PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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19 Apr 2015

Community Service: It’s About Time

by Mary | posted in: D.C., Family, Rant | 2

A couple months ago, I was profoundly annoyed with myself. Oh, I’ve been annoyed with myself plenty since then, but this was a big one.

For a long time, I’ve had this stock comment that I share in the course of small talk about extreme weather. Say it’s blisteringly hot or dangerously cold and I’m in a taxicab and the driver and I are lamenting about how very, very bad it is outside. I frequently would share that I worried about the elderly in extreme weather like this.

I was 100% sincere. When it’s in the upper nineties or higher, when it’s negative anything, I am genuinely concerned about the eldest among us because they are vulnerable in temperatures like those. They’re often shut into their homes for long stretches because of weather that bad. Cupboards and fridges go bare; medication runs out. And if the heating or cooling system breaks, old folks can die in their homes from the weather. In America.

But what exactly, Ms. Fons, is the use of making your concern and your feelings known to a cabdriver? This, I realized with a cosmic smack, is worse than pointless. I decided that if I made that comment one more time in my life without doing something about it, I couldn’t live with myself. And I meant it.

I’ve signed up to volunteer with an organization in DC called “We Are Family.” They visit seniors, take groceries to them, check in on them in inclement weather; stuff like that. My first volunteer experience with them will be next Saturday for a grocery delivery; the Saturday after that, I’ll go on some visits. I am profoundly glad I’m going to be home for awhile so I can do this. I’ve been excited to get started but of course haven’t been home.

Old people used to terrify me. While in the process of ruining his life, my father worked at a particularly depressing, shabby nursing home in Winterset and made us visit his “friends” at that terrible place. Going to a nursing home is traumatic for any person I’ve ever met who went to one as a kid. They’re startling, confusing places for children. When Alzheimers patients scream babble to no one — or to the child directly — they’re pure nightmare.

But I’m over it. We’re all temporarily young. And I’ma say it: our culture seems to be awfully good at putting our elderly out to pasture. I’m finding it increasingly untenable that this is the case. How have I only now realized that there is a universe of solid advice and great stories via people who have so been there? I just have to ask. And can you imagine being old and lonesome, just watching TV all day while that advice and those stories get dustier and dustier, utterly unused? Nightmare, indeed.

Yo, Fons! Less blithe, passing commentary; more fix.

18 Apr 2015

Bad Day! No!

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Quilting | 0

I know, little dude. Photo: Wikipedia, 2007.

Yesterday was not a good day. It finished well, but it got off to a terrible start.

The terrible day began the night before, which seems unfair. I can share the following detail because a) I cannot remember the last time I did what I did and b) it’s pertinent to my tale of woe:

I was extremely hungover when I woke up. Why was I hungover? Because I was on a painfully lousy date the night before and it was so very, very lousy, I had two Sidecars and then basically chugged a snifter of armagnac. I also attribute my wild behavior to needing some kind of release after taping 40 shows in nine days: 27 Quilty, 13 Love of Quilting. Whatever the reasons, that is far, far too much liquor for me and probably anyone except Frank Sinatra. And in case you’re not aware, armagnac — which for our purposes here it’s essentially cognac — is not to be swilled. It’s a beautiful thing, a strong treat after dinner that is best shared (slowly) with another person over dessert. Part of the pleasantness of cognac or armagnac is that it’s served in a snifter, a footed glass with a wide bowl so that your hands warm the liquor as you take small sips. Did I warm my armagnac? No. Did I share it? No. This was foolish, but sometimes a girl just is and that’s that.

When I woke up, I woke up at four in the morning. I drink rarely because I can’t sleep for poop when I do. It’s not worth it. But my eyes blinked open and I felt wide awake and super grody. When was the last time I was hungover? For the life of me, I can’t remember.

Then, I looked at my bank balance. Not so great. Then I made blueberry paleo bread and it tasted amazing but was so raw in the middle, it was soup. Then I realized I forgot to pay rent this month because I have not been home in two weeks. Then I felt disturbed and scared about a pain that has developed in my abdomen around my ostomy scars. Then I did something that will make all the quilters in the audience gasp and possibly cry. I know I did both.

I washed my favorite quilt, “Whisper,” which is all-white. I neglected to take the hanging sleeve off the back. The hanging sleeve was attached by someone at a show where the quilt was on display and it was made with a multi-colored marbled fabric. The sleeve was not at all colorfast. And my beautiful quilt is now pink.

I know.

Not all of it. The top fourth. I wept. I crossed my arms, dropped my head, and cried. Pardon my French, but goddamnit. I travel this country and advise quilters about how to properly wash quilts. As the former editor of a quilt magazine and the host of several how-to quilting shows, I know, should know, how to properly wash a quilt, and I do. But I overlooked the sleeve. And now “Whisper” is kinda sorta ruined. The good news is that it’s immortalized in my book and will still keep a person warm. Maybe I’ll offer it for sale, on sale.*

We all make mistakes. We all have depressing dinners. We all take too much punch from time to time. And we take punches. I am well aware that my bad day could’ve been far, far worse (e.g., receiving a shattering diagnosis, receiving a life-altering phone call, etc.) but when I saw those pink patches and my head was throbbing, I didn’t feel wise. I felt like the dog’s breakfast.

Today is better.

*The price of Hey, Blue is $1100.

16 Apr 2015

Feelin’ Muse-y.

by Mary | posted in: Art | 0

Slackers!! Four Muses, by Francois Lemoyne, 18th cent.)

Poetry has been kind to me lately. Actually, it’s more than that: poetry has been texting me, taking me out to dinner, and smooching me at my front door. I’m pretty sure this means we’re dating. Whee!

The muse is a beautiful concept. Here’s the scoop: In Greek and Roman mythology, the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (I can’t pronounce it, either) presided over the arts and sciences, giving inspiration to those who were making the stuff. Just perusing the muses’ names and occupations, as it were, is poetic: Clio was muse to history keepers; Polyhymnia took care of hymn writers; Terpsichore handled choral dancing and song, and so on.

I owe Erato and Thalia because they inspire lyric poetry. I guess that’s what I write, though it sounds pretty fancy. I’d thank Calliope because she was a poetry muse, too, but Calliope visited the poets who wrote epics. So far, epic poetry is not my jam.

But it’s been incredible being visited by the muse(s) over these months. I always love poetry, but it’s not always so…close. I’m reading it, memorizing long pieces from Longfellow to Smith, grabbing Shakespeare bits here and there. And I’m copying all these poems down longhand. You know how painting students will copy a Picasso or a Cezanne to more fully understand the method and the genius of the artist? It’s just the same for poetry: copying a James Dickey, a Larkin, a Tennyson — other than memorization and recitation, copying a poem on paper is the best way to get your head around the beauty of it.

I’m not just studying, though. I’m writing, too. I’m in the zone, man! Naturally, a fair chunk of what I first put down is absolute garbage but there’s some stuff that I’m rather proud of. I’m so thankful that I’m in whatever phase I’m in; the muses are known to slip away as they come.

15 Apr 2015

Attack!

by Mary | posted in: D.C., Day In The Life, Family | 0

It all looks so civilized. (Photo: Wikipedia.)

Iowa, you rascal!

My heart was gripped with fear the other day when I woke up with a scratchy throat and a sniffle. As of tomorrow, I will have been gone from my home for two full weeks — impossible, all the things that I have done since leaving* — and to falter in the homestretch with a cold (or something worse) is not an option.

But then I sneezed nine times in a row and I realized with a rueful look to no one at all: allergies.

I don’t have seasonal allergies anymore, for the most part. I have lived a city since 2001 and in a city, the beauty of nature is stamped out and destroyed by the fumes of cars, the steam that rises from the subway, and the crushed glass of millions of shattered dreams that carpets the cold, hard cement. Pollen doesn’t stand a chance and that’s been fine by me for years.

Because when my sisters and I were kids, good grief did we suffer. Ragweed is Iowa’s kudzu: stand still for a moment and you will be covered in microscopic beads of death. The wretched stuff — which doesn’t even have the class to originate in a lovely flower but in a weed — would snake its way into our mucous membranes and ruin us and this always happened when school started for the year. My nerdy sisters and I would be so excited for school and then we’d remember that we were social pariahs who had to carry a box of Kleenex with us at all times. Really, we all had boxes of Kleenex that we carried with us to all our classes or put in our desks.

Itchy. Runny. Sneezy. You could’ve called us by those names and we would’ve answered you. My sister Rebecca actually wadded up little wicks of Kleenex to stick up her nostrils. She didn’t do that at school but the moment she got home, up the nose they went to staunch the flow. (She still uses that method when she has a runny nose for whatever reason.) We were miserable. And I try to ignore the nagging resentment I have that no one thought to take us girls to a freaking allergist or at least try some weird home remedy that might relieve our pain. I can still remember the raw, stinging feeling when I’d blow my nose for the 10,000th time, tissue on red, raw skin and then, insultingly, a sneeze attack.

Allergies, you can flirt with me. Go ahead. I’m heading home tomorrow and I’ll return to Washington where ragweed ain’t even a thing. I’m not allergic to cherry blossoms, neither. Take that.

*Filmed 27 episodes of Quilty, performed poetry in front of lots of people, filmed 13 episodes of Love of Quilting, saw Yuri. Went on a date. Wrote things. Played rope toy with Mom’s dog, Scrabble.

12 Apr 2015

Quilts For Sale: Hey Blue

by Mary | posted in: Quilting | 0

I’ve decided to sell a few quilts from my large and ever-growing collection.

I make a lot of quilts. Many of them are for publication in magazines or books; many others are given to loved ones. There are certain quilts that are particularly important to me that I will keep for myself, but there is a growing number that I think might give other people happiness — and hey man, I gotta earn a living. So over the next few weeks/months, I’m going to offer a few quilts for sale.

This quilt is the first up on offer. It’s called “Hey, Blue” and it was pieced entirely by me in downtown Chicago in 2014. The block used (which measures 11 1/2”) is called “Butterfly at the Crossroads” and there are twenty of these blocks in total. The quilt is throw-size, measuring 66 x 75 1/2”.

The blocks are all made from scrappy blues; the background a consistent, real sweet modern shirting print. The back features a big swath of a Provencal white-and-blue floral, paired with a swath of a cheery orange and white modern floral print from Michael Miller, a lovely contrast when a bit peeks out from behind the top. The quilting was done on a longarm by professional longarmer LuAnn Downs and was featured in Quilty magazine in the Sep/Oct ’14 issue.

The price of the quilt is $1300 + the cost of insured shipping via FedEx. If you’re interested in purchasing this quilt, email me at mary (at) maryfons (dot) com. The first person to pipe up gets the sale. You can mail a check or we can do it via PayPal, then I’ll send along your new blankie.

If you’re interested in purchasing a quilt but miss this one, just keep reading. I have a lot of (rather lovely, I’d like to think) quilts and plan to cull the numbers until I can more freely move around my apartment.

Thanks, ya shopaholic!

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