Here we go! Life with the Shibaguyz…

Sunday afternoon and we’re out running errands… the sun is shining and the air is warm without being hot at all.  A perfect day.  Turning the corner at the next light, we spotted a sign: “Estate Sale.”

It’s amazing how an innocent sign can change your entire day… maybe even your whole paradigm.

We’re always on the lookout for gardening pots, books, pottery and dishes.  You know… those little treasures that were hidden behind the lawn chairs in someone’s garage until a few days ago.

As we drove down the residential street in the bright neighborhood not that far from our own, we considered ourselves lucky to find parking right in front of the house, now crawling with people, that was obviously the site of the sale.  A well-kept house sat there with a beautiful cottage garden and large front windows that showed the crush of people slowly milling around inside the former home.

We crossed the street being mindful of the neighbor’s flower beds in their parking strip and made our way past a large trailer full of bookshelves, a couple of old ladders and some miscellaneous furniture.  All great sale finds.

The front room of the house was so full of people we immediately made our way through the mass of bodies and came out on the other side into the kitchen.  Immediately, I was nearly knocked off my feet.

The warmed, well-worn wood of a home that has been lived in for a long time along with the paper, the upholstery and the scents of living… this house smelled just like my Great Aunt’s home.  The scent of powder, now a permanent part of the home, smelled just like my Grandmother.  There, on a shelf in the kitchen was a set of little white bowls with handles on them that my grandmother used to get out when we were there for breakfast and she used to let us eat cereal mom would have had a fit over.

I almost couldn’t move.  There was a stack of melamine plates just like my grandmother kept around for feeding us kids on.  An old console stereo with an 8-track, cassette recorder and endless cabinet space for vinyl records sat just outside the door.  Jason and I both had a moment over that one.

Each room brought another wave of memory from an item that was so familiar yet existed in this home that is on the other side of the country from where these women in my memory lived.  Still…

Moving on to the basement. The steps had obviously been outfitted with one of those plastic/rubber runners at one time and the darker strip of wood down the center echoed with a thud-clump as we made our way down their worn surfaces.

A collection of military caps hanging on hooks… three in all… old photographs and postcards… costume jewelry that had definitely seen some swanky parties about the time bathtub gin was popular.  This is when I stopped frozen in my steps. THE FIND was setting on the table in a box flanked by assorted old books and some photo prints from an old nature magazine.  I was looking at a small box of neatly stacked and pack copies of “The Workbasket” magazines!

Yeah… stitch geek time… for those of you who don’t know, The Workbasket was a monthly magazine published from October 1935 to July 1996 that featured all kinds of needlearts, cooking, gardening and basic home care tips.  hhhmmmmm… sounds a lot like a blog we know… LOL

In my excitement to make a deal, I looked around and found a man who was putting out more costume jewelry into a display case. I asked him if this was his sale and inquired about a deal if I purchased all of the Workbasket magazines.  His face instantly went red and his eyes swelled up.  He was in his late 50′s and looked like he had seen easier days. With tears on the verge of spilling he told me he would give me the entire box (78 issues by my count) for $4.  Jason saw that I was now just staring at the man so he decided now was a good time for him to step in and he handed the man the money.

This was the son of the man and woman who ate in that kitchen we had picked through. This was the son of the man who wore those military caps while his wife walked on his arm wearing her swanky jewelry.  This man was the son of the woman who faithfully read and had a subscription to The Workbasket magazine.  These books he just sold me for $4 were his mother’s companions and reference guides while she raised a family and made a home for them all.  The sudden gravity of where I was standing was quickly becoming too much for me.

When the man returned, I couldn’t even look him in the eye or I would have started bawling like this was my own family’s home.  The man still looked a little wrecked so Jason explained to him that I was a professional crochet and knitwear designer.  The man immediately lit up and said he felt good that these had found where they were supposed to go now.  Yup… that did it for me… had to walk away…

Unfortunately, I walked right into another part of the basement where there hung a row of old rugs and, yes, handmade crochet and knit afghans, a sweater and some scarves.  There was also a blanket made from scraps of Pendleton wool that were crocheted together into a larger piece… I have a bag of Pendleton scraps in the stash room with that same purpose in mind.  I turned to leave and get some air and found yet another display case with two little dolls in it.  The dolls were, of course, wearing tiny, elaborately crocheted dresses and bonnets.

As we left the home via the front door, I noticed there was a clothesline strung across the front window and, attached to the line by wooden clothes pins, were an assortment of finely stitched doilies and tatted runners, crocheted drink coasters and embellished cotton handkerchiefs.

We hurried back to the car and I was rendered mute for nearly an hour afterward. Any words were choked back immediately by the overwhelming emotion of seeing this woman’s hand work laid out for sale like that.  Was I angry?  Sad?  Upset because that could be me some day?  Was it because it was Mother’s Day?  Was I missing my Grandmother and the Great Aunt who taut me these same crafts in a home similar to the scavenged dwelling I had just left?

How about a little all of the above? Yeah… probably that…

I kept hearing echos of people crabbing and denouncing the craft of crochet and doilies and such.  I kept hearing people talking about crochet as if it were something only old ladies do when they have nothing better to do.  The phrase “not your granny’s crochet” went through my mind.  I saw all of this woman’s hand work being sold to the first taker by a son who was wrecked at the sight of his mother’s things being carted off by collectors and treasure hunters.

Why did we go to these sales again???  We both felt like scavengers and I felt like some kind of invading fiend who had just seen parts of this family’s life that were none of my business to see.

Calm started to take over again… Yes, these magazines had found a home. Yes, her hand work was going to find a new home with the hundreds of folks who were walking through her dwelling and those hand works would be appreciated by a whole new generation or two (three, four) of folks.

I know I have her “The Workbasket” magazines. They are safe and dry in one of our studio rooms now.  I’ve had fun reading the articles and learning how to grow exhibition size mums and how to tat (seriously… I’d go blind!).  This careful woman who crafted, cooked, gardened and played the organ (HUGE antique organ that I would have bought had Jason not given me “that” look) had now passed on her legacy to me in a small way.

What was I going to pass on?  Would people walk through my house and look at my doilies, blankets, afghans and hats?  Would some stitcher walk into my studio and gasp upon finding a copy of our book on the shelf and purchase it for their antique book collection?

Yes, this is my granny’s crochet… and my mother’s and my great aunt’s… and mine.  I claim this stitching, gardening, cooking, crafting legacy we are creating here in our home. I claim it and welcome the future treasure hunter who might want a cobalt blue hat and gauntlet set or a 78 piece collection of The Workbasket… or even a copy of _______ by The Shibaguyz (sorry… can’t let that slip yet!) or a doily or a collection of recipes written out on cards and photocopied in a book on our top pantry shelf.  It’s all here.

Maybe y’all think I got a little too profound.  Maybe I did.  Maybe I didn’t.  This experience moved me.  It gave me a perspective on my work that is easy to come unhinged from.  It gave me a re-focus on what brought us to this point.  It gave me a perspective on the deeper history and the long future of what we are doing here.

Thank you “E” for creating this moment.

talk to you soon…
The Shibaguyz