My first memory:  arms outstretched, holding a skein of yarn while mom wound it onto a ball.  “Mom, I need to weewee!” I shouted, hopping from one foot to the other.  Quickly her hands slipped between mine and I was gone in a flash.  “Don’t be too long,” she said, “I still need your help.”  It seems like only a minute ago.

She’s been gone 8 years now, but I still want to pick up the phone and call her.  I can imagine how the conversation would go: “Hi Mom, what’s new?”  “Do you have your TV on?” “You know I don’t have one Mom.”  “How can you vote without learning about the issues?” “Watching C-span again?”  “Yes of course, someone has to see through this charade the politicians put up.  You can’t win without knowing the enemy!” “Mom, remember what the doctor said about getting upset.”  “I’m not upset, I’m angry — there’s a difference, you know!  Anger can be a force for good if you direct it properly.”

Her name was Ruth Elizabeth, my mom, and over the years she chose to be called many things, but in the end it was Beth, or as she signed her letters, m/B — mom/Beth.  I asked her about that once, why both, and she said that she would always be my mom, but she wanted to be my friend as well, and could do so as Beth.

Beth was born on an Iowa farm in 1920, to a creative family.  Her parents, Frank and Harriet (Hattie), met in a thespian society, a group that convened regularly from surrounding farms to put on theatrical productions, book readings, and debates. Frank was an innovative farmer, the first in the area to use a windmill to power an electrical generator that stored energy in a bank of batteries, making their house an active gathering place for a large community, since it had both radio and phonograph.  Hattie had a gift with fabric and color and participated in a quilting circle — the graphic language of quilting was an enduring passion for her.  It was said that never an evening meal passed in the home without a dictionary, or atlas, or both, finding a prominent place on the table and in a discussion.

It was a paradise of sorts, that ended when Beth was 5.  Much of the story is now lost.  Government agents came and slaughtered the dairy herd, which they said was at risk of contagious disease (although not ill).  Frank died a few days later of a heart attack at the age of 38.  The farm was auctioned off.  Hattie, in an act of defiance, stole the family Bible from the auction inventory.  But that was all they had, sudden abject poverty, a young widow with four children, four years before the Depression began.

Hattie was one of seven sisters (originally 9, two died in childhood).  I could never remember all of the names of the aunts.  It was a matriarchal society of sorts that closed ranks. Hattie lost her hearing but somehow made a living by sewing.  I knew her as a stern old woman who usually kept her hearing aid turned off to save the battery. She taught me how to make laundry soap from leftover cooking grease and lye distilled from wood ash, make a pie from rhubarb, and in general, to think creatively about living within severe financial constraints.

It was Muscatine County, famous for melons and tomatoes.  Beth worked her way through college in the canning plants, with a double major in English and Mathematics.  It was World War II.  She fell in love with and married a man in uniform who returned from the war injured, mentally and physically, in ways that never healed.  Beth became a teacher.

Growing up, I was aware of two parents who were kind, good, but very ill people, somewhat buffered by mountains of yarn.  The flow of finished garments was endless.   Intarsia : yes!  Cables : yes!  Being a mathematician, complexity was only a source of interest for Beth.  It was the fullest form of addiction: if she felt good, she knit from joy.  If she was sick ( much of the time) she knit from sheer determination to maintain control over her life.  We were bombarded and pummeled by knitwear, and the basic operating premise was this:  if you don’t like it, fine, but give it to someone who does.

I remember being sent off to college one year with a new turquoise mohair sweater.  I was mortified and kept it in a drawer. My good friend Jaime, a dashing pilot from South America, borrowed my extensive collection of sweaters to wear on dates.  He said the girls all loved to touch them, which brought him “good luck”.  At the end of the semester he packed his car one evening for the long drive across country to his new graduate school.  In the morning he came running in saying that his car was burgled and they took everything.  So I gave him all of my clothes, including the sweaters.  When I told mom she just smiled. “He really is lucky”, she said.

And so are we all, especially we who have found joy, and solace, in fiber.  We all have to come to terms with paradise lost, as Beth and Hattie did.  Creating and giving are both part of the same act, which is in part an act of defiance.  We all struggle within some range of limitations, but we don’t have to be bounded by them.

Beth also designed needlepoint, using it as a graphic medium that included language.  She had a message and chose to tell it with color and fiber.  When her final battle with cancer began she approached it with incredible calm and resolute force, armed with knitting needles, churning out hundreds of chemo caps that she gave to strangers in “random acts of kindness.”  The last words I heard from her were “please hand me my knitting — I’ll see you in the morning”.  I think the sparks flying from her needles lit a path through that  darkest night.

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In many ways Beth was the mother of ARTFIBERS.  In typical fashion, she leveraged gentle influence with perfect timing.  It was the late 80′s. Rox and I were winding down an educational toy business that quickly foundered on the rocks of wholesale distribution.  Beth was on the board of directors, and as we discussed liquidation she said “I have something else to talk about.”  She pulled out a stack of fiber related art magazines and pushed them across the table.  “You two have a lot of talent.  Surely something in here will give you an idea for a new and better business.”  Five years later the perfect opportunity arose and Artfibers was born.  Her prescient nudge helped us to see the potential and, without hesitation, take the plunge.

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This “momoire’ honors Mother’s Day, which we all celebrate.  If you have stories about your mom and fiber, please take a moment to share them with us, in the comments here or through our Ravelry group (We Heart Artfibers).

Our May yarn sampler, offered through the new YARNTASTING CAFE, features color themes based on the flower needlepoints above, two of her favorites.  The sampler containing 15 yards each of 6 yarns is $10 ppd US (add $5 for international shipping).  Just send an email to artfibersyarn@earthlink.net letting us know that you would like this month’s sampler — we’ll send a payment link by return email.

We’ve also published here the pattern for Beth’s favorite chemo cap, which we’re now calling the momoire cloche, designed by Rox.  A kit for this hat is $15 in our new yarn BJORK (color card here).

Tags: Mother's Day

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