Crafty folks

One of our favorite destinations in Northern Minnesota is Grand Marais. Years ago we were almost involved in a project there and that's how we came to know a little about the place. We have, from time to time, lusted after some of the courses offered at the North House Folk School. (Although we recognized that aluminum and fiberglass are more practical, we've long had a soft spot in our hearts for wooden boats.) Grand Marais doesn't come close to any definition of local we're comfortable with so we were delighted to learn that a folk school has started offering courses much nearer to us.

Grand Marais harbor

Photo by J. Harrington

The Marine Mills Folk School started offering classes just last year. We're actually considering taking one or two ourselves. If we do, you'll get to read about it here. In fact, the Better Half is at a weaving class today. Since part of the purpose of the school is to "build community," and Marine on St. Croix is focused on one of our favorite parts of Minnesota, maybe we'll meet some local folks who share some of our interests. Years ago the Franconia Sculpture Park organized a book club focused on the arts. We enjoyed participating but the facilitator departed for other opportunities and not one picked up that baton. One of the issues with building community in rural parts of Minnesota in the Winter is that travel can range from difficult to dangerous. Speaking of which, we hope that we have seen the last of below zero temperatures and wind chills this year. Any bets on that?

Marine general store

Photo by J. Harrington

The Weavers

Linda Gregerson, 1950

As sometimes, in the gentler months, the sun
will return
                            before the rain has altogether
                                                       stopped and through
this lightest of curtains the curve of it shines
with a thousand
                           inclinations and so close
                                                      is the one to the
one adjacent that you cannot tell where magenta
for instance begins
                          and where the all-but-magenta
                                                      has ended and yet
you’d never mistake the blues for red, so these two,
the girl and the
                          goddess, with their earth-bred, grassfed,
                                                      kettle-dyed
wools, devised on their looms
transitions so subtle no
                          hand could trace nor eye discern
                                                      their increments,
yet the stories they told were perfectly clear.
The gods in their heaven,
                          the one proposed. The gods in
                                                      heat, said the other.
And ludicrous too, with their pinions and swansdown,
fins and hooves,
                          their shepherds’ crooks and pizzles.
                                                      Till mingling
with their darlings-for-a-day they made
a progeny so motley it
                          defied all sorting-out.
                                                      It wasn’t the boasting
brought Arachne all her sorrow
nor even
                          the knowing her craft so well.
                                                      Once true
and twice attested.
It was simply the logic she’d already
                          taught us how
                                                      to read.

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