Author: studio.egroom@gmail.com

Well, maybe a little–it’s been so long since I posted. And no matter how hard I try to prepare each year, or how many times I swear I’m going to be more prepared next year, the holiday season always seems to spring upon me as through it has been hiding behind the door, waiting for it’s chance to scare the living daylights out of me. Sigh.

So, if, like me, you have that dear friend, cousin, aunt, brother’s girlfriend for whom there wasn’t time to find that perfect gift, consider our sheepish friend, Norman. He’s a Studio E exclusive and can be placed on bags, T-shirts, sweatshirts, almost anything fabric. Your choice of colors. A great way to show your appreciation and sense of humor at the same time!

–original sheep art by Ken Race

 

Just a few short days left to add some hand-crafted holiday cheer to your table. A variety of colors and patterns are available for placemats, napkins, and table runners!

“Can you do Jane Austen?”

–Oh, yes!! This one is going to be a bit hard to let go of. It was a joy to pick out and put together just the right fabrics and embroideries to capture the Austen feeling.

Check our Textile Art page for more pictures.

Friday was a beautiful day. I had taken the day off from work in order to do errands I could not otherwise accomplish, and I slowly wended my way through Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, enjoying the pastoral views. I returned home later that day to the news of the Paris attacks.

Such horrors should not happen to anyone—not in Paris, not in Beirut, not in Garrisa, not anywhere. And then came the Facebook deluge. I completely understand the desire for people to express their support for victims and condemnation of terrorists. Yes to that. I am also frustrated at what often feels like a lack of real action. Garrisan victims will never know of my support or encouragement, and thus can gain nothing from it. As the day wore on and the 24 hour news cycle continued to endlessly grind and I spoke to family and friends my frustration only increased.

Here is what I believe. I believe that healthy, well-fed people do not wage jihad. People with a sense of hope and security about the future do not join militias, or burn crosses in other people’s yards. People with a sense of empowerment and investment in their communities do not become suicide bombers. So, here is how I have decided to join the war on terror. I will give 10% of the selling price of any and all Studio E products purchased from this day forward to organizations that truly work to end the causes of poverty and terror in the world. Medecins sans Frontieres, Heifer International, The Southern Poverty Law Center. Your choice. So, if you were thinking of ordering already and this helps, thank you. If you weren’t thinking of ordering, please think about giving to one of these organizations on your own.

I realize this is only a drop in the bucket, but if you have enough drops, the bucket gets full. If you have enough buckets, you can put out a fire.

Thank you,

Erica

As I pondered, weak and weary,

o’er my stash of cotton cloth…

I found the perfect pattern to bring together my love of sewing and design, and my love of literature! Meet the Edgar Allen Tote Bag! This SimpleDeluxe tote features a portrait of the poet on the front and famous quotations on the back and on an interior zip pocket. It is appropriately somber on the outside, but a peek inside reveals Prospero’s Red Room. Inside features include roomy zip pocket, and three patch pockets.

Available now!   SOLD (contact us about similar projects and patterns)

This high energy color combination definitely says “Do it now!” With our bags you can choose colors, designs, and motifs to inspire–whatever your bliss might be! Write. Dance. Teach. Craft. Create!

Find more photos of this package on our Textile Art page.

…and then…

NOT ALL IGNORANCE IS BLISS, cont.

This being high summer, it was hot, and other than my gloves and shoes, I wore only a tank top and shorts.  I worked for several hours, yanking down the smaller vines, using the chainsaw or machete on the ones the size of my wrist, piling everything up behind me for later disposal in the woods.  Some of the vines were sticky or sappy.  There were smears in my hair and across my arms and legs.  There was sawdust in my tank top and socks.  When the shed at last emerged and I felt satisfied with my day’s work, I went to “set a spell” with my elderly neighbor Ms. Dora.  Ms. Dora had watched my progress with more than her usual bright-eyed interest.  She seemed quite taken with my ambition.  She was impressed by my vigorous and fearless attack on “the poison.”  I left to take my shower, not quite sure of her meaning, but more than a little pleased with myself.

In my own defense, let me say that I am from New England.  In Massachusetts, poison ivy is a small ground plant.  It is not something that grows to the height and diameter of a tree.  I was unaware that it could.  Even had I known, I wasn’t allergic–I thought–that was my brother.  And so, maybe it was karma (so many years of making fun of my brother), or perhaps it was my stubborn Yankee nature.  Either way, not many days had passed before I considered buying stock in the company that makes calamine lotion.  Not many more hours had passed before I realized I was beyond its power to soothe.  I wouldn’t wish such a case on anyone, not even my brother.  The sawdust and sap had reached every inch of skin on my body, even under my hair.  I had poison ivy between my toes.  My fingers looked like strange new gloves.

A desperate call to my doctor along with a description of how I felt and looked—there were more attractive specimens in leper colonies–resulted in the appropriate prescriptions.  For several days I surfaced only long enough to take another dose of the steroids and extra-strength anti-histamines that would knock me back out and keep me from tearing off my own skin.  It was several weeks before I was seen in public.  Ms. Dora, usually hawk-eyed and garrulous about my activities, had the kindness never to mention my lack of precaution.

---

Five months after the bout with the poison that nearly hospitalized me, I still carried scars.  I was very aware that poison ivy of the Mason-Dixon variety could masquerade as a sort of virulent climbing tree, engulfing entire buildings and swallowing fence lines whole.  I, however, was not to be bested by a plant.  Once recovered, my mettle having been tested, I sallied forth to engage the enemy, determined to reclaim my lands.  I hacked, I sliced, I hewed in twain—every inch of skin covered, of course—I could have safely walked the streets of Saudi Arabia without giving offense.  I sprayed the most vicious and corrosive herbicides legally obtainable, and indeed, I began to make some progress, at least within fifteen yards of the house.  Thoughts of the rest of the acreage, also covered with my newfound nemesis, began to unnerve me.

–Goats, suggested my father, they eat poison ivy.  They eat everything.

—Hell no, I thought.

Not so many years before I had been a Peace Corps volunteer on the edge of the Sahara Desert.  The Sahara Desert is growing.  One of the reasons the Sahara desert is growing?  Goats.  Goats, I felt, should be eradicated as a species.  Well…maybe we could leave a few here and there, they are delicious…but NOT in my backyard!

–But wait, said Dad, what about Angora goats?

–Who? I said.

Angora goats, my father informed me, were where mohair came from.  He knew that I had become a handspinner a few years earlier.  Mohair is a lovely fiber to work with.  It produces a soft, lustrous yarn with a beautiful drape, and it takes dye well.  At the time I was buying my fleece.  With Angora goats I could keep myself well supplied with material and take my war to the enemy’s camp.  I’d planned on livestock anyway, why not goats?  The idea began to grow on me.

–What if I buy them for you, asked Dad.

Sold to the man with the Massachusetts accent he will never admit to having.

---

A year later the garden had indeed expanded and preserves had been made.  The shed remained clear and neat fencerows were up.  Behind them are the tossing heads, pricking ears, and twitching tails, only, these heads have horns, these ears are floppy, and these tails stand straight up.  Goats eat poison ivy.

We’d like to take a few moments to introduce our Quality Control Officer, Ms. Mimsy. Each and every product created by Studio E must meet her exacting standards to earn the Studio E label.

Ms. Mimsy came to us two years ago after a brief stint on the mean streets of rural Pennsylvania. Clearly, she was a natural talent and supremely over-qualified, but she agreed to work with us on a probationary basis. Once she realized how desperately we needed her expertise, she came on board in a permanent capacity.

As you can see, any substandard work is swiftly removed from the production line (sorry Lynn, guess I’ll be doing those handles over again) and workers are gently but firmly reprimanded.

Rest easy, Studio E clients–quality is assured!

…by any other color (like orange!) would make a beautiful tote bag. I’m loving this cheerful combination!

(My apologies to the Bard)

As I wandered through the Duchess County Fairgrounds on a perfect fall day, I couldn’t help but catch a whiff of nostalgia–all the adorable little lambs and goat kids reminded me of my first adventures in livestock. The piles of fleece reminded me of my own–rather startlingly vast–piles of fleece at home. It has all become…normal.  But, since I have a day job that has absolutely no connection with any of this, people often ask me how I got here. Here is part of the story…

NOT ALL IGNORANCE IS BLISS

That first summer mowing the lawn had not yet become a chore.  This, after all, was my very own lawn.  I wanted to know every inch of it.  My two city-bred cats, now middle aged, acted like kittens again, pouncing on uppity blades of grass and disciplining the back stairs carpeting with an iron paw.

That summer I looked across my overgrown pastures and pictured neat fencerows behind which alert horses would toss their heads, prick their ears and twitch their tails.  I saw the expansion of the pathetic garden space into one that would provide a full year’s bounty.  I saw fruit trees from which I would preserve winter treats, and a windmill for self-sufficient power.

I could stand on the back porch of my turn of the century farmhouse and gaze up the long hill at two sizeable, if untended, pastures, and another three acres of woods.  Vestiges of the cattle farm were still visible in the old, rusted fence lines that meandered, seemingly at random, through the woods, and here and there were the remains of old outbuildings and disintegrating gates.

One outbuilding, just up the slope from the house, had survived the ravages of time and neglect, but judging from the breadth and vigor of the vines that nearly covered it, would not survive much longer without care.  It was a tractor shed with attached corn-crib, open at both ends, or it should have been.  It was not as old as the house, but perhaps not much younger.  Its steel frame was rusting through, roof planks were rotting, and the once red paint was tired and mostly flaking away.

Well, I thought, if I’m going to have animals, I’ll need a place to put them, and I might as well start with what I’ve got.  I decided to clear the shed.

Stay tuned for part two…