as they were used for work shirts, likely re-staining the deck or carrying sap-filled logs. Maybe just a spill of strong Costa Rican coffee. The stains were irksome at first but then I decided they are part of the history, my Mother’s history, my history. 

The patch is less than perfect but it’s a start.

 

A Few Things Learned...

 

• Do NOT use kitchen scissors normally used for cutting up whole chickens on fabric.
• The iron, despite what you may feel about ironing, is your FRIEND. Keep it close and at the ready.
• Fusible interfacing is stiff and hard to sew, use it only on larger pieces of t-shirt fabric. Small strips don’t really need it.
• Cranky and unused sewing machines, like us all, need a little oil massaged into their workings. 
• Spend lots of time with patterns, colour and colour choices, different bits of fabric thrown on different t-shirts or remnants... for no other reason than it is fun. And fun is good.

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Broken Paws

 

When I first heard that I had to be off my broken (but fixed) foot for 3 months, I thought I would never make it. Today I am halfway there at six weeks post surgery. Funny how you can get used to anything. I go up the stairs (in our 3 story house) on my knees and I wheel about the kitchen, like a demon, on a rolling office chair that I borrowed from work. I don’t even know how I managed to go to work with this injury but for the grace of an excellent and sympathetic crew, and I am relieved to be finished my contract. 

Our left feet. Woof.

I have set myself up in my home study with computer, ironing board, iPad, sewing machine (dusted off from years of disuse from closet), fabric, brand new scissors (see note above), camera... everything within arms reach. The planning and cutting and sewing of my ‘Tekla memory quilt’ is quite absorbing, keep my mind off my temporary disability. So annoying not being able to just get up and take a few steps anywhere, even a quick bathroom break is an ordeal... I ache to walk again without crutches. (And, no, I shouldn’t complain, there are people far worse off than me... but it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to...)

Finally, I had been suffering tremendous remorse and guilt at not being able to walk our old dog. And, then, a few days ago, he managed to get a large, nasty, deep cut to his paw while chasing critters. Stitches and must stay off it as much as possible and ridiculous vet bills, the dog sleeps near me under foot (or crutch). Both of us with our broken left paws humbly waiting to heal. At least I have medicare.

My first blog. Ever.

Lost and Found

I lost my mother to cancer in May of this year, no... wait, “lost” doesn’t seem like the right word. The word “lost” invites the possibility of finding something. My mother died and I will never find her again. What I lost was part of myself: the comfort, the personal history, the love, both received and given, between mother and daughter. Those things which I hope to find again... and again.

My mother, Tekla, serving up cake.

The Fabric of our Lives

I returned to my parents’ home in July, two months after my mother’s funeral, to sort through her things. There was the endless paper, a junkie for keeping her own books and archives, my mother threw nothing out. My father and I sorted and purged as much as we could, establishing a new bond as, well, survivors. There was the kitchen: smells and pickle jars and recipes and dried sage and cheesecloth... every little crumb the essence of her mastery of all things food related. There was her garden... her garden: it was her art... perennial flowers bending with the weight of their blossoms, bees stumbling drunkenly from lilies to cornflowers unfazed by the passage of time or life. Then, there were her things: shoes, clothes, sewing baskets, knitting, jewelry... a love letter from my father circa 1958, a bright piece of a child’s costume, crocheted squares for a blanket we were making together, never finished. I stumbled through it all... scarves to her sisters, a baby book to my brother, sweaters to friends, jewelry in a box for her granddaughters. It was when I opened a drawer of just t-shirts that I started crying and laughing hard and long. Stained and worn to paper thinness, my mother kept them all. Each one from a time and place, a moment or a movement that she couldn’t bear to throw out.... the garlic festival in Gilroy, California from the time when she was a garlic farmer... the t-shirt that my brother gave her “a tree grows in Brooklyn” just to prove he didn’t live in a concrete jungle, the ones in support of Medicine Beach or Brooks Point Park on the Gulf Island where she lived, the t-shirt with a Georgia O-Keeffe flower that was gifted from a dear artist friend. It was impossible to throw them out, as impossible for me as it was to for my mother. 


Fusible Backbone

Some of the Quilts of Gees Bend.

I remembered seeing an exhibit in New York some years ago, “The Quilts of Gees Bend”. African-American women from a remote community in Alabama who made quilts from old clothes, often using deceased families members’ cherished clothing. I was struck by the dignified artistry of these simple and geometric hand made quilts, they were more powerful to me than the De Kooning and Jackson Pollock paintings that one expected to see gracing the walls of New York museums. I also found inspiration and encouragement from my dear friend and quilting artist, Barb Mortell  (http://www.houseofbug.blogspot.ca/). She made a small memorial quilt which we draped on my mother’s simple seagrass casket, my mother was buried with it. Visiting Barb on Denman Island in July, we talked about memory quilts, looked at some websites about ‘grieving quilts’ made from old clothes, we ran the thin fabric of my mother’s worn t-shirts through our fingers. “You’ll need some kind of fusible backing” said Barb. Fusion, backing, backbone, fabric, dignity, grief, thread, memory... as I went to sleep, hugged under a pile of Barb’s quilts, I knew what I should do.


Hurting and Healing

 

A quilt block by Barb Mortell.

I devoted a suitcase to my mother’s t-shirts and schlepped them back to the ‘big stink', Toronto, my home. Returning to work in the film and television industry, I worried that I would never make time for my “memory quilt”. Long hours, all consuming, no time to mourn, work and more work, rake in the money, forget about the pain. Distraction. Yes, work was a welcome distraction, as the sadness was too overwhelming at times.

Then, I broke my foot in early September. A bad break on the arch, a Lisfranc fracture which, historically at one time, involved amputation of the foot as part of it’s regular treatment. I have continued to work with this broken foot over the past 6 weeks despite surgery and crutches, knowing my contract on the TV series would soon be over. So, here I am now, today,... no more work, no weight bearing for 2 more months, left foot broken with screws and plates, emotionally battered, physically scarred. No mother to kiss my boo boos... ouch. 



And I have never made a quilt in my life, not even one patch. 


A sample of the legacy of t-shirts from my mother.