Is San Diego skyline a set of tools?

When I build the city in fabric I will start at "the bridge", the Coronado Bridge.  Now I recognize many of the interesting buildings that live in San Diego's downtown.  The bridge took me on an art quilt journey all of it's own.  I grew up with that iconic image of San Diego, the Coronado bridge like an anchor to the downtown skyline on the left, the island of Coronado sprawled out on it's right.  From my grandma's window I could see everything while carefully balancing the old binoculars between my little face and the old, giant, creaking panes of glass. It was three stories up and perched high on the hillside in Point Loma, the naval base below before Liberty Station the neighborhood ever existed.

Gazing into the the night sky the most prominent building was the Emerald Plaza and it's hex ensemble of structures.  Even with the whole city of San Diego lit up around it and the deep, black bay waters reflecting the green shapes capping each tower.  It seems old now but back then it represented the cutting edge of architecture to my youthful eyes.  

I'm climbing the tallest building in San Diego's downtown, the "Phillips Head" screwdriver building,One  American Plaza. The outer shell is a grid of tiny rectangles tapering off to a nipple-like cap at the very top.  The shape is that of a giant tool ready to pluck out of place, repair a mega-giant problem then fit neatly back into the tool kit that is San Diego's profile. We also have a set of "Twin Towers" here in San Diego, I'm not sure how they fit into the city's repair bag.  I guess you have to dissect the city one building at a time to find out the secrets hidden in plain sight.

Large hotels dominate the scene from a far away glance, high up on the Hyatt views of the bay take any lookers breath away.  The set of towers angle at the tops into a flathead screwdriver type tip, sloped and pointy.  Closest to the edge of the water with marinas below and a walkable wharf, a genuine tourists' delight.  As a local I know it's worth the wait to get a window seat at Anthony's Fish Grotto, the Gaslamp combusted a long time ago and Little Italy could take you several days to eat your way up and down a single city block. The San Diego art quilt is really coming to life, more research needed.


I have made art quilts with realistic guitars, button eyed fish, wild bird themed or renditions of flowers from my garden. Morning Glories with random stripes of pink and purple, "Coconut-Ice" Sunflowers and the brightest pink Hollyhocks all laid out in fabric. Nature itself so inspiring I could sew on and on, reproducing the flowers like a wanna-be Georgia O'Keefe with a Singer sewer instead of palette and canvas.  Now for this urban outline the most challenging so far I see the man made beauties as one giant "Inspector Gadget" project.  Every tool has a spot and each high rise fits perfectly into it's designated block.  

Maybe next I'll rebuild the Taj Majal.  I've always been attracted to the mysterious architecture of the Middle East.  I'll try anything with my needles and threads.  It's a research project and a test of skill add a new technique and you have many tedious hours of creative fun.  Reverse appliqué, iron on adhesive but it's too stiff, pins, tape, glue it won't do.  I have my ways, after many experiments I've become adept at attaching fabric to fabric adorn with thread and show others my view. to edit.

Winter vegetable gardening in San Diego County produces sweet treats to eat. Water droplets hang on tiny sugar snap pea pods and small, white flower petals in the garden. The vines cover fencing usually cloaked in green beans and morning glories. This time of year it's the winter vegetables and herbs like endless loose leaf salads and fragrant oregano and thyme. Several small strawberries hang on by yellowing stems narrowly escaping the squirrels just to be hollowed by rolly-polly bugs once they hit the ground.

Skeleton vines with large red and green roma tomatoes still attached bend under the pressure of massive snow pea plants, curly tendrils latching on to anything in their way. Most of the raised beds are full of gourmet lettuce mixes like red oak leaf, arugula and tender mustard greens. Names like Bull's Blood Beet and Lollo Rossa sound strange but taste sweet and grow into red and green tender sprouts. Winter salad of fresh cut loose leaf lettuce dressed in a light vinaigrette made of vinegar, olive oil, shallot, honey, salt and pepper , add sunflower seeds and tiny bits of blue cheese for a gourmet first course at home. 

Herbs are a star in the winter vegetable garden. Flavorful Italian parsely and cilantro are abundant and volunteer where ever the seeds take hold, like small, frilly sprigs of fennel. Fennel has a strong black licorice taste, but the tender three inch sprouts growing right now taste mild and sweet. Young garlic bulbs sprout green tops next to overgrown three foot tall green onions. Mint plants pour out of containers threatening to root and spread like wildfire through raised beds of manicured vegetables.

Tiny leaves are sprouting out of what used to be corn rows, the clover- looking leaves are celery plants just taking hold of the top soil. Brussel sprouts grow large and tall, the miniature cabbages attached to sturdy stalks hide behind large, purple-ish green leaves. The brussel sprout is known for it's unappealing reputation. Roast them in the oven with olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice or in a pan of butter and garlic on the stove top for a tasty version of this under appreciated veg.

Work in the winter garden goes by too quick. Maybe it's the shorter daylight hours or the cool temperatures that make hoeing and shoveling seem less strenuous. Artichoke plants started from seeds overwhelm small pots. They look like dinosaur plants, giant, saw-toothed leaves begging for a permanent home in the ground. The wet weather helps to turn piles of plant clippings, shredded newspaper, egg shells and coffee grounds into mounds of rich, dark compost waiting to be added to the growing winter's bounty. The colorful, glossy pages of the new Burpee seed catalog arrived in today's mail. Next springs crop will have to wait, I'm enjoying my winter vegetable garden right now.

 sew everything


That dress may be old but it's new to me.  That's always been a delight, finding an old treasure and bringing it back to wearable-life.  The countless alterations like Cinderella with her gang of critters sewing her formal dress out of found, homemade junk. My sister masquerading as my designer, making giant, hand stitches to hold things in place. These hash tag type stitches were just the beginning of a life of sewing everything I can get my hands on.

If we needed an alteration far too complex for our rudimentary fixes we would go to my mom and beg her to take out her machine, before she knew it there would be a pile of vintage clothes, ripped pjs and long time favorite cloth vestibules as holy as they come.  My mom can sew and did some professional looking work for us back then and salvaged many ancient garments. She also threw out many of those sacred pieces when we were't looking. I can still feel the outrage at her lack of attachment to things, everything is not disposable lady.


Studying old sewing books that's how I taught myself to sew. They cover the basics, it's the practice that  makes your work perfect.  Considering everything was handmade at one time these books were really giving homemakers a guide to good housekeeping.  Make your sofa covers girls and press those curtains, proper length of course.  I have a book that is a sewing "how to"  but also includes the cutest little sides like,"always set aside time to have dinner ready when planning a sewing project" or suggestions about general housekeeping,"be sure your chores are properly done before starting to sew".  Ladies refer to your sewing tomes daily, thanks 1950's you can keep your picture perfect image.


We were reverse engineering vintage, handmade garments from the thrift shop.  Purchases of pointy shoes, leather capes, gloves and hand muffs  were our staples.  We would peruse the stores like hunters on the track of a rare species.  They were mostly home made garments that we coveted with the polyesters and silks, the ric-a-rac and the carefully turned under raw edges tediously mended by hand, the only way to finish a garment well.  As old as some of the stuff was it was new to us, authentic and cheap.

The treasure hunt is my favorite part.  It's a lot like fishing you never really know what you'll end up with at the end of the day but you know it'll be a fun hunt.  I still believe in a balance of quality clothing bought new,  handed down, homemade or found and revived,  it's all in my closet.  My newfound relationship with buttons has consumed many a Saturday morning at the swap meet.  An old, brown, leather belt with small flowers stamped into the shiny surface stole my attention at Koby's one of these mornings.  The flowers are painted turquoise, it's just a little bit of paint but it makes me happy thinking of the person nimbly dotting paint onto this old relic.  I wear it with Levi's a lot and appreciate the already worn, smooth metal buckle.

Styles and trends go round and round.  Many of us have loved anything old or hand made whether en vogue or not.  I love the interesting darts and necklines of older styles.  All of those vintage patterns available, there must be a lot of Holly Golightlys out there. The fits are flattering and feminine, conservative and stiff.  Mix and match a little pencil skirt with a funky blazer or motorcycle jacket of faux animal and dig deeper in that closet for the creepers, yes the creepers because "monkey boots" just won't do.


Today it's still old to new for me.  My repurposed jeans bags get the most masculine response.  For some reason even in this disposable-fashion world guys and gals appreciate the look of something homemade.  T-shirt quilts, memory pillows and jewelry bags with a sentimental touch keep me busy during the holidays.  I love trying to personalize handmade gifts, a tiny, stitched initial can make the recipient feel very special.  So sew everything, make everything that you can and share it as often as possible.







 

The White-breasted Nuthatch has his head and jet black beak pointed up the Jacarunda tree as he scurries from trunk to limb, to the hanging bird feeder. I’ve seen him in our yard almost every day this summer, along with numerous graceful Western Bluebirds, a flock of mini “cheeping” birds called Bushtits and many more San Diego County natives. The bluebirds are at home in the vegetable garden, flying off only to observe me picking tomatoes and strawberries at dusk. 
The Hermit Thrush and California Thrasher have disappeared all together. Gargamel was my name for the thrasher with his strange, curved bill and long legged walk. Something about that bird really reminded me of the Smurfs cartoon character. These wild locals come to our yard looking for special offerings in various feeders and shallow-water bird baths spread front and back. After moving to Lakeside I picked up a new hobby. I buy wild bird seed and put out daily offerings, hoping to catch a glimpse of the many beautiful birds we have flocking to our neighborhood.
 Much like the VFW hall is to the human variety of snow birds, our yard is a meeting place, crowded with eating and socializing. White- Crowned Sparrows dot the fence in a line, like a little army with matching black and white, striped helmets. They arrive with the cool nights and vanish at the first sign of spring. Winter also brings countless Dark-eyed Juncos, popping their little, round heads out of manicured shrubs. They look like ornaments on a simply decorated Christmas tree. I can here their rhythmic chirps through the open kitchen windows. I imagine the juncos colored bright pink and lined up in a box, like marshmallow Peeps on Easter.
The full timers consist of loud, marauding jays, bright yellow American Goldfinches, chattering Rufous-sided Towhees, frolicking California Towhees and several generations of Black-headed Grosbeaks. I can depend on the Black Phoebe for backyard insect removal, silently skimming and gliding over the lawn. After nabbing her meal she lands firmly on my clothes line causing it to jump and dip under her lightweight frame.
Many birds comb through the yard looking for nesting supplies. An industrious Hooded Oriole spent an entire spring day stripping supplies off of Mexican Fan Palms. With a thud she lands in the center of the frond, then much like a typewriter she loudly works the threads from the outside to the center. After gathering the threads she carries them one at a time high up in an eucalyptus tree, weaving an intricate basket-like nest. The noisier, more clickish birds prefer hanging together in groups. The sing songy European Starlings perch above on electrical lines. The quiet but distinct warbling of Western Kingbirds can be heard in the morning from empty fields. Like a men’s choir, dressed in yellow sweater vests they sing in harmony. 
Mourning Doves never travel alone, if one is spotted just look around for it’s loyal companion making a clumsy landing nearby. And, never invite a Mallard duck over, he’ll bring his ten best buddies and they all like poopin’ in the pool. We learned that the hard way. We have a tall, dark eyed, long necked thief in our neighborhood. This persistent Snowy Egret can eat as many goldfish as we will supply. First he lands on the roof, like a stork minus the baby, then he waits for an opportunity. He is like a criminal after the glittering gold, submerged in the pond. Wearing out our most energetic dog during his crime spree. After the pillaging he flies away slowly, lifting his long legs into position, like an airplane bringing up the landing gear. 
A new bird is a common sight around the feeders. Like that nuthatch with his tiny black eye surrounded by pure white feathers. Western Bluebirds gathering in the vegetable garden at sunset, they’re a welcome new bunch. We fall asleep to the sounds of a Barn Owl. He sits atop the wood fence looking regal, the moonlight shining white off of his cloak of multi-colored plumage. Quiet “whooos” murmur, calmly through the night air. Then a loud screech as he dives for his prey, plucking a rat from the backyard bird feeder.
Each morning we wake to a Scrub Jay mutiny in the backyard. They demand a breakfast of peanuts at sunrise, bickering and complaining several feet from our bedroom window. There’s a Northern Mockingbird making loud, clacking sounds in the front yard. He scratches around on the ground under the hanging feeder. His long, straight, rectangular tail flicks around in the air, like the spoon handle stirring my morning coffee. 
The bird population is growing in our yard. With each new arrival I’m reminded of rare sighting in the past. The Lazuli Bunting is one of the most rare. These small birds have neon blue feathers, so bright that they seem to glow in the daylight. For several days they took over the feeders, about twenty birds scattered around the yard. Then they left as promptly as they showed up, haven’t seen them since. We watched a Titmouse as he built his nest in a birdhouse above the feeders. His crested head and circular eyes popped in and out curiously as he watched the babies grow. Finally they grew too big for the little wooden box, causing the whole family to relocate. They have come back to visit, but never again to that bird house.
The bright oranges and yellows of Western Tanagers are rarely seen in our trees. Even more rare a Hermit Warbler, with yellow head and speckled body hopping around at the base of the waterfall. Just like that Hermit Thrush with speckled body and long legs, he lived at the top of that waterfall. At one time it was a pair of thrush enjoying the shallow water and shade of the rocks. But not anymore. They’re gone, just like Gargamel, that predictable thrasher. Recently on a long morning walk with that energetic dog of mine, I spotted the most rare of all Lakeside avian. I heard the “squacking” and talking of many birds, perched high up in a tall eucalyptus. I could see the short, stocky birds outlined by the morning sun. Recognizing these unique silhouettes and familiar sounds, I was brought back to a childhood in Ocean Beach.
“Lakeside parrots?” I asked, with my face pointed upward in awe. I could see at least ten small, noisy parrots, stretching and preening themselves. As we walked home I hastily planned my next trip to buy bird seed and I wondered . . . “what do parrots like to eat?”

There was a time when all clothes were made by hand, then by machine still by a tailor or  seamstress.  A sewing machine had great value and fabric was expensive and sometimes hard to get.  Now most garments are made in factories with reputations for producing inexpensive clothing for the masses regardless of the cost to the natives.  Maybe the future of apparel will turn back to the handmade, tailored custom kind.

Dolly Parton sings about a coat of many colors that her mom made for her as a child.  This patchwork coat was made of discarded rags and fabric from hand-me-downs and attracted teasing and ridicule from  school kids more fortunate than her, wearing real, store bought coats.  The melody sounds happy and appreciative for a unique jacket unlike any other.  The real coats of her antagonizer's weren't special like hers.  I wonder if kid's today would notice something like a homemade outfit or if they would even care.

Charles Dickens wrote stories of poor orphans clad in their sole possession,one little suit of clothes.  I remember David Copperfield selling the pieces of his tiny, layered outfit while traveling as a young, street kid.  The shop in town was full of used clothes that he could see from the street being peddled by a shop keep with an eye for a quality garment.  It seems back then the amount of proper clothes you had on directly reflected what class you belonged  to.  The hat or lack of was also a sign as to your financial status not to mention the shoes too.

American mothers made clothes for their children.  Can you imagine your own mother making all of your clothes?  Sounds mortifying right.  Some kids were lucky with moms that could turn  a flour sack into a dress and some matching undies.  Pioneer people wore uniforms that reflected hard work and necessity.  In the Dust Bowl Era the flour sacks were covered in decorative prints.  The flour companies learned of the thrifty, ingenuity these women possessed and helped to make the home made garments more attractive to the children.  I guess it's like any uniform if everyone else has on the same thing it's less embarrassing.  

I had a uniform job in high school, Hot Dog on A Stick.  It would seem with a tall, striped hat on my head I would have felt some embarrassment.  Pounding away on lemons with   a heavy metal rod in the middle of the mall food court, nope not embarrassed.  It was like I joined a team of smart girls making money.  This uniform looks perfectly in place with all members grouped together, appropriate background.  Take a singular hotdogger out of that environment and have her pumping gas or getting a speeding ticket in those silly stripes and well, I'm just glad utube wasn't around then.

Growing up with my sister we were exposed to handmade, special occasion clothing sewn by my grandma.  Granny came from a time when all respectable girls learned how to sew their own clothes and she is an accomplished seamstress because of this and her natural talents with fabric and thread.  We would accompany her to the fabric store and choose lace, fabrics, buttons and all other notions needed.  These are my beginnings in fabric.  

My recent family sewing project, flannel pjs for christmas.  It sounds mundane but I know how many warm buns I covered this year.  I have heard many gracious 'thanks' for these cozy gifts and seen many wearers, warming my own heart.  That was a pile of flannel stash so high I thought I would be lost and proclaimed missing by Christmas morning.  Somehow over two dozen custom made pants with quirky, mismatched fabric pockets adorned family members from Ocean Beach to Ramona.  I never underestimate the effect of handmade gifts on my loved ones.  I've heard exclamations of, "oh, I remember when my grandma made pajamas's for me as a child" and "How did you get my size correct?"  The eyes of adults looked past the owl, flannel, novelty prints and warmed with pride from the memories of sewing ancestors and the gifts they gave long before my foot ever felt a sewing machine pedal.

Today, modern day seamstresses come in all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds.  I see more people waiting in line at the Joanne's fabric cutting counter than waiting for their cup of Joe at Starbucks.  This is good for the availability of stash and sewing supplies.    The one-of-a-kind (OOAK) movement is catching on like loops of yarn on a knitting needle.  Human eyes are attracted to the unique and our spirits feel attached to the tradition and artistry reflected in an individual's handiwork, from flannel pajamas to hand woven textiles.

My idea of stash ...  piles of color coordinated "fat-quarters", no not my stash, bolts of garment fabrics piled up in the "garment district", no that's not my stash.  My stash is ever-changing and grows with the summer as I dye more fabric and stock my shelves.    Right now a peak in my stash closet would be a lot different from years ago, anything goes was the theme for many years.

Others' stash...plenty of people hoard supplies.  Most avid DIYers  will tell you they have a lot of supplies but they are very organized.  Us sewing people can "organize" a lot of fabric too and buttons, thread, vintage scarves(to be made into something of course) and anything else I can find at a rummage sale or swap meet.  I have seen estate sale loot encompass a whole Ford SUV, bags and boxes, a lifetime collection of woven cloth.  I love the stuff.  There are those that will save scraps the size of a finger and those that toss out whole, useless pieces left over from cutting a garment pattern.  

For many years I kept my stash in an antique wardrobe with drawers on one side and a creaky, metal rod you could pull out for hanging clothes on the other.  Small, tidy stacks of scraps more wasteful seamstresses would have thrown out were lined up with pride.  Every group of scraps a memory, a curtain in grandma's house, a couch, a childhood costume...  I have some first memories and they include fabrics.

Refined and downsized stash with  hand dyed fabrics dominating.  Some scrap bins, size and color coordinated.  My fabric closet can get messy during and after projects, when deadline dates seem to pop off of the calendar and dance around my shoulders while I sew.  I make one-of-a-kind jackets and I love micro-fiber fabrics, lately faux suede has me designing jackets in my dreams, really.  Things are looking leathery in my future and my stash.

If my stash disappeared tomorrow I couldn't replace it.  So many years are stacked up in that closet I can look around and find an old memory neatly wedged into it's pile waiting to unfold into a story of childhood events like matching Easter dresses and impromptu fashion shows with my sister.  I'll continue to collect and stow away these pieces of my  life like an historian curating for a museum.  The fragments of the past represented in my collection may only be interpreted by me and may never be anything but scraps of fabric in my stash but to me the stash closet is a source of inspiration.
I am reminded of the sewing journeys taken by talented sewing people before my own trail of thread and fabric clippings started to hit the sewing room floor.

The story of my wearable art jackets can be seen in the garments. They are my sewing story. Every detail purposefully stitched to reflect the one-of-a-kind designs. I like to use hand dyed fabrics because of the irregular color patterns and custom color combinations. The finished jacket is a story, an adventure in fabric and thread.

I need a lot of thread and the cheap stuff won't do. Thread disappears with every pump of the pedal. Like a magician gets rid of his fluffy, white bunny but instead of an empty top hat or scarf I have a constant flow of discarded, plastic spools littering my sewing space. Any one ever wish for an everlasting bobbin?

I love quality, handmade clothing. Each seam neatly planned and pressed. Blind hems finished with a fine hand stitch invisible to the average eye. Some details never noticed except to that of the conscientious tailor. Likewise to the handmade, antique quilt all puckered around tiny, uniform stitches. Tradition, technique and individual style told through the patches of fabric and patterns written in thread.

Sewing techniques can be perfected by practice and repetition. If you're willing to "work your fingers to the bone", fingertip flesh shriveling up while guiding yard after yard of fabric through the machine. Needles poking top to bottom in a rhythm with hands hovering under and over a lap hoop. Anything hand stitched shows the effort and character of the seamstress, no matter how rugged or precise the stitchery.

I can sew all day and all evening, but my shoulder will regret it. I finish a jacket, a blazer that took me all week to design and make and then I have an idea for the next jacket. Dye my fabric or buy my fabric, maybe both. Old technique, paper pieced or whole cloth with a hand quilted motif. Maybe something with fringe and raw edges...and my sewing adventure starts again.