north carolina.

Crocheting Together More than Just a Square

| Betsy

Even though the photo gallery for the story does have a glaring error (mistaking crochet for knitting), the story is so amazing that doesn’t matter. My mom sent me a clipping of this article in the mail and it arrived today. Excerpts and photo below are from the article, Nobody Comes Here Just to Crochet.

I think the most touching thing is the way it started:

It started by accident.

A homeless woman came to Charlotte’s Harvest Center soup kitchen one Tuesday, and instead of mingling with the hungry crowd, she sat in a corner, crocheting.

Weeks passed, and at some point, the staff noticed another homeless woman beside her, also crocheting.

The two eventually became three women, then six, then 10.

Four years later, nearly 30 women can be found in that corner every Tuesday, and no longer are they just the homeless.

The Crochet Ministry, as it’s called, has become a family of sorts, one that welcomes those often forgotten by the rest of Charlotte: the homeless, the elderly, the disabled, the impoverished, the displaced and, most of all, the lonely.

I also love the kindness in the story of Teresa Davis, the homeless woman who used to crochet on the streets. While she died a few years ago with no family, thanks to these ladies, she certainly had a circle of friends. I like the quiet way this circle formed, organically and by accident. How true that sometimes we don’t find what we need most, it finds us.

It was the center’s outreach director, Rosa Marion, who first spotted Davis living on the streets, carrying a large afghan stuffed in a bag. Marion was intrigued when she found out Davis had made it, and the two struck up a friendship. Later, Marion invited Davis to move into a group home sponsored by Women of Vision, a volunteer ministry that helps women in need.

“She asked me if I’d buy her the stuff to crochet another afghan, so I did,” recalls Marion. “She’d always be sitting there by herself in that corner, crocheting. People called her ‘the lady pulling on those strings.'”

You can read more about the work of The Harvest Center here (Although there is a syntax error that shows up on the screen, I know it will be up and running soon!) and about the Women of Vision over here.

Also:

*Slow Textiles
*The Daily Aphorism via The School of Life
*The beauty of Naoki Okamoto’s photography
*Gladys’ longevity secrets: Crafting it up at 104!
*How to make a project keeper by Diane Gilleland
*Coat hooks on Etsy.com (Random, yes, but so cool!)
*Slide show of Renwick Gallery exhibit: The Art of Gaman (Awesomely inspiring)
*19 tips for cheering yourself up… From 200 years ago via The Happiness Project

Thanks for the heads up, Mom!

Westerns and Whirligigs.

| Betsy

Sometimes when you look around and read about countries in distress, unjust governments, kids who kill cats and frustrating foreign policy, you have to surrender yourself to kindness and beauty and love so you don’t crumble from the weight of it all. The other week my friend Kylee and I went on a roadtrip through eastern North Carolina: through Tarboro, lunch at Dick Hot Dog’s Stand, Vollis Simpson’s whirligigs, lots of roadside cemeteries in the middle of fields, Hills of Snow and a complete tour of Shadowhawk.

Here’s a lovely video of Mr. Simpson’s work by Neal Hutcheson of Sucker Punch Pictures. I love the way the sound is so perfectly captured and the details of his whirligigs explored.

Along the way, we were lucky enough to meet Mr. Simpson and get a full tour of Shadowhawk by Wild Bill. Vollis Simpson makes the most beautiful whirligigs in Lucama, North Carolina that seem to pop out of nowhere. He was kind enough to let us walk through his workshop full of bits of metal waiting to be turned and twisted and run on the wind. Shadowhawk is a backyard Western town built by “Wild Bill” Drake. After 30 years of being in westerns (including a recurring part as the town drunk in Gunsmoke), he married his agent, came back east and built Shadowhawk in his own backyard.

Listening to both men talk about their creations was inspiring, lovely and well, true. In a world of war and famine and horror and violence, spending an afternoon with two men making masterpieces in their backyards was just what we needed. Taking a step back away from computers and cell phones, we followed our maps and wondered what our next destination would bring. For more photos of our trip, click over here.

More about the places mentioned above:
Dick’s Hot Dog Stand
From Windmills to Whirligigs
Roadside America (Shadowhawk)
RoadsideAmerica.com (Vollis Simpson)
Complete list of giant ice cream across America
Off the Map, Travelogue (complete with video of Mr. Simpson himself!)

lovely little surprises.

| Betsy

Sometimes it’s good to ride in the countryside. The other weekend we came across Shangri-La in Prospect Hill, North Carolina while we were delivering cupcakes to a wedding at a firehouse.

It was the best thing to discover on an otherwise slate-free Saturday afternoon. We spent the next 45 minutes wandering around this little tiny village wondering about the man who crafted it, what he was hoping to build, what his vision for Shangri-La was.

It’s amazing what you can find when you keep your eyes open.

From Roadside America:
Henry L. Warren was a retired tobacco farmer who kept building this collection of 27 leprechaun-sized creations until his death at age 84 (in about 1977).

Shangri-La was conceived by Henry in 1968. The first few buildings were constructed in his side yard next to his house, and the miniature town kept growing. At the same time, he used his creative energy to incorporate 11,000 arrowheads into the walkways of his home.

A sign in front says “Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.” His wife told us: “As long as he had a cigarette and a Coca-Cola, he’d keep building.”


Also, check out this lovely review of Knitting for Good! over here at Supernaturale!

the soundtrack of spring.

| Betsy

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Lately soundtracks have been on my mind.

The past few weeks my head has been full of the sounds of The Decemberists, Edith Frost Sebadoh and Silver Scooter.

And I’ve been thinking about the soundtracks that permeate our lives. How they change over time and vary with our surroundings.

I’m back in London for a week and am remembering how whenever I think of the city I think of trains and when I think of North Carolina I think of chirping birds outside my window.

I never quite made a conscious decision on the matter, but somehow the sounds of trains and birds have imprinted themselves onto my brain as sounds of comfort and home, independent of one another, each denoting different locations.

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While North Carolina makes me want to run around barefoot in the grass and drink sweet tea at weekend cookouts and make pretty things, London makes me want to urgently create due to its raw energy and constant grind never ceasing to inspire me with its contrast of decay and renewal.

Even though the birds and the trains and the things I create change, the music I’m listening to rarely does. Even though in my youth I listened to nothing but loud and screamy bands, I’ve been listening to prettier music as of late, music that is best described as bittersweet. Because instead of overarching sadnesses that so often belong to youth, I’ve grown into loving the bittersweetness that prevails more often than not as youth passes. And come to enjoy the flipped sides of coins and the greener side of the grass.

While may this may seem completely inconsequential and ludicrous, I see in it a perfect analogy to my feeling about the world of craft lately. Due to the resurgence of handmade crafts over the past few years, I’ve seen so many people flourish and grow.

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But lately, I’ve seen more than a few people whose work I admire very much begin to doubt their own consequence and strength. Begin to burn out because they don’t believe that what they are doing is worth their time or energy or money. And all I want to do is whisper to them that it’s not all in vain that their work is important and valid and not inconsequential.

But that’s the power of soundtracks, isn’t it? That sometimes we forget to listen to the birds or the trains or the music or our own inner voices and just hear the negative soundtracks that we started to record in our fragile youths. And we forget that all we have to do is simply change the tape and put on something new.

So I guess this entry is for anyone out there who feels burntout and tired and unoriginal and drained and boring. And just a tiny reminder to remember why you started making art in the first place.

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