Magic in the Water

 

Having been in the field of weaving (doing it, teaching it, writing about it) I've gotten to know quite a few weavers.  Some have been friends.  One of them died a few months ago, after years of health problems, and the other day her daughter began listing some of her weaving books for sale.  One of them was Magic in the Water - the original publication with all the actual samples.

I struggled with the idea of producing such an expensive 'book'.  Frankly I didn't have a whole lot of money, and I also knew that not a single book publisher would want the burden of the costs involved.  I knew the cost of the book would limit the number of copies that could be sold and I thought that it would be mostly guilds with libraries who would provide the largest 'market' for it.  (Someone who had been in the textile industry commented that such a book produced by the industry for industry of similar quality would be sold upwards of $3000, not what I was asking.  So if you see one of the originals for sale for the original selling price?  Grab it!)

 Anyway.  Turned out I was wrong.  

I was bowled over by the number of people who were willing to purchase the book.  They knew the information was needed, and the handwoven and wet finished (before and after) samples of cloth would allow weavers to experience the transformation of the cloth and give them guidelines how to achieve those results for themselves.

So when the book was listed last week for the 2002 purchase price, I was reassured, once again, that I had done good.  

When I first heard someone refer to the book as a 'classic', I was astonished.  To me a 'classic' weaving book is, oh, Mary Black or Margaret Atwater.  To see that the book is still valued 20+ years after original publication makes me look back at the struggle it was produce and feel like I made the right choice.  In spite of some weavers poo-pooing that it needed to be done at - all you needed to do is wash it, for goodness sake!  For all the nay sayers who (still?) object to my using the pretentious term 'wet finishing' instead of 'washing'.  

In 2000 there were no such things as Go Fund Mes.  I pushed ahead, determined to do The Thing.  I borrowed money.  Spent what I had.  Worked 80 hour weeks to make it happen.  Recruited family and friends to help.  And by sheer stubborn determination, I made it.

To see that people will still purchase the text and photos version?  Just confirms what I knew all along - this was important.  This was needed.  

When my brother died I gave a short statement at the reception at the railway museum.  My brother had been a huge supporter of this project, and I wanted to remind people of the kind of person he was.  And, I realized much later, I was, too.

"I can think of no greater example to follow than Don's.

Be bold enough to have a dream.

Be brave enough to try to make it come true.

Live life with joy and love.

And every day, work to be a better person."

Birthdays

 

Today is the 'birth' day of The Intentional Weaver.  It was a long time coming.  I would start, then Life would Happen, and I'd stop.  And the file would sit - for months at a time, until another student would contact me about things I had taught in a workshop or class, asking for clarification or additional information, and I would sigh, open the file and begin pecking away again.

As the years scrolled on by, the file grew.  I edited.  Clarified.  Looked up additional resources.  Refreshed my memory, edited again.  

Eventually the file became...large.  But Life Kept Happening, and the file would go 'stale' again while I dealt with stuff.

Nearly five years (!) after beginning I had sent the file out to alpha readers, done my best to incorporate their feedback, but once again, Life Was Happening.  Mom had died December 31, 2016, and by the end of 2017 I was pretty sure the cancer was back.

It was too much.  

As I drove to the cancer clinic for the video conference with the oncologist in Vancouver, I was stopped at a red light, tears beginning to flow down my face.  I had been working on the manuscript (it was truly not just a 'file' by this point - it looked like a book - sort of - and I had been using the word manuscript for a few months.)  

As I sat at the red light, trying to wrestle the latest feedback into the manuscript, wondering if I was facing another round of chemo, the tears came.  

And something inside me cracked wide open and I saw I needed help.  I could not go on, all by myself.

Suddenly a name popped into my head.  Someone I knew who did technical editing.  And as the light changed to green, I knew what I had to do.

When I got home I emailed her and asked how much she would charge to help me edit my manuscript and if she could fit me into her schedule.

She said 'yes', and away we went.

After multiple back and forths, sending the increasingly cumbersome manuscript, we arranged for her to come here for a massive, intensive overhaul of the manuscript and she took photos to use.  Too many of mine just weren't good enough quality - her iphone took way better photos than my 'elderly' digital camera.  She went home with the photo files and we were both feeling like a watershed moment had been reached.

She worked on my file, sending me questions, comments, we hashed out the issues, I added more content, designed projects, wove them, went down to her to consult in person, and then, finally she said that we had done our best, it was time to pick a 'birth' date.

Looking at the calendar, I saw that we were entering the holiday season soon, and it seemed like a really good idea to launch in time for Christmas.  But the US has their Thanksgiving the fourth Thursday in November, so I didn't want to be part of the travel crunch surrounding that.  I asked if I could come the end of November, and chose December 2 as the birthdate.  I figured that was early enough people could purchase via blurb.com and potentially get hard copies in time for gift giving.

So I booked a ticket to go to her a few days in advance of the Dec. 2 date so that the final polish could be done, and the files uploaded to the website.  She worked all weekend getting everything sorted, and on Dec. 2, we announced that A Book was Born.

So why Dec. 2, not Nov. 30 or Dec. 1?

Because Dec. 2 was also the birth date of my brother.  

In many ways it was due to him that Magic in the Water finally saw light of day.  He essentially gave me his rec room from April 2002 until we sold his house after he died to use as the assembly area to put that tome together and store it.  When he died I realized that, even though he was younger than me, in many ways he was my rock.  As children we didn't have much in common, given he was a boy and 6 years younger than me.  But as we came into adulthood we became friends.  Not, tell each other every detail of our lives every day kind of friends, but once in a while sit down and talk about philosophy (a grand word, but that is what we did - what's it all about, Alphie, types of talks).  

We talked about all manner of things I rarely discuss with others.  While neither of us has much beyond a high school education, we both read.  He came to it 'late', discovering the joy of reading when dad got sick and he had to curb his enthusiasm.  We both enjoyed music.  When he died I inherited all his estate and discovered that we both pretty much liked the same types of music - but he had a different library and we only had two CDs in common.

He was a man of his word.  Didn't suffer bullies.  Or racists. His friends called him a catalyst.  And it was, I think, that ability to stir people into action that got me to get The Intentional Weaver finally done.  I did it in honour of my brother, Donald William Holzworth, 1956-2008.  Who by dying, gave me my life in more ways than I need to explain.

So, happy birthday, Don.  I miss you.  I hope there are lots of trains for you to 'play' with in heaven.  Because surely if there is a heaven, you are there. 

Thank you, also, to Doug Fry, Ruth Temple, Mary Lessman, Cindy Dietzen, Marie Carmel and others who assisted with alpha reading along the way, Tien Chiu who provided the introduction, Janet Dawson and Syne Mitchell who gave cover blurbs.  

Your support and encouragement will never be forgotten.

Don, in his happy place - the Little Prince steam loci

The Cruelest Month

Today we woke to low hanging fog and spring break up conditions.  Too early for spring break up (for here), but climate change is not a myth, it is happening and here we are.

February has always been a difficult month for me.  It is usually the dead of winter conditions and people are sick - literally with cold/flu (or when I was a child diseases that we can now vaccinate against but couldn't then and death was a real spectre as children or old folk dealt with illness that their body could not protect them from) or virtually - sick of the cold, sick of the snow, sick of shoveling, sick of slip/sliding on icy or compact snow rutted streets.  The only saving grace was the visible returning of the sun - a promise that spring would come, maybe not today, or next week, but maybe, if we were lucky, in March, surely April!

February has become cruel in another way because that is the month my younger (and only) brother died, suddenly, unexpectedly, at work from a massive heart attack.

I have been thinking about him a lot lately, not sure why.  When Facebook reminded me this morning of the date, it kind of hit me like a ton of emotional bricks.

For most of adulthood we didn't see each other much because for many years he worked out of town for the railroad.  He would be gone for six weeks at a time and when he managed to get back to town it was only for a few days and he would be back to work again.

He had a quiet sense of humour, stood up to bullies, was a visionary who seemed able to inspire others to hop onto his 'train' of thought.  At his memorial a friend described Don as a catalyst.  For the last years of his life he poured all his time and energy into the local railway museum, which is where he died that cold February night, 12 years ago.

The museum contacted me the end of January.  I had donated a jacket I wove for him to their collection but it had been listed as long term loan.  I had intended it to be part of their permanent collection so I need to go in and sign the updated papers.  Maybe that is why he has been so much on my mind this month?

Anyway, the pain does go (mostly) away, the missing does not.

Iconic photo of the Royal Hudson (steam train) and jacket I wove from his design based on the photo.  I have been asked to get close up photos of the weave structure and will try to get better photos.  These were taken at his funeral service.

Don Holzworth 1956-2008

11 years

It was 11 years ago this month my 'baby' brother sat down and left this earth.

It was such a shock when he died.  Last night I woke up thinking about him and his birth.

You see, when he was born, it was into a tumultuous time for our family.  The pregnancy had not been an easy one, then my uncle was killed in a car crash, my aunt in a coma from a severe brain injury, 8 children left behind.  And my mother had to pick up the pieces.

When Don was born he 'failed to thrive'.  So on top of everything else that was going on in her life, mom was faced with an infant who might not make it through the night.

It was 1956 and breast feeding was the norm.  But every time he fed, it all came back up again.  Mom agonized - was something wrong with her milk?  With her?  She remembered a cousin who died because of 'bad mother's milk'.  No such thing, of course, but no one knew why these things happened.

So all the available alternatives were tried - cow's milk, goat's milk.  Eventually baby formula was tried.  When it, too, came up, the doctor advised mom that if Don could keep it down for 20 minutes he had enough nutrition for 2 hours.

A schedule of 2 hour feedings with cleaning up after it came up again kept the washing machine chugging.  We had a wringer washer and a line outside and mom would get the machine going, the diapers and onesies washed and hung and when I got home from school it was my job to take them all in.  During the winter the diapers freeze dried and taking them off the line was an exercise in frozen fingers and a stack of frozen diapers piled high and placed by the wood stove to thaw.

Somewhere mom got a 'Jolly Jumper' and after feeding Don, he would get placed into the jumper which was hung in a doorway central to our little house.  Mom didn't have to worry about him choking on his own spit up and he seemed to enjoy the gentle action of the swing on the giant 'bungee' cord.

His survival became an exercise in perseverance and - ultimately - resilience.

He grew up into someone who pretty much rolled with whatever came his way.  He was in many ways fearless - but not entirely reckless.  Having survived such a risky entrance into life he didn't seem particularly eager to leave by doing dangerous things.  But neither did he seem to have much fear.  Or, if he did, he did what he wanted to do anyway.

He was fair minded, didn't like bullies, stood up for those who needed support.  He loved life, was a keen observer of what was happening around him.  Enjoyed the outdoors.  Respected others who knew more than he did and wasn't afraid to say he didn't know something when he didn't.

His dream as a child was to become either a fireman or a railroader.  When he wanted to leave school at grade 10 because that was all that was needed to get a job with the railway, the entire family came down on him like a load of bricks - he would not be leaving school until he graduated.  He accepted that but not exactly with good grace.  Since dad was already in the final throes of multiple myeloma, Don didn't fight it too much, knowing dad was thoroughly against him leaving school.

So Don continued with school until he got his diploma. 

It took him some months, but he got his job with the railroad.  It wasn't the 'best' job due to the travel and being posted to other towns for weeks at a time but again, he persevered.  He worked his way up until at last he realized his dream of driving the locomotives.

He was part of the crew that learned how to drive the big GE electric engines that took the coal out of the mines at Tumbler Ridge, and in the end, drove the last engine out again when they were mothballed.

After 27 years with BC Rail, he took retirement and became the park manager for the railway museum.   And that was where he died.

When I think about my brother, I remember his steadfast desire to be a better person.  We often sat and talked about what that meant.  I miss those conversations.  He challenged me to be a better person as he sought to be one himself.

No, he wasn't 'perfect'.  He didn't pretend to be.  He just wanted to be better.  He understood that life is a journey, with ups and downs and adventures along the way.

At his memorial, one of his friends called Don a catalyst.  I had to agree.  Don would come up with an idea, plant the seed, encourage it to grow, celebrate when it happened, expressed appreciation to his friends who helped make it come to fruition.

He was also very supportive of me and my weaving.  In many ways we were different, but in many ways we are/were the same.  And 11 years on?  Yes, I still miss him.

Don, in his happy place, driving The Little Prince steam locomotive