{"id":517,"date":"2017-03-23T22:52:30","date_gmt":"2017-03-24T02:52:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.fayegibbons.com\/?p=517"},"modified":"2017-03-23T22:52:30","modified_gmt":"2017-03-24T02:52:30","slug":"weaving-a-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.fayegibbons.com\/?p=517","title":{"rendered":"WEAVING A LIFE"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"IMG_0798\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Faye taking a weaving class at John C. Campbell Folk School<\/h2>\n

 <\/p>\n

Helen Blackshear, a wonderful woman I had the privilege of knowing for several decades, told me once that when she passed her eightieth birthday, she decided she wasn\u2019t going to be afraid of anything anymore.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019ve outlived my life expectancy, so from here on out, everything is a gift.\u00a0 I won\u2019t let fear take away my joy.\u201d\u00a0 I\u2019m not yet eighty, but I\u2019m trying to take on her way of thinking.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

When I went to Berry College, a work\/study college in 1957, I was afraid of everything. I was always afraid I wouldn\u2019t measure up, that I wouldn\u2019t know all the social rules that would allow me to attend parties, that I\u2019d never be smart enough to pass college courses.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

This fear even included my first work assignment\u2014the weaving crew.\u00a0 The girls in that cavernous, gothic room, with stained glass windows and stone floors, actually wove fabric\u2014towels, blankets, napkins, placemats,\u00a0 tablecloths\u2014on antique\u00a0 contraptions called looms.\u00a0 It was a magic I was drawn to.\u00a0 But I soon learned that those looms had to be \u201cwarped,\u201d\u00a0 meaning that hundreds of threads had to be measured and threaded with absolute accuracy through lease sticks, heddles, and dents, rolled onto warp beams, and then tied on to the cloth beam with proper tension in every thread.\u00a0 All this under the strict supervision of\u00a0 an impatient, perfectionist supervisor who pounced on any mistake.\u00a0 Mrs. \u201cConner\u201d also had low tolerance for conversation among the weavers, and us girls who were doing the grunt work of hemming and pressing the finished pieces, sweeping up lint, and dusting learned that silence was the only safety. \u201cToo much talking,\u201d she was bound to hiss anytime we dared begin a conversation.\u00a0 Laughing was especially repugnant to her standards, so some days we fell asleep while hemming a single thread to the appropriate single thread of the body of the piece.\u00a0 Sometimes, when eagle eye Conner would inspect my work I would have to pull out twelve inches or so and start over.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

A few girls were selected to conduct visitors through the showroom of finished woven items.\u00a0 Of course, these were attractive, poised girls who presented a good image.\u00a0 Needless to say, I didn\u2019t make the cut.\u00a0 I\u2019m sure I had opportunities to learn weaving\u2014and I was interested\u2014but never to a degree that I was willing to risk Mrs. Conner\u2019s critical eye and tongue.\u00a0 So I went through two semesters doing nothing but hemming.\u00a0 But let me be fair and add that I learned to hem!\u00a0 I can put in an even, invisible hem in the most expensive garments I have ever owned.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Even though I never got the courage to brave Mrs. Conner, I found I could not shake my interest in weaving.\u00a0 Over the years since college, I\u2019ve had opportunities to take classes, but I always talked myself out of it.\u00a0 After all, I didn\u2019t own a loom, didn\u2019t have a room to devote to weaving, and so what would I do with the skill after I\u2019d mastered it?<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Then six years ago, I attended \u201cBerry Work Week,\u201d\u00a0 an annual event in which alumni, their spouses, their children, and\u2014sometimes grandchildren\u2014go to Berry for a week of living in dorms and doing volunteer labor.\u00a0 Guess what\u2014 there was a weaving crew headed up by Berry alum and former weaving room girl, Joy Johnson\u00a0 I didn\u2019t know Joy\u2014she graduated years after me.\u00a0 So, for all I knew, she might be worse\u00a0 than Conner ever was.\u00a0 But, I told myself, I could always quit.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

No, I couldn\u2019t!<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Joy turned out to be a match for her name\u2014an absolute joy and a woman with the patience of Job.\u00a0 She was wise\u2014first she drew me in with the \u201cplay\u201d part\u2014weaving table runners on an already-warped loom.\u00a0 It was wonderful!\u00a0 It soothed out all my worries. Joy told me that my selvedges were excellent.\u00a0 I was hooked.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

There followed a weekend visit with Joy, during which she took me through the entire process of warping a loom.\u00a0 To my surprise, I found a kind of satisfaction in the step-by-step progression of tasks.\u00a0 My husband noticed and thought that weaving was a wonderful hobby.\u00a0 Soon Joy called to tell me of a small collapsible \u201cBaby Wolf\u201d loom that was for sale at a very good price.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Now I own that loom and I\u2019m actually \u201cdressing\u201d it for different projects.\u00a0 Each successful project leads to yet another challenge.\u00a0 My courage to learn weaving came late, but better late than never.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

By the way, I have become much more willing now to defy fear and risk failure in other matters.\u00a0 And, yes, I am willing to risk being yelled at sometimes.<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Take that, Mrs. Conner!<\/strong><\/h3>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n