Stalled.

We had just completed a successful and very pleasant dinner meeting conducting 'some things looming' business. I was feeling rather pumped up. We agreed on the name of next Spring's exhibit, mentioned some Saturday Sampler business, discussed some things about Handmade Holidays, and basically talked shop for about three hours. Good stuff. So when I got into my husband's eleven year old manual transmission car and I couldn't quite get the gear shift to go into reverse, I did what every normal human being does: I pumped the clutch a few times, and kept trying, ignoring the warning bells flashing in my head.

I got out of the Applebees parking lot, navigated past the mall, on to the highway, and was cruising along when suddenly, my car was in neutral and the stick shift had no resistance. At this point, I should perhaps explain that many Pennsylvania roads have little to no shoulder, even on the highways. I'm not sure why, other than perhaps terrain dictated the roads eons ago, and we just paved over top of the horse trails. Managing to roll my husband's car into the excuse that passed for a shoulder of the road, I was dismayed to see half my car still sticking out into the lane. I was even more dismayed to discover my cell phone battery was nearly dead; just enough life in it to make one phone call.

I tried home first, figuring the Mr. would be home by then, or at the least, The Boy would pick up. I knew he was home, and then he'd give the deets to his father. I figured wrong. On the sixth ring, I hung up, and prayed that my phone would hold out for one more call. I called my father, Floyd. "Hey Papa, you think you can come rescue me?" Every time a car swooshed past, my car swayed side to side, "I'm not in a good spot," I said, and then proceeded to give garbled directions in my hyper-adrenalinized state. In the meantime, I dug through my purse, brilliantly remembering my Tom-tom was there, and the charger for that would work for my phone. I dialed the husband's cell phone, and miraculously, he had it on him, and it was charged.

"I'm stuck on the highway," I said.

"Oh no! What happened?" He asked.

I explained in detail the clutch, the stick shift, the rolling to a slow stop on the 'shoulder' and my precarious position. "Can you call Geico? We have roadside assistance. They'll send us a tow truck."

Shortly after I hung up with him, my father called looking for me. Apparently, my directions were lousy. Another five minutes, he pulled up behind me, assessed the situation and decided he was going to walk up and around the bridge I was facing to see if there was more shoulder on the other side. I was close to an off-ramp, and he figured that there might be more space as a result. "I think I'm going to use my truck to push you a little further so your butt isn't hanging out on the road anymore. It would make me feel better," he said.

"It would make me feel better too!" I said enthusiastically. I had just spent a good part of ten minutes imagining someone rear-ending me.

I watched as my father's truck slowly inched towards my rear bumper and felt a gentle nudge. After the third tap, he called out his window, "Do you still have your emergency brake on???" Oops. I took the brake off, and we began limping our way down the "shoulder" which was narrowing down to nothing the closer we got to the bridge. Calling out directions, Dad directed me around the bridge and on to a much wider shoulder. I was now at least a foot away from the lane where vehicles were still swooping past at incredible volume. "Where on earth is all this traffic coming from at 10:00 at night?" I asked. Meanwhile, my mother, who had just returned from our meeting to find no sign of my father began frantically calling his phone, my home phone... She came home to find signs of life, but no signs of his person. It was an understandable reaction.

I hadn't heard from Jeremy, my husband, in awhile, so I called the house phone. He was still on the line with Geico, who was still trying to find a tow truck. I wondered if it would have been faster to just find one ourselves and pay for the tow, rather than use road-side assistance. I hung up and told Dad what was going on. Leaning into my drivers side window, we talked about this and that for a good fifteen minutes before my phone rang. "Ray is coming to save you," Jeremy said.

At ten forty-five, my rescuer came with his big hook and flashing lights. He took my information, and my credit card number. Dad and I piled back into his truck and he drove me home. I walked into the door, greeted by my wild-haired husband. I could tell he'd been having a time of it at home. 

"If the situation had been reversed," he said by way of greeting, "You'd have fallen apart."

"Gee thanks," I said. "As if what I went through wasn't traumatic?"

"No. It gets better. The lady on the phone was from Georgia."

"In other words, she has no idea where Reading is, or what it looks like, or where I actually was located on the highway. It was probably like playing whisper down the lane."

"Exactly." He said as he smoothed down his hair. "I had just gotten in the door, I hadn't had dinner, and I had a most pressing need to use the bathroom when you called. That alone would have made you a mess."

I had to concede that one.

"So while I was on the phone listening to the hold music, I noticed the toilet water was low and I flushed."

"It over-flowed."

"Exactly."

"And then I noticed Josh was still dressed and not anywhere near ready for bed. He hadn't taken his medicine, he wasn't in his pajamas..."

"He was still playing his video game,"

"Exactly. And since I had the girls with me at band practice, they were ALSO just now trying to get ready for bed..."

"And you were still on hold with the nice lady from Georgia."

"Yes. So after a bit she came back on the line and I asked her how many places she had called, and she said '38'" He imitated her accent perfectly, I'm sure. "And then I asked, 'how many more on your list?' She said, '42,' I said, '38?!? 42?!? Seriously?' " He flipped back into his Southern Belle Accent as he continued his story, "And she said, 'Well, a lot of them told me they refuse to drive in Reading at night' I said, 'seriously.'"

"The irony is, I wasn't any where NEAR Reading. I was on THE HIGHWAY. My best guess is that she was calling towing places and saying 'Can you tow someone in Reading?' and they tuned out," I said.

"You're probably right." Jeremy said, "So after a bit, I asked how far away she was calling for a truck. She told me as much as fifty miles away. I said 'fifty miles?!? That's practically Philadelphia! That's like an hour away!' So she told me there was this one for-pay place, and I said 'take it. I don't care if we have to pay up front and then submit the claim. Just take it.' And so she called Ray."

"I'm so glad you said that. I kind of wish we had realized sooner what was probably happening. I might not have sat so long. I'm pretty sure anyone would come to the rescue on the highway."

"I know! If she had called someone from out near Philadelphia, you'd have waited another hour."

I shuddered at the thought.

Petunias, Planters, and Patios, Oh My!

When we purchased the building that houses 'some things looming' we were particularly thrilled with the attached courtyard, despite the fact that it contained trash and two-foot high weeds.  One of the first things we did, was to put Joshua, our gardener-in-training and my first-born child, to work cleaning up the space:  pulling the weeds, throwing out the trash, and digging out two foot long roots along the building perimeters.  He's a high-energy kid.  Over the years, I've put him to work in my own yard to burn off some of that excess energy, so it was a task he was familiar with and often enjoys. 

In the spring of 2010, we added a fence, complete with gate and lock to keep our neighbors from throwing their trash into our courtyard.  At this point, our progress stalled because the courtyard is landlocked by several buildings. There is no egress to the street, which means, any kind of patio materials had to go through the gallery or the boutique to get back outside.   The more we contemplated how we'd haul brick and stone, the more we realized it might be better to pay someone to do the work for us.

This past fall, we hired a landscaper who designed the patio and installed it behind the fence.

Building the Patio

It took three or four days, and many many more truckloads for the two landscapers to deliver the brick, stone, and sand.  Hauling wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow, they carried the materials up a ramp over up our front steps, through our gallery, and to the courtyard.   Daily I watched the progress of the construction.  Being an artist who finds the process as exciting as the product, I was enthralled watching the assembly.

One half complete!

Almost finished!

This Spring, we had the landscaper come back and fill the region outside of the fence with decorative stone.  I'm not even going to guess how many trips that took. And finally, our patio/courtyard was complete! Or was it?

We still needed to acquire tables and chairs, and what about decorative elements? Prowling stores from here to Timbuktu, Floyd managed to snag three large table umbrellas the very color of our 'some things looming' green.  He put up the center awning, anchored it down, and voilà!  NOW we were finished with the courtyard.  Or were we??

Any good city courtyard should have a container garden, we thought. And since we wanted to debut our outdoor space at the Size Matters opening, it fell to Floyd and I to create the garden.   I wanted evergreens, first and foremost.  So we hopped in the car and started hunting through garden centers all across our fair city's suburbs, in the cold, misty, spring rain.  We began with some dwarf spruce trees, and some blueish-green shrubs, I have no idea of their names.  I'm not a gardener. I leave that up to the kid, who has a ridiculously keen green thumb.  Mostly, I said "ooh, that's pretty and would go nice with all these other shades of green. Let's get that!" 

I picked out a couple of ruby daylillies as well as some reddish grass-like plant.    Then we found this rose bush/shrub variety called "Knock Out Roses."  Knowing how much Rebekah loves her roses, we decided to grab three of those for three corners of our patio.  Unfortunately, nothing is in bloom yet, so we knew we'd need some annuals to add color.  Floyd suggested some hanging window boxes attached to the top of our patio fence with a draping flower out of them.  We ordered eight boxes, and are awaiting them, even as I type.

Piling our finds into Floyd's truck, we headed to the next stop for some containers, stone, and potting soil to plant our goodies.   Next came the fun part: getting it all back to the courtyard.

Joshua, our gardener

Back and forth, forth and back, we hauled our prized purchases.  Thankfully, I had our gardener-in-training, Joshua, to help muscle us through the process. He even began the planting process that evening, managing to set-up three trees and one rose bush.  The next day, I brought over some annuals already in planters (thank goodness!) and a couple of window boxes to hang off the railing on the steps leading out of the boutique.  Floyd and I began to tackle the rest of the pots.  Half-way through our first pot, we wondered to ourselves how a fourteen year old boy managed to plant three trees and one rose bush all by his lonesome.  It was quite the task for just the two of us! 

Our "gardener" and his sisters who "helped"

Much to our chagrin, we miscalculated how much dirt and stone we really needed, which meant another trip to the garden center.  We decided to pick up more annual planters to decorate the empty space between the door leading out of the gallery and the door leading out of the boutique.  Piling it all in the back of my mommy-mobile (aka mini-van) we headed back to the studio.  A gazillion more trips back and forth from the street, through the gallery, to the patio, and we finally unloaded the rest of the stash. 

By this point, our bodies were talking to us. We had been squatting, bending over, or hauling large heavy bags of product for hours, and decided we might not be able to get upright ever again.  Thankfully, this was not the case, and by the evening before the Size Matters opening, we were able to sit out and enjoy the fruits of our labors. 

leading out from the gallery to the courtyard

The patio at night

 

 

Looking back towards the gallery door

During the day.  Doncha love the green umbrellas Floyd found? They're our color!

It's lovely to sit out here.

or here. :)

We hope you'll stop by sometime, to see Size Matters, and maybe take a peek at our little courtyard hide-away here in the city.

~Melanie

Who let me play with powertools?

Ohhhh, if you could have only been here on the afternoon I constructed a frame loom to see if I could turn the project into a Saturday Sampler. Because for me, the key to a successful Sampler, is test-driving the project over and over until I know the good, the bad, and the ugly, hoping to eliminate surprises that might turn up during the two hours of class. I know there are a gazillion and one ways to make a frame loom. I've seen looms constructed out of wood, metal, PVC pipe, and even a book. I'm not opposed to constructing a few more frame looms in variety of ways, but I wanted to start with the one I knew best: the one I made in my very first college Fibers class.

It's been 16 years since Fibers 101 when we constructed the very same loom I was attempting to re-create that afternoon. We used nails back then, and after working with Floyd this last year and a half, and seeing how he put things together more often than not, well, it gave me the brilliant idea to buy screws instead. I tried to use wood glue this time around as well, thinking it would add a layer of sturdiness to the loom. And oh, did I mention that sixteen years ago, the pieces were already pre-cut to a specific size on a power saw? No? Well, this time they weren't. So, I had to use a handsaw and apparently the teeth were too rough for the wood. I needed a finer tooth saw. It's a good thing my teenager son has a mouse sander.

While trying to get things square, I fought with the clamps and wood glue . I'd no sooner get one side square and clamped together, then the other would come apart. I wrangled my eleven year old daughter, Ruth, into being an extra pair of hands. Still, the wooden parts were slipping and sliding. After a bit, I managed to get the sides clamped down to the top piece of the loom.

Then came the drill. I knew enough to pre-drill the holes. But apparently, I didn't know enough about drill bits and screws to choose the right ones, both drill bits and screws. The screws were too big, and the drill bit too small. When my husband Jeremy walked up to the porch after he got home from work, he noticed I was fighting with getting one of the screws into the wood. I had asked him to help, but between the two of us, we split the wood. I say "we" because, as for me, I was the one who pre-drilled the hole. And he, because he'll tell anyone who listens, he's "Anti-handiman."

So I had to take that piece apart, which wasn't easy to do since the glue had set up, cut another bar the same size as before, and then had to try to re-assemble it. (Floyd makes this stuff look so easy!)

Joshua, my afore mentioned son, rode his bike up to the porch at that very moment. He was just getting back from hanging out with his friends. I looked up at him, and made sure to look as pitiful as I could, and said in a pleading, helpless voice, "Oh Josh. I need your help." I should be ashamed of myself, using my femininity that way, against a poor hapless, unsuspecting, young, man-in-training. After all, that "help-me-I'm-a-girl" bit never fails with males of any age, even though I suspect they already know what game we are playing. However, I was desperate enough to try anything that might make a teenage boy willing to help his mother. Floyd was on vacation, and I didn't want to wait a whole week to finish my frame loom.

Feeling all grown-up and manly, Joshua sauntered over to me and said, "What do you need?"

"I bought the wrong screws apparently, and I'm not doing so well with the cutting and measuring...and well, it's pretty ugly." I sat on the porch amidst parts and pieces strewn about. Blowing my hair out of my face, I added, "But hey, I've learned a lot. And now I'm ready to turn it over to someone with more expertise." Flattery will get a woman everywhere.

Sweet boy that he is, he held in his laughter as he scanned my "mess." "Sure," he said with a big smirk, as he leaned his bike against the porch railing and climbed over the gate. After inspecting what I had already completed, and listening to what needed to happen next, he helped me square up the bottom piece, while giving me advice about what I should have done instead.

When I asked him to drill the hole, he said "See, I love this drill. It has this level on the back with cross hairs so you know you're drilling perfectly straight."

"Well, huh, look at that." I said
"You didn't know that?"
"Nope. I didn't know that."

In about 1/10th of the time it took me to do the top of the loom, Joshua had the bottom fixed, and fixed the top half where I made mistakes. Well, O.K., in two places he accidentally drilled all the way through. After the second hole that went through the loom frame, he looked at me and said, "Two words: Wood Putty."

Until the next time I go unsupervised with tools...

~Melanie

I'm in Love...

I've never had too much enthusiasm for owning a counter-balance loom, with no real reason as to why. Most likely, because it wasn't the first type of loom I ever wove on. Since I prefer the familiar, the comfortable, the unchanged, I haven't really given this type of loom more thought. But say "Free Loom" to me, and suddenly I have developed a desire to own one. I believe I've developed a tendre for the smaller Lane loom over the last week or so. Which means, I'll probably become rather attached to the larger, once I start putting its pieces back together.

As usual, it took Floyd and I a few attempts to get the smaller Lane loom through two doorways and into the Loom Room."How about this?" I asked, wondering whether or not we turned the frame sideways would help.

"Still need some clearance," Floyd said. We set the loom down, and studied door number one.
"I bet we need to take the door off. We always need to take the door off, " I suggested.
"Yeah," Floyd said, staring at the door. "I was just hoping, just this once."
"We're always hoping, 'just this once' but we always take the door off," I replied.

Floyd chuckled ruefully, "Ok, back her up." We walked the frame back out of the narrow hallway and out onto the wide landing at the top of the first set of stairs. Setting it in front of the bathroom door, we walked back down the hall to take the door off its hinges. After which, we walked the loom back down the hall again, only to discover we had to further disassemble the loom frame. We were also hoping to avoid that as well.

"Ok, back her up," Floyd said, yet again. Walking back wards, we set Li'l Lane back down, again, on the landing. Floyd grabbed his tools and took off the two front upright supports of the frame. That was the moment we noticed someone had stamped part numbers onto the loom."Saaa-weet!" I exclaimed. "It's even easier to put back together than usual, because the parts are numbered. Look!"
"That's a good thing," Floyd said.

Third time's the charm, so they say, and it certainly was true for us. We got Li'l Lane situated in her spot and began putting her frame back together.

Then began the re-arranging of the Loom Room. I now had seven looms into a small space. "How can we make this work?" I wondered, determined TO make it work. After several configurations and "No, that's not right. No, I don't really like that arrangement either," I apologized to Floyd. "I'm sorry. We've re-arranged this several times. I know we'll find the right combo. Maybe if we move this here..."
"It's ok, I'm married to your mother. It's no worse than re-arranging the living room a thousand times." He said.

Finally, we got it set up so that the flow of room traffic was as unimpeded. as possible. It is crowded, but I've yet to work in a weaving studio where it wasn't. Most times, someone's back beam, nearly became my back rest. Two of the looms are a little smushed together in this picture, because I've been moving them around as I work on them.

Later that week, we took off Li'l Lane's aprons, and I disassembled the shafts. I greased up the heddle bars, and replaced her heddles. Using Murphy's Oil Soap, I lovingly washed away the basement grime from her previous home on all her wooden parts. Once dry, I polished the wood with Old English. I don't know why I like Old English, but it works like a charm on old looms.

Floyd and I did our usual stalking of the mega-monster-hardware-store for parts and pieces that would work to refurbish the loom: new rods for the apron, four bolts and washers and wing-nuts for the beater. We were struggling to find the right diameter of rope to replace on the pulley-system, and we weren't happy with the choices of foam rubber we found to put on the frame to keep the beater from bashing up the old wood. However, we did score in the slat-wall accessory department, and found some parts and pieces that will work really well for organizing all of the reeds and equipment. After all, I'd just taken up all the floor space with looms. Now I need to take up the wall space with the auxiliary weaving equipment.

Using some old-fashioned ingenuity, Floyd thought of flip-flops for the beater bumpers (say that ten times fast) and we decided I'd hit a dollar store later to pick up a pair. Cut up the flip flops into rectangles, and tack onto the frame, and voila! The perfect bumpers, at an affordable price. A few days later, I stopped at JoAnn Fabrics for new cloth to sew into aprons. for the cloth and warp beams. The only thing I have yet to obtain is waxed cord. I prefer it for the aprons over any other string. I found several jewelry beading online supply stores, but as I'm not a jeweler, I couldn't tell one diameter from the next. I guess I'll be leaning on Rebekah's expertise for that.

In the meantime, I've been working on the two Macombers we picked up from Bowling Green University in Ohio. I washed them down, and have been waiting to polish their wood, as I have had some repair to do first. Their aprons and shafts are off, heddle bars greased. My daughter has been sorting flat heddles to be put back on. I sanded down the back beam of the one loom, where the varnish was all but gone, and so far, put two coats of satin finish on to protect the wood. I would like to put at least two more coats on. It will never look 'new' but the rest of the loom still shows signs of use and I didn't want to completely refinish the beam and make it stand out. Maybe I'm a little crazy, but I prefer the markings on a well-loved, well-used loom.

L'il Lane, along with the two Macombers are still in pieces, waiting for their make-overs to be complete. Big Lane is in even more pieces waiting for her make-over to begin. And while I love working on a Macomber, something about this Li'l Lane speaks to me. I don't know if it's the aged wood, the size of her, or that by still existing, she speaks of a time and era that came before mine. All I know, is I'm attached to an inanimate object. And I can only hope she'll be a joy to use when all is said and done.

~Melanie

The Loomatics (rhymes with Lunatics) ride again

It was a hot, humid, yet glorious Tuesday, when Floyd, my son Joshua, and I went on the road with a trailer hitched to Floyd's truck. Stopping in Philadelphia to pick up Kathryn, we began our most recent loom collecting adventure. Sadly, the world is now bereft of Doris Boyd, a wonderful fiber artist, wife, mother, teacher, and long-time weaver. Her basement held all of her looms, equipment, and yarn, where, I imagine, all of the activity took place. The family, hoping to clear out the studio, had held a sale of her looms back in April. This day, they were giving away the rest, hoping looms would go to good homes. A member of the New Jersey Handweavers Guild had contacted Kathryn to donate a loom to the homeless project: a 24" Devereux loom. In turn, Kathryn informed us that there were other looms, wondered if we'd be interested. Interested? Did she really just ask me if I was interested. Ahem….

"Hi, I'm Melanie, and I'm a loom-aholic."

I never turn down the opportunity to acquire another loom (especially if the only cost is in mileage/gas/acquisition and repairs). And really, what’s a road trip without pulling Floyd, my appointed 'loomatic,' into the mix? Sooooo, Floyd and I put our heads together, figured out from whom we could borrow a trailer (Thanks Eric!) and made last-minute plans for a trip to Tabernacle, NJ. Since we set out so early, we decided to stop for breakfast close to our destination. After all, "loomaticing"(I just made that word up. No really, I did.) requires great quantities of ones reserve energies.

Around the table starting on the left: Kathryn, Floyd, Joshua, Melanie

After several cups of coffee, a couple of omelets, creamed chip beef, and a short stack of pancakes, our tummies were tanked up, and we were ready to go out into the world of loom foraging. We arrived at the Boyd home a few minutes early of their opening, but it wasn't long before more eager loom-atics showed up. Several looms were already put aside for others, however with great foraging prowess, we were able to acquire two Lane counter-balance looms: small and medium sized.

It took some creative disassembling on our part to carry the Lane looms out the door (good thing we had tanked up in advance). The Devereux was compact enough to keep in one piece. It took even more creativity to pack it all up into the back of Floyd's truck and the trailer, but we managed.

Arriving back in Philadelphia, we hit a snag when we tried to take the Devereux through Kathryn’s front door. Oooops…well this is why we always bring Floyd along. Ok. Turning the loom this way and that, and still there was just no way it would fit. Frustrating. We only needed a stingy little half of an inch, and the loom would have made it. We looked at whether or not we could get the screen door off. Maybe that would gain us more clearance. No? How about putting it through the window? Oh, fun. None of us relished that thought. OK…let’s take it apart. Floyd? Oh, my. Well that’s interesting. The Devereux seemed to have (aside from the beater) no nuts and bolts with which to take it apart! Hmmmm. We looked it over. We lifted and looked under. We bent down low and looked sideways. Humpf! “Well how about that!” We collected sighed. Who would have thought? A fine work of craftsmanship, in and of itself, the loom was constructed aesthetically so that the joins were practically seamless.

(Floyd taking off the beater...which actually did have bolts)

Not to be out-crafted, eventually, I noticed four wedges down at the bottom of the loom. The foot rest, and back support bar fit through slots on the frame sides, and then the wedges were positioned into slots, as if holding the bars onto the frame.

"Hey look at this!" I said "I wonder what would happen if we took those out." Floyd got out his tools, gently easing the wedges out of their slots. Amazingly enough, the entire loom is held together by those four wedges. A rather ingenious design, if I do say so myself.

Piece by piece, we got the Devereux into Kathryn's house, and into the front room.

"Do you think you can get that back together before you go?" Kathryn asked.
"Sure, No problem!" I said.
I began to reassemble the loom, and got a slight bit stymied when it came to putting the shafts back on. As sweat beaded on my brow, and my loom repair prowess was tested, not to mention my pride, I fiddled until I got it figured it out. I had never seen a counter balance loom quite like the Devereux, its pulley system quite different than what I'm familiar with. Not to mention, I've only touched a handful of counter-balance looms. Taking what I knew about the loom, how it should work, I managed to work out the solution. Now here's hoping when Kathryn warps it for the first time, it's correct. I could foresee a trip back to Philadelphia in the near future, if it's not.



Being pressed for time, we said our goodbyes, and piled back into the truck. We wandered around the maze of streets for a bit, as Kathryn's neighborhood was a little unfamiliar. The GPS wanted to take us around the block endlessly, but thankfully, Floyd has a good sense of direction. We still managed to beat the beginnings of Philadelphia rush-hour traffic.


Arriving back in Reading, we pulled up to the curb, put our flashers on, threw the cone out onto Washington street, and quickly unloaded the trailer. We were nearly completed when an officer pulled up behind us and asked if we had a permit.
"A what?" we asked
"A permit for loading and unloading on a thoroughfare. You need one for Washington Street."
"Oh we're sorry. We didn't know. We've been unloading stuff before and never had a problem. No one ever told us different," we said.
"Just make sure next time you have a permit," the cop said as he pulled away.

Stashing the looms quickly into the building, we head off for some quiet and some vacation time, the looms waiting for our return. Don’t tell Floyd, but I don’t think the one loom’s going to fit through the Loom Room door. It’ll be a surprise.

It's always an adventure when the loomatics go for a ride.

The Loomatics, Chapter 5, "Final Destination."

Morning arrived again, as it is wont to do, and much too early as usual. We decided to get off to a start an hour later than Friday, beginning our day at five am instead. Tanking up at a service station, I picked up a couple of egg Mc Muffins at the Mc D's and a couple of cups of coffee. We loaded up, and moved 'em on out looking ahead to our journey's end, some things looming, knowing we had at least another five hours on the road.

Crossing the border once more into Pennsylvania, I watched as the landscape turned back into the familiar rolling hills, heavy with forest. We passed through tunnels, over bridges, around corners and bends, making our pit stops here and there. I snoozed for an hour or two, catching up for sleep lost the night before. Floyd manned the steering wheel for the whole of the second day of our trip.

Eventually we pulled up to the building, another successful hunt under our belts. We unloaded the van, hauled the looms up a flight of stairs, down the hall to the Loom Room, and settled them, temporarily. After which, we concluded our odyssey by returning the van to its former glory: replacing seats, cleaning out trash, and eliminating evidence of the last sixteen plus hours.

We drove back to my house, where Floyd had left his truck. Swapping out vehicles, he waved good-bye to me and head straight back to some things looming to keep Rebekah company. Meanwhile, I, Melanie, the wimp, climbed the stairs to my attic bedroom, flopped face down on the bed and remained happily unconscious for the next six hours.

All in all, it was a fabulous trip. We were blessed with great weather and good road conditions. Now all I have to do is re-assemble two looms, grease up their mechanical parts, and test them out. I couldn't be more pleased.

Until our next adventure...

The Loomatics, Chapter 4, "Thwarting Traffic."

Floyd took out his phone to pull up the internet. I wondered if my GPS would help. About that moment, I realized I saw 'Free WiFi' posted on the door of McDonalds. I also recalled, that in a flash of brilliant foresight, that I had brought my laptop along with me.

"Hey, Mc D's has WiFi. I bet I could pull up the 'net on my laptop, we can get to Google Maps, and see if there's an alternate route. At the very least, we can see if we need an alternate route. Maybe if you get close enough to the building, I can get a signal." I said.

Floyd crept the van closer and closer to the building, but to no avail. "Looks like we'll have to go in," I said on a sigh. We found a table, pulled up the laptop, and after some fidgeting around with the computer, figured out how to log on. As usual, I was making it harder than necessary. I Googled Ohio Turnpike, discovered that they were still reporting a delay where we noticed the parking lot of cars. Floyd Google Mapped the location, and we noticed a road running parallel to the Turnpike.

"I think we can take this route, maybe put Tom Tom on just to be safe, and then by-pass this mess. They might be finished by then. I mean, the construction crew might be done by 3pm, I don't know..."

"Yeah," I said, "But they'd still have to pack up, and I bet there will still be backlash from the cars. I mean, it was backed up for miles," I said.

Having decided on a course of action, we piled back into the van, and headed back towards home. Success was ours that day, as we detoured ourselves through sleepy back Ohio roads, past farms and small towns, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness. We pulled back up onto the highway, and gradually made our way back to the border of Ohio and Pennsylvania. We passed a farm, and entertained ourselves with thoughts of sheep rustling, and how we'd explain to others why we had a couple of animals baaing and bleating strapped to our roof.

"They're uh, dogs. Big fluffy dogs. Big fluffy poodles. We trained them to make that noise. Much less annoying than barking," we said, imagining. Maybe it was the fatigue, but we thought ourselves comedians with this routine, and continued the dialogue as the gap between there and here closed in on itself.

Eventually, we stopped at our evening destination, a little hole in the wall motel where we planned to get a little rest before completing the trip back home. It lie just over the boundary that marks one state from the next. Its less than stellar accommodations were just another part of the adventure, I reminded myself, and the price is right. Bonus points for the lovely restaurant next door. Floyd and I both ordered the Friday night special, the "Black and Blue," a blackened spice rubbed filet with blue cheese crumble. Mmm.

We meandered back to our room, and settled in for the evening. I checked e-mail, read Facebook, surfed the 'net, and then settled in with my kindle book on my iPod before drifting off into dreamland. Like a projector abruptly unplugged, the lovely images floating through my mind were cut off by the loud noise of partiers reveling in their drunkenness.

"Hey! Hey Stan! DUDE! LOOK UP HERE!" I heard one person shout. The laughter and giggling, squealing and shrieking continued for about another hour or so. They just need to get a little more roasted and pass out, I thought to myself. When that happened, I knew I could slip back into blissful slumber. At least I hoped.

Next week. The Loomatics, Chapter 5. "Final Destination."

The Loomatics, Chapter 3, "Two crazy people, Two looms, One mini-van"

We pulled into Bowling Green State University and followed the map to the Fine Arts Building. I took out my cell phone, called my contact person, who gave us further directions to the pick-up location. Two gentlemen wheeled out both looms on dollies, while Floyd and I took everything out of the van. Checking over the looms, I ensured everything was there, and in decent shape.

We began to disassemble the loose parts, and setting them aside. Floyd worked his packing magic, and managed to cram two looms, a bench, shuttles, cones of yarn, plus our box of food, our water, and our overnight back packs into my minivan.



I signed the paperwork to indicate I had, indeed, collected two weaving looms, waved good-bye to the fellows who helped load the van, climbed aboard, and we took off in search of a gas station and a bathroom. We noticed a McDonalds across the way, and decided it would be a good place to stop, especially since there happened to be a gas station right next to it. On our way back to the van, we begin discussing the completely stopped traffic on the Turnpike.

"I really don't want to sit in that," Floyd said.
"Me either. Maybe we can find another way around it," I suggested.

Coming up...The Loomatics, Chapter 4. "Thwarting traffic."

The Loomatics, Chapter 2. "On the Road again..."

Driving to distant locations has become a bit of a habit of mine. The first loom was rather local, Quakertown. The next time, Floyd, my sister, Sara, and I drove to New York for another loom. Now, we were making plans to drive to Ohio. Having measured my van, we decided we didn't need to borrow a trailer. I packed a box with snacks, grabbed a couple of water bottles, and two gallons of water. Floyd took the seats out of my van, hooked up a turtle to the roof, and we were ready to go.

Unfortunately, four in the morning comes way too early. Equally unfortunate, not a lot in my sleeping little town is open, including the convenience stores. Our adventure began with the hunt for a cup of coffee, decent or otherwise. It really didn't matter. We needed to power up with some caffeine before we embarked on our journey. Thankfully, the search wasn't too long. After trying two different gas stations, we hit paydirt with the third. Pandora loaded up on my phone and plugged into the system, coffee cups in the cup holders, we hit the road.

The trip was rather uneventful. We drove while the sun peaked over the horizon, watched as it rose to full height, while trees, and towns slid past from mile to mile. Stopping for bathroom breaks only, we consumed breakfast and lunch on the road, chatted about everything and nothing, and counted down the hours til our destination.We did make one important discovery, however. There is a sore lack of service plazas between the end of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and the start of the Ohio one. Our bladders near bursting, and the van beeping and begging for gas, the mile markers on the side of the road gained significance with each one we passed. While the lack of gas stations and bathrooms alarmed us, it wasn't enough of a deterrent from a photo opportunity.
Like pilgrims reaching their Mecca, we rejoiced when we pulled into the first Service station knowing the crisis was averted. It was with great relief we emptied our system of liquid buildup, and filled up on gas. Tanking ourselves with drinks and snacks, we pulled back out onto the highway, cruising to the sweet sounds of Motown floating through the van's stereo speakers. While driving the turnpike, we noticed the other side had been magically transformed from highway to parking lot.

"Oh boy," Floyd said. "We're going to have to see if we can find another route. I really don't want to be sitting in that when we head back."
"Yeah," I said in agreement.

Stay tuned for next week's installment: Loomatics, Chapter 3 "Two crazy people, Two Looms, One Mini-Van."

The Loomatics, Chapter 1...

Some women hunt for the perfect outfit complete with matching shoes. They scour the sale fliers, the Sunday paper inserts, receive the promotional emails, use their department store credit cards to take off that additional ten percent, all in the name of a great bargain. Me? Forget the clothes, I'm always on the hunt for a loom at a good price. So much so, sometimes I forget to notice where exactly, the loom is located.

About a month ago eBay informed me that my favorite brand of loom was available for bidding. Often, I watch the bidding on the looms that go up for sale, but I rarely, if ever, bid on one. Most of my used looms have been found through other online means, much less stressful means. When I saw three of the same looms up for auction at the same time, however, I "kind-of" lost my mind. I bid on all three of them. Then I noticed their location: Bowling Green, Ohio. I Googled Bowling Green, Ohio and discovered it was eight hours from Reading.

Oops.

I hope I win. I hope I lose one of them. What if I win all three? What if I only win one? I have to get at least two to make this worthwhile. I don't know if I can justify an eight-hour drive to Ohio for one loom. ACK! This internal dialogue continued for a full hour, as each auction was staggered by about fifteen minutes or so.

Winning on eBay is so bittersweet.

My first reaction is always "YES!" followed by a sick feeling in the stomach. Ugh. Pulse racing, I continued to watch the second and third auction, minutes ticking down, seconds, re-upping my highest amount. I had the fever, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself. I decided my top bid amount, berated myself for not putting that in from the first, and kept watching. I lost the second loom. Flipping to the third auction, my adrenalin rush crashed, as I lost that auction as well, all within a couple of dollars too.

Great. Now I'm traveling to Ohio for one loom, I thought. Undaunted, I decided to contact the seller, Bowling Green State University, to see if they had other looms that would be coming up on eBay. The reply was positive, very positive. They were willing to sell me another, exact same loom, directly. Sadly, they were closing their Fiber Arts program down, and selling off all of the equipment. After weeks of back and forth emails, everything was set. I had my second loom. Now we just had to make the drive.

Read more next week... "On the road again...I can't wait to get on the road again..."

Word for the day: Anthropomorphism

Anthropomorphism. Sounds like a germ doesn’t it? It can be passed along (I’m sure I got it from my mother) and it can definitely have unpleasant consequences (attic-itis…a swelling of the contents of one’s attic). This is the act of assigning feelings and humanity to inanimate objects. It has caused me to hang on to many things that I should throw away, caused my daughter to have a collection of hundreds of teddy bears, most of which talked to me and of course some that ended up talking to her, and to keep broken bits of this and that in the name of family history and sentiment.

Old buildings have been talking to me since I was 8 years old. The first building I fell in love with and talked back to me was along my walk to school. It was this wonderful brick house, with a nice front porch that had pretty wrought iron trim on either side of the porch. I could see amongst the over grown shrubs and little out-buildings that it had been a beautiful little home with a warm and welcoming back yard. I could see it in its former glory and wondered at the people who might have lived there, loved it and cared enough to make it so beautiful. I would whisper prayers for it that someone would buy it and love it back to beautiful again.

This ‘thing’ that makes me want to tangibly see and feel the beauty of the past has never left me. Reading, Pennsylvania speaks to me that way. It makes me love the city to the point It almost hurts. I see these beautiful old buildings all around me and I can imagine them restored to their former glory. I can imagine all the lives that have passed through them when they were new and loved.

I sigh over the wonderful roof lines, the turrets, the bay windows, the stained glass transoms and pretty little decorative window accents, the wrought iron trim and fencing, the miles of brick, the stone that looks like it was fire kissed…but clearly really wasn’t. And that’s just the little row homes that line most of the city streets. Stop for a minute and stand still on Penn Street. Take a look up at those old multi-storied banks and buildings. There’s some amazing detail on some of those wonderful old buildings.

Why do I share this today? Because last week we received the most delightful surprise from the city. We were selected to receive a commendation for our restoration work on 526 Washington Street, home of some things looming. She’s a sweet little row that was probably always commercial space with the owner living and working there, perhaps on the third floor where Melanie has her studios now. Tonight we will go to city hall and receive a certificate of commendation. It has been a long, but wonderful journey bringing 526 back to her former glory, with a bit of a modern twist. We hope you stop by sometime, enjoy the art, and the ambiance of our building.

~Rebekah

Happy New Year!

The countdown to our opening begins. We have a little less than two and a half months before our Opening. Some of our promotional work is finished, and our signage has been sent to the printer. What's left to do? It feels like just about everything!

Floyd began working on our boutique, prepping the room for paint, and taking down ceiling tiles. It will be the "Gallery for Functional Art," so we're focusing on making it the best. Our not-so-little-helper-elf, Steven (who also happens to be Nephew S to yours truly) has made major headway in the second floor bathroom. We love the antiquated pedestal sink with its separate hot and cold faucets, and the very dated toilet in the second floor bathroom, so we're going for a past meets present kind of look with modern wallpaper, and black and white subway tile. In between working on the bathroom, Steven can be found on a ladder, painting primer on the boutique windows' woodwork.

The community studios are coming along as well. Floyd and I spent a few weeks before Christmas vacation cleaning up two of the four looms in the weaving studio. I washed and polished the wood, while he removed any rust we found on the metal parts. What parts that couldn't be preserved, he and I replaced.

Floyd also finished the basement floor that leads to our future dye kitchen. And, we still have some minutiae to finish in the downstairs bathrooms: hanging art, finish painting the doors, etc. We have been very busy since my last post in November.

Behind the scenes, Rebekah and I are working on the copy for our website, which is currently under construction. Once up, we will list our classes and workshops, our current and upcoming events, as well as individual artist pages, for those who rent studios within our building. We will be spending more time updating this blog, so keep checking back with us over the next weeks!

All in all, things are progressing, despite the quickly coming deadline. We hope you had a wonderful holiday season, enjoying friends and family, lots of love, warmth and good cheer. Blessings to you and yours for 2010!

Melanie

Hans und Franz go to New York

(names have been changed for protection)

It all started with a loom I found on an online fiber equipment page. We were on vacation last weekend when my mother and I trolled the 'net looking for looms for our studio. The ad looked good. We made contact. We negotiated a price. We picked a travel date. We drove to New York.

The seller indicated we'd need several people to move the loom. "It is heavy. Bring people who can haul," She wrote in her email. So I did. My father drove, and my sister tagged along. Or rather, I was the one tagging along, since I know what looms look like. I'm such a girl when it comes to hauling and lifting. I'm a weakling of the highest order. My sister, Sara, on the other hand is strong as an ox. Maybe that's not flattering for a female, but I have always been in awe of her superior strength. I knew we were ok.

We drove the three plus hours to New York, traveling through the town of Sleepy Hollow where there was a cool statue of the Headless Horseman. Along the way, my father and sister started joking around. "I am Hans," he said. "Und I am Franz," Sara replied. "Und we are hear to haul a loom." "Hey you. Girly-man...can't you lift that?" "Yah, Vee need to pahmp you ahp, you girly-man." They amused themselves in this manner for a good ten to fifteen minutes, laughing at themselves.

Arriving at the seller's house, she greeted us in the drive with her husband by her side. He might have passed for a shorter, weaker, thinner, Tony Shaloub. She showed us the loom on the second floor, and Dad and Sara began contemplating the best way to carry it down the stairs and out the door to the trailer.

"I dont want to sound sexist," Tony said. "But I guess I'll have to be the other man." Dad picked up on end, and Tony tried to grab the other. He grunted, and groaned and maybe, just maybe got the loom off the ground half a millimeter. Sara gently pushed him aside, hauled the loom up over her head to get it above the barrier at the top of the steps in one fell swoop. She bore the brunt of the weight walking backwards down the stairs, and with Dad's help, carted the loom out through the garage and proceeded to help load it up.

"Boy, Sara," Tony said. "You're strong. Really strong." She gave him a look like, uh, yeah. I know. You Girly-mahn.

We piled back into Dad's Explorer, waved good-bye, and broke out into laughter.

"I dont want to sound Sexist..." Sara said.

Melanie

Going Postal

Meet our new Fiber Arts Community building:


It's a lovely three story building located near several restaurants, which, incidentally is going to bankrupt me. I will be tempted by the smells wafting into my studio to buy lunch every day. But that is not the point of this story.

If you were standing on the sidewalk in front of my studio building, then turned to your right, and walked one small city block, you'd find yourself in front of the post office. The same said post office that I stood in line for ten minutes waiting for my five minutes of frustration on Thursday.

"Can I help you?" asked the lady at the window.

"Yes. We had settlement on 526 Washington Street a couple of weeks ago. We're setting up the utilities, and were concerned that the utility companies would start sending the bills. We have no mailbox. We want you to hold our mail until we can get our box installed."

"Um, I don't know how to do that. Hold on. Let me get someone."

I worked for the post office. It isn't hard to hold someone's mail. And window clerks are supposed to know this kind of information. So Polly Postal-Clerk finds Debbie Doesn't-know-anything who attempted to appease me. But before that could happen, I had to say my spiel all over again.

"Well, let me take your name and number. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what we can do."

Friday came and went with no word from Debbie. This morning I was woken up with a phone call from Debbie, who asked for Rebekah. Being half dragged out of slumber, I couldn't figure out why someone was asking for Rebekah when I knew deep in my knower that I was at my own home, the same home I've lived in for the last seven years. Then I realized I had also given my Rebekah's name to Debbie, since she and I are in this business together. Rebekah's the brains. I'm the artistic talent. At least, that's what she keeps telling me.

"Oh, no, I'm Melanie. I talked to you on Thursday."

"Oh, Ok, yes, now I remember, Melanie," said Debbie. "So I talked to your carrier. He said there's no way to deliver the mail. No way to even slip it under the door..."

I interrupted her, grumpily, "Yes I know." I emphasized the word know and drew it out long and annoyed. "That's why we wanted our mail held until we could get one installed. Floyd wants to order one..."

Debbie interrupted, "He doesn't have to order one. He can go to Lowes and get it up there. Especially since it's only one business in the building..."

"You mean, you can't hold our mail at all?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, how long do you need us to hold your mail?"

"Maybe a week, maybe two. Maybe not at all. I don't know if anything will even come.."

The interruption game continued, "You haven't gotten any mail yet."

"Yes. I know. But we have had the utilities turned on, and we might start getting the bills."
"I don't think we can hold your mail for that long."

"If I went on vacation and filled out a hold mail slip, you could hold my mail for two weeks. How is this any different?" I asked, my annoyance giving way to frustration, and possibly anger.

"This is a new delivery set up..."

I didn't feel like hearing the lame excuse, so I mumbled my false comprehension and then hung up totally unsatisfied. I called Floyd, my father, who happened to be at the studio waiting for the heating people to come and look over the furnace and radiators. He was also cleaning toilets and shampooing carpets. I offered to come help, and he refused.

"So, Pop, here's the deal with the post office..." and I told him. "She said you could just go to Lowes and get a mailbox and just install it."

He snorted, "Does she want to come over here and install it for me?" He then went into lengthy discussion about locking mailboxes versus installing a mail slot in the door, including the ensuing argument between him and my mother over which would be the better options. Then I had to hear a summary about how much he had to do before he could even think about mailboxes versus mail slots.

I don't think I'll ever take my home mail slot for granted ever again.

Melanie