Crafting with the Kushner’s

REMEMBER:  IDLE HANDS ARE THE DEVIL’S WORKSHOP

We are a family of crafters.

My mother was the Eve of the bunch.  She had a passion for sewing.  Or maybe sewing was her escape from her four children.  Up she would go to the treadle Singer sewing machine in her bedroom, door closed.  When opened again, out would come clothing for my sister and myself.

Did I appreciate this?  No.  I wanted desperately to have store-bought clothes.  How well I remember the happy moment when the Sears Christmas catalogue would land heavily on our doorstep.  We were always allowed to purchase one item of clothing from it.  I cherished the black satin circle skirt I wore to absolutely every dance in seventh and eighth grade.  How grown up and sophisticated I felt with that shimmery material adorning me.

Seventh grade.  The doomsday year when I myself would have to sew something.  Yes, we girls had to take two years of home economics while the boys had shop.  I could not graduate from seventh grade without making a dress.  Why did I pick brocade?

Oh, the struggles I had with that dress.  The pattern was made for someone with slim hips.  Was there a seam ripper on the market at that time?  Well, we didn’t have one.  And of course I was sewing on a treadle machine, marked by my lack of coordination.  But somehow the dress got made.  Fortunately, we didn’t have to model our creations.

My mother’s abiding craft was sewing.  (How well I remember her fury when my sister and brothers bought her a new sewing machine and she had to relearn her techniques on that new machine.  No one dared buy her another.) She sewed until in her eighties she decided she could sew no more.  But at some point she also took up rug hooking, not the colonial way but with kits.  Admiring her work, I decided to give rug hooking a try and loved it.  I remember well gifting one of my rugs with a Persian theme to my in-laws overseas.  Did they look at the beautiful design of the rug?  No.  They turned it over immediately to check the backing to see what my stitches looked like.  Embarrassing?  Let’s just say one of my sisters-in-law used to tailor handmade men’s shirts.

Rug hooking was a craft my mother took to her limit.  In other words, after many years of it, she had carpal tunnel syndrome and had to have both wrists operated on.  But she still sewed.

Sewing was bred into my sister and me.  When I didn’t have to do it for a class, I enjoyed it, especially picking out the material.  I just loved the colors and the fact that you could make of it what you will.  I will admit that jumpers were my specialty.  They were easy and they fit my hips.

But sewing wasn’t enough in the development of my womanly skills.  My mother also had me take up embroidery.  I will admit to always needing a pattern printed on the material, but it was a fun thing to do, and I never really followed the suggested color choices.

The first time my husband visited our house in Nanuet, he was directed to the guest bathroom, where my mother had hung up the guest towels I had embroidered.  If she was selling him on my skills, he was unimpressed.

Throughout college, marriage, three kids, I never did much other than sew.  Fortunately, I had a daughter for whom I could make what I considered cute outfits.  The circle turns.  But it was sometime when the kids were older that my husband and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I came upon—floor cloths!!!!!  I had never seen a floor cloth before, and I was entranced.  I said to myself, I have to make one of these.  And that’s how I discovered Snow Farm.

Snow Farm in western Massachusetts is an art camp for adults.  The accommodations are hostel-like with shared bathrooms, but once you get over that, there is a world of pleasure, as it’s located in a beautiful setting.  And someone there was teaching floor cloths.

I don’t remember whether I was living in Atlanta or Chicago at that time, but I do know I contacted my sister and asked if she’d like to join me for a week of arts and crafts.  She lived in Maryland and we would convene at my mother’s house in Nanuet, New York.  Then, taking one car, we would drive up to Snow Farm.

I think we went there for at least ten summers.  We hardly ever took the same class except for enamel work.  She was into pottery and weaving and stained glass, while I took painting and collage and once fused glass, where I was called a “kiln hog.” Hey, first come, baby!  One year Ellen wanted to take something and I had nothing I wanted to take so I settled on printmaking.  Good lord, that was a hell of a lot of work.  But I have to say the prints turned out well.  Except for that class, I loved everything I did there.

Unfortunately, we stopped going.  The fun had gone out of the experience with squabbles over my mother’s care.  But some day we’ll find another art camp to enjoy together because it is fun.  I went alone once to Arrowmont in Tennessee.  Very professional.  Hotel accommodations, great food.  But for me to drive there alone is difficult.  I used to be able to drive twelve hours a day.  Now, well, four if I’m pushing it.  Sad.

My art now consists of watercolors and wall hangings.  I have remnants of every craft I ever took, and I think I should really get rid of this accumulated stuff.  But then, contrarily, what if I ever need them again?  I wonder how long acrylic paint lasts?

My sister is the real craft person in the family.  She had taken up needles to knit, crochet, and make needlepoint pillow covers.  At one point, when she lived in a house, she devoted herself to stained glass.  But when she moved into a townhouse, she had no room.  (Unlike where I live, she doesn’t have much opportunity for workshops.)

Lately she has given up all that close work and stuck mainly to the old, reliable sewing.  She’s even bought a dress form to enhance her projects.  But she has made a detour from clothing into making cloths bags.  I don’t know about where you live, but here they’re beginning to charge for bags.  For my birthday she sent me one of her bags, and I’ve been using it with every grocery stop.  As I told her—because, you know, we Kushners have to complain about something—the only thing wrong with the bag is that the handles are too long for short me. But I suppose this is giving me better arm muscles.

Who knew my father would become an artist?  He had spent his entire working life as an organic chemist.  The only craft I remember him having when I was a child was a doll house he built me to look like the house we lived in.  I loved that house and spent many hours furnishing it and playing make believe.  I lent it to my sister when she had girls.  When they outgrew it, she sold it without even asking me.  Yes, this is a sore point in our relationship.  At least on my part.

But back to dear old dad.  After he retired, he took up stained glass of all things.  Where did that come from?  I have no idea.  But he became extremely proficient at it.  I have the most beautiful Tiffany-styled lamps all over my house and two massive hanging light fixtures in my basement because there really isn’t a place for them with cathedral ceilings.

My father was even commissioned to do door panels and lamps for a restaurant my cousin owned.  I don’t know if he was offered money for the work or, even if he was, if he took it.  Fortunately, my parents’ house had a basement where he worked his magic.  Despite the occasional storm-related water events.

Then there’s my brother Joe, the woodworker.  I think most of his excess money went into his craft.  In the beginning of his woodworking journey, he would send me a box of basically crap for the holidays.  I would keep the pieces for a while, then throw out later.  But he improved.  My sister once said about him that he never bothered to perfect a project, and in most cases that was true.  But I’m still using several of the tables he made and the wonderful pie cabinet with copper inlays.

Most of Joe’s perfected work went to my mother.  Sad to say, after my mother died, most everything she had was taken by the junk man, including all of Joe’s wonderful pieces.

So we were a creative family—except for the youngest among us.  Somehow Mike never felt the urge to create.  Oh, there were the Chef Boyardee pizza kits, and I think he actually still uses them.  One time, when we spoke on the phone, he was making tuna salad, so—  Still, he’s retired.  Time to get crackin’.

I will admit to not having passed on my urge to craft to any of my children.  Perhaps they saw the results of my efforts and were uninspired.  My daughter is a makeup maven.  Her eyes are always a work of art.  So I suppose that’s something.  They all enjoy cooking.  I’m sure that’s creative, although I’ve always found preparing a meal a pain in the ass.

I think I shall always be doing something with my hands because it also stimulates the mind.  Even if the work is a failure, I’ve still created. And that’s the operative word—Create!