Fabric of our Lives

"I was just a little girl dreaming bigger pictures come alive
Never knew that I would see so many faces in the crowd
It's like a good buzz, going all around
It's like I'm flying with my feet on the ground

Oh, the touch, the feel
The fabric of our lives
The touch, the feel of cotton
The fabric of my life"  Miranda Lambert




I love this old heirloom quilt made by my grandma.  So many of the pieces bring back memories of her dresses, my mom's clothes, and even some of my dresses when I was a little girl.

Every little piece of fabric was used and then reused.  This flower garden pattern weaves a picture of our family--all separate and individual--but together they form the story of our lives.

This quilt shows wear, but it was made to be used and enjoyed.  So with my life, even though I am slightly worn, I still enjoy that life that I have and marvel looking back over the picture that is emerging.

Wood curls, Radios and Picnics

There was a lot to do when we visited our grandparents in Utah.  When Grandpa was home from working at the mines, he would let us go with him to his little work shop and play with the wood shavings from some project that he was making with just old fashioned hand tools.  We loved the designs that the wood curls from his plane made, using them to make doll hair or necklaces.

In Grandma's living room she had a lot of bookcases with glass doors and many missionary stories, but best of all she  had a large floor radio.  When she was out in the garden, if we turned the knobs just right we could listen to popular music, a Stella Dallas soap opera and baseball, but we were careful when we were finished to put it back to her church station. 




Some Sunday’s we might take a trip into Salt Lake City, go to church and then have a picnic in the park across the street from a huge church.  It was fun to run in the grass, and play among the large green shade trees, something we didn't have at our ranch.  Then everyone would pile in the car and we would head back to Grandma's for a snack, and then bed.

A day at Grandmas

During the day, Grandma and Mom would visit, sew dresses for an orphanage in Korea, pick fruit from the orchard, and can.  Us kids liked to walk down the road to the railroad track, waiting for the train to rumble by, its power making us shiver.  Sometimes  if we could find a penny we would put it on the track and after the train had passed we would add the flattened coin to our treasures. 
There was a water well out front covered by a heavy door.  We would beg our Uncle Rodney to lift the lid just a little bit so we could see the spiders inside, shiny black with red hourglasses on their tummies. 

Sometimes we would feed the chickens, being careful not to get in the way of the mean rooster, it was fun to throw out the corn and watch them all rush to it,  no matter which direction we threw it, they would all flock over there, even when there was still plenty left from the last handful--reminds me of my greedy little puppies.  We always kept an eye out for the mean rooster, who thankfully disappeared the evening we had chicken and dumplings.

Hands of a Craftsman

Saturday, I told you a bit about my grandma, today--meet my grandpa.  Grandpa lived in Toole (pronounced two-ella) Utah, south of Salt Lake City and just south of the Kennecott Copper mines where he worked.  He was an immigrant from Latvia who had lived in Baltimore where he met Grandma, then they moved to Montana and lived in the country near Roberts--close to Custer's Last Stand. Before World War II broke out they moved to Toole where he worked in the mines.


Although he worked as a miner, as soon as he got home he headed for his workshop, where he worked with wood--his true love.  He made doll furniture for the grand children, little chairs for those toddlers who came to visit. 

Rocking chair pin cushion for
all the seamstresses in the family

Chair for the small fry

Desk similar to the one Grandpa made for me.

And he made me a desk.  It had a drop down front with little cubbyholes to hide all my treasures.  I would do my homework on it, and write stories and draw pictures with a set of colored pencils.  


He was just a simple man from the "old country", but his hands were those of a true craftsman.

Grandma--Elizabeth Bruehl Strauss Treyman

Every summer when we were kids we went to visit Grandma.  Today, I thought I would introduce you to her.  She was completely old country! Everything from her thick brogue to her cotton stockings, and hair style with little poufs on each side just above her ears,  reflected her Latvian upbringing.  She was raised Evangelical, and never hesitated to share her beliefs.  She was a good woman with some different ways that reflected her heritage. 

 

As World War I, began in Europe, many people fled from the oncoming German onslaught.  My grandma, who was in her early 20's was one of those.  Born in Riga, Latvia--one of the Baltic Sea countries--her mother's family were farmers and shepherds.  Her father was a fisherman, catching cod and herring in the Baltic Sea. 

Riga began to develop as a centre of Viking trade during the early Middle Ages. Riga's inhabitants occupied themselves mainly with fishing, animal husbandry, and trading, later developing crafts (in bone, wood, amber, and iron).

She arrived in America at Ellis Island along with thousands of other immigrants.  She lived in Baltimore, where my mother  was born, later moved to Philadelphia, then moved out West to Montana.  A few years later she and Grandpa moved to Tooele, Utah where Grandpa worked at the Kennecott Bingham Copper Mine, the world's largest open-pit excavation mine.


They had a home just outside of town with a fruit orchard, chicken coop, and work shop for grandpa.  She had a big garden, canned enough fruit and vegetables to supply their needs and also share with their  neighbors.  She loved to crochet and embroidery.  She was a thrifty person, using every scrap of fabric she had--some for quilts, some for little dresses that she made for a Korean orphanage.  She also would reuse tea bags--letting them dry on a little saucer on the window sill.  Nothing went to waste.


She taught me to knit--European style (they don't throw the yarn, just work off the tip of the index finger).


She loved America, and often told us how wonderful it was to live here as compared to the life she had in "the old country".

Grandma's Quilt

Grandma was a frugal sole.  After a cup of tea, she would put the bag on the window sill to dry, so she could use it again. Everything was utilized, there was no waste.
Grandma also loved to sew.  She would make all her own dress of what we now call vintage print cotton, or for Sunday best a nice rayon with a small print.  With the left over fabric from the dresses, she would make little dresses for an orphanage in Korea. Those dresses were a kaleidoscope of color--never enough of one fabric for an entire dress, she would combine colors, always tastefully.  With the left over fabric from the little dresses she would cut quilt blocks. 


Her favorite shape was a 2-1/2" hexagon.  Sometimes if there wasn't quite enough fabric for a block, she would piece two scraps together.  With the hexagon shape she loved to make flower garden quilts.  Each of the seven  grandchildren received one.


Her quilts were made to be used.  So mine is threadbare in spots, once vibrant colors now faded, showing signs of wear, but still cherished.  


Looking at it, I still can remember a dress that she had of some print, or an apron of another, (Once a dress had seen its better day, it was reworked into aprons or potholders.) 

Notice that two of the blue blocks have seams
in order to make block big enough

This speaks to another era when waste was considered a sin and recycling was a way of life.

Yesterday's Flower

This afternoon, as I was doing my dishes, I noticed on the far end of the window sill, my African Violet was blooming.  Many times, I have bought one 
but without fail, after a few months they died.  This time I also bought a special pot, actually a pot within a pot, water goes in the outer pot, the plant in the other, and you just check the water when you think about it. I purchased this plant while I was displaced from my home when it flooded last October.  As long as it lived, it was a symbol to me that I would be o.k.  I packed it around with me until finally I was back home.


It reminds me of my Grandma.  She always had African violet plants, sitting on little white doilies and they were always blooming.  I remember the violets, and purples, and even white blossoms.


My Grandma had moved around quite a bit.  Originally from Latvia, she lived in Baltimore, Philadelphia, then Montana, and finally Utah. She was an old-fashioned lady in every way.  So this old fashioned flower is a tribute to her.