Leaving Weaving

I parted with an old friend today. As I watched my Cassandra I weaving loom drive away in the bed of Carol Bingaman's truck, I heard a sad whisper. Like the news of the death of a neglected relative I'd been meaning to visit more often but never found the time to see. I had ordered the loom in 1978. It was one of the last of its kind, as Thought Products, Inc., the company that manufactured it went out of business between the time I ordered the loom and the time it was delivered in 1979. Made of solid cherry wood, the loom's design anticipated the advances that computerization would soon bring to weaving. I requested all the special options offered and could not wait to try them out. When the loom was installed at my house in Fillmore, it took up half of the living room. I promptly dressed it and began to weave. The loom and I were pictured in an article in the Fillmore Herald about my hand weaving hobby.

We had a few good years together before I was drawn into raising natural colored wool sheep and began hand spinning wool from my own flock. Compared to weaving, spinning was like learning to swing dance after sedately waltzing with a dull partner for several years. Spinning was portable and you didn't have to commit blocks of hours to do it. You didn't have to worry your mind with mathematical calculations relating to threads per inch or yards per pound. You could tell pretty quickly whether your product was pleasing or not, unlike weaving where you might not know until you had invested several days in a project. Gradually the loom became invisible. It was literally like the elephant in the room: everyone noticed it, but no one commented on it. It sat silent, taking up space and gathering dust. When I moved to Ventura in 1989, the loom came with me to take up space in the garage where my car should have been parked.

I didn't even look at the loom when I decided to list it for sale. Gathering together books and magazines on weaving that were also stored in the garage did not kindle even a spark of desire. I felt a sense of pure relief when I put the word out to a few friends that the loom was for sale. When I didn't have an immediate inquiry, I listed it on Craig's List. I was a bit surprised to have three inquiries within the first day. The first person wanted to see photos, so I pulled down all the fleeces that were stored on the loom and dragged boxes away from it so I could get some shots. As I emailed the photos to her, I began to feel nostalgic about the loom. I thought that if I didn't sell it, I wouldn't mind starting to weave again. The second person simply asked if the loom were still available. An odd opening question, I thought, since it was posted about four hours after I had sent in the listing at 9:00 p.m. Carol's inquiry wanted to know about the loom's history and how it had been cared for. After talking to her on the phone for a few minutes, I felt that if she wanted the loom, it would have good care and give her the pleasure I had enjoyed.

Carol and her husband, Bart, drove up from San Fernando Valley to look at the loom this afternoon. I was embarrassed to show it to them without having had a chance to remove the dust, polish it off and see if it were intact. They examined the loom and all its parts closely. A private airplane pilot, Bart showed an impressive knowledge of the engineering and technical aspects of the loom. Carol wanted to understand how it was different from the looms with which she was familiar. I was basically no help, as I had not touched the loom in over twenty years. We examined the instruction book, made some guesses and experiments about how parts moved and worked, and then I left Carol and Bart alone with the loom.

In the end, Carol decided she wanted the loom, and the three of us worked together to load it onto the truck. When they drove off with my Cassandra I, it was like the end of a finely woven dream. While I had always wanted to believe that I would return to weaving one day, the reality was I never gave it a thought for many, many years. As Bart described the garage they had converted into a large studio for Carol, I could see that the Cassie would get much better care than I had ever given it. Anyway, I can't really return to that part of my life again. If I feel the urge, I can finger a few woven pieces I still have to remind me of the hours in which, long ago, I would happily lose myself in counting threads or swaying with the rhythm of throwing the shuttle.

--
Donna Hamer
Ventura, California
My Blog: gardenofdeedee@blogspot.com

Bread Production

On a recent visit to Sunnyvale, I enjoyed a breakfast of pastries and hot chocolate at Le Boulanger. Customers at the bakery can watch the mechanized process of mixing the dough, forming the loaves and buns and conveying them to the ovens. Workers in hairnets and white uniforms move briskly about, stabbing and cutting dough, tossing it into giant mixers and punching it down. They weigh pieces of dough and send them into the loaf-forming machine, grabbing out the odd ones to start over again. It's hard and fast work and riveting to watch. I recalled scenes in the movie "Mon Oncle" where Jacques Tati creates havoc in an industrial plastics factory by flipping an odd switch and lending an unwitting hand here and there, oblivious to the consequences of his actions. I couldn't help wondering what Uncle Hulot might have done if he were to wander through the bakery factory.

The hot chocolate was thick and rich with a dollop of heavy cream on top and my cinnamon pastries were yummy. I purchased a loaf of the LB's award-winning sour dough to take home with me. As I watched the production of the bakery products, I couldn't help imagining the thousands of stores and restaurants that would be the recipients of these items, and the myriads of people who would buy them, take them home and enjoy them. Each loaf exactly the same in taste and texture, every bun perfectly formed and baked to perfection. I thought of all the jobs the bakery supports: people who design, manufacture and service the equipment, creaters of recipes, bakers, sales and delivery personnel and administrative staff. It's a giant step from great grandma's two small loaves rising gently on a breadboard in the kitchen.

When I was young, one of the best treats -- better even than ice cream -- was a slice of fresh baked bread dripping with butter. There was, of course, the anticipation during each stage of production. I watched my great grandmother measure the ingredients to form the dough, waited for the yeast to grow and form a sponge and saw her punch down the sponge. She then added flour, kneaded the dough, placed it in a warm corner of the kitchen and let it rise. Several hours later, she kneaded the dough again, shaped it into two loaves and let the dough rest under a dampened muslin cloth. I would check in regularly, barely able to wait for the loaves to rise high enough to go into the oven. The aroma of yeast bread baking would bring me in from wherever I was to peek through the glass of the oven door and watch the bread brown.

My own bread making experiences were not as satisfactory. The idea and process of making the bread were always so much greater than the final result. Often the yeast was not really fresh enough to give good results.  I was always uncertain about how long to knead the dough so the texture would be light rather than brick solid. My kitchen never seemed to have the right cozy spot to keep the dough warm enough to rise properly. I would anxiously watch my two loaves baking in the oven, begging them to rise up over the edge of the pans and form the rounded top I so much wanted to see. In the end, buying bread from a bakery turned out to be my best option. Bakery bread has everything going for it. Everything, that is, except the exquisite taste that my great grandmother's loving hands imparted to the loaves she made.


--
Donna Hamer
Ventura, California
My Blog: gardenofdeedee@blogspot.com

Demented States

I was sharing with my favorite massage therapist, Jo Young, on a recent Saturday about how difficult it is to visit a loved one with dementia, especially when you have to drive several hours one way to see someone who no longer recognizes you. It was my suggestion that when she makes her next trip, Jo look for something fun to do after her visit, so that she doesn't come away with a sad heart.
I have had several experiences visiting relatives who didn't clearly recall who I was. When I asked my Great Great Aunt Eva if she knew who I was toward the last days of her life, she said "Aren't you the one they found in the bullrushes?" I remember being at a loss for words when this vibrant woman, who had lived just beyond her 101st birthday, fell into a mental world that I could not follow. I joked with her and answered back, "I guess I am." We held hands and I stroked her cheek and forehead until she fell asleep.

Another relative I requently visited slipped into an unresponsive state and stopped eating a few weeks before she died. Although she had been fully aware of where she was, what day it was and who was president up to that point, it seemed to me that once she realized she would not be going home again, she drew inside herself and drifted away. I found that by holding her hand and telling her about my comings and goings and asking her questions once in awhile, I would get an occasional squeeze from her hand that made me feel like we were connecting.

The fun things I found to do after these visits did not cost a lot of money. Sometimes I picked up lunch from an exotic restaurant or a sweet treat from a bakery to take home with me. I would go window shopping or wander through a bookstore I had not been in before. If there was a view to be seen, I drove to it and spent time enjoying it before heading home. Once I found a small shop where I treated myself to a pedicure. This place was inexpensive enough that I could return several more times after my visits.

Medical professionals have said that when someone is in a "persistent vegetative state" there is no real brain function anymore. This may be true, but I like to believe that during this transitional time before death, I can still give and receive comfort through touch and words. It somehow makes saying goodbye to these special people easier.

Meerkat Society

Standing just 12 inches in height, meerkats are industrious little mongooses. They get up in the morning and everyone helps with the "housekeeping" by clearing sand out of their burrow entrances. Lookouts are posted to keep an eye out for birds of prey. They assign babysitting duties to different members so their pups are cared for while the others go out foraging.

My daughter-in-law thinks the meerkat pups are cute. My son thinks they are hideous. While I don't find them as hideous as, say, a Jerusalem cricket, their appearance does not strike me exactly as cute. It's their eating habits that I find hideous. Meerkats like insects, scorpions and millipedes in particular, and the Animal Planet's "Meerkat Manor" episodes devote plenty of video time to their foraging behavior with close-ups of crunching down or ripping apart live meals. They generally do not share their food, and adult meerkats don't hesitate to steal tasty morsels from the young ones as an easy way to fill their stomachs.

Meerkats spend part of their day grooming themselves and each other. The dominant female (DF) gets the most grooming by all in the group who want to stay on her good side. She is the one who makes the major decisions and drives out rule breakers. Since she has the power to kill or expel a member, everyone makes sure to give her plenty of attention and offer quick apologies for any bad behavior. They all sleep cozily together in their burrows at night to keep warm.

The meerkat teens, like their human counterparts, are irrepressible and irresponsible. They enjoy playing and roughhousing more than standing watch or minding the pups. The group can also harbor one or more trouble makers who create chaos with their ill-conceived acts. There appears to be considerable tolerance for these behaviors, although some individuals can be shunned and isolated for their actions.

Whether they are trying to drive out a reluctant adder or attacking their meerkat neighbors, meerkats stick together in a fight. They raise their tails high in the air and kick out their hind legs to make themselves look bigger when they attack another group or are themselves attacked. They take turns making aggressive spit-barks at an embedded snake until they determine getting the intruder to leave is a lost cause. Then they turn on their heels and get the heck away.

The DF is the one with breeding rights. Other females in the group that become pregnant face her wrath upon delivering their pups. The DF can choose to kill pups that aren't hers, as well as punish or drive out their mother. However, pups by mothers other than the DF that are not killed get the same mindful care as the DF's pups. The other females in the group will actually lactate and nurse the DF's pups when they have babysitting duty.

These are just a few of the facts I learned while watching "Meerkat Manor." Based on research by Cambridge University, the documentary series is every bit as compelling as any soap opera. Each episode ends at a critical moment where you must tune in next time to get the rest of the story. It was amazing to me to learn that there were researchers who have devoted more than ten years of their life to observing meerkats in the Kalahari Desert. After watching the first DVD of this fascinating documentary, I could see why. The social structure of these little animals is quite complex. While the popular "Meerkat Manor" emphasizes the very appealing cooperative behavior of these mongooses, the study's research has also exposed a darker side to their behavior that needs to be further explored. I can't wait to see what secrets are revealed next.