Memories

 

In doing a clear out of the office, I found this notice of my father's death in 1975.

This time of year has become a bit of a memory hole.  My father's birthday was Nov. 21.  My brother's birthday was Dec. 2.  And while I rarely remember death dates, I always remember birth dates.

The office clear out is happening due to needing a new printer.  As I looked at the shelves of...things...lining the walls of the room (a very tiny room, truth be told) I realized most of what was stored there was redundant.

Old computer program manuals, antique computer stuff.  I mean who knew that CDs would blow through and become irrelevant so quickly?  (Yes, I still have a large tube of blank CDs, don't judge me.)

My father didn't read.  Not that he didn't want to, he never really learned.  But he respected education and encouraged both of us kids to get an education.  I was targeted by the school system as being 'smart' - enough to potentially go to university.  If I had I would have been the first in the family - both sides. But that never happened, in part because dad got sick and there was no money to send me to Vancouver.  Instead I got a very good paying job out of high school at the telephone company and suggested that I would like to take a 'gap' year and travel to Sweden to meet my pen friend.  I didn't think either parent would be in favour, but surprisingly they were amazingly supportive, saying that if I didn't squander my paycheque I could continue to live at home rent free and save my money for the trip.

Then followed all the planning - how to get over there, etc.  (Train across Canada, freighter from Montreal to Oslo, then figuring out the train to Örebrö. etc.  Then how to get home again - train to Stockholm, taxi to Arlanda, fly to Vancouver.)

When this little clipping from the local newspaper dropped out of one of the books I was taking off the shelf, memories whelmed up.  The year dad died.  The year I chose to become a weaver.  And all the twists and turns my life went through to get me here, to this place and time.  

All the support I received from my brother to bring my dreams into being (Magic in the Water).  And how people say that it is a 'classic' of the craft.  I'm still taken aback when I see that - except that I worked damned hard to produce it.  So I am incredibly grateful that so many people still find it helpful and useful 22 years later.

Since then, 3 more books.  Years of writing articles.  Years of schlepping around the continent teaching for guilds.  Etc.

And mostly the town I live in knows nothing of this.  When my brother died it was nearly standing room only in the church.  When my mom died, the hall was nearly full.  When I die?  Well, I have a few friends, but honestly?  It's not a big deal if it's a small gathering.  Most of my 'friends' are 'away'.

There is nothing like doing a serious de-clutter to start you thinking about things.  Maybe things I should have been thinking about before now.  But taking care of things seems like a timely activity right now.  And no one really knows how long they have on this mortal coil, so dealing with one's mess is not a bad thing.  It just stirs up so many memories!

But I did decide to keep one binder that was on the shelf.  The mock up of the original Magic in the Water.  I just can't seem to make myself throw it in the recycle bin.  Not yet, anyway.

Mockup with the blank page to hold the samples (before and after wet finishing), photo of the finished item - 3 piece suit, and the draft info.  The printer wanted to make sure he understood what I wanted and did a test run in black and white to make sure.  That was the day I knew I had A Book...