Scars and the tales they tell

I recently acquired three Ercol red dot children's chairs. They had been bought new by a family with two sons (no-one is quite sure why three chairs for two boys) who are now men with families of their own.

Both parents have subsequently died and the sons are busy disposing of their parents' belongings. The chairs formed an integral part of their childhood memories, and the plan was the sand them down, restore them and use them in their own homes. But their own children have outgrown kiddy chairs, and with full time jobs, homes to run, families to raise and lives to lead, finding the time was proving too difficult. So they decided to sell the chairs to someone who would take the time to restore them.

That someone proved to be me.

The chairs show clear signs of having survived the childhoods of two rambunctious boys and their various friends. Presumably the grandchildren used them, too, when they went to visit. There are scratches in the wood, some of which probably deserve the word 'gouges'; the points of the various bits are chipped; they are long overdue for an oiling. Everything you would expect from a piece of furniture half a century (or so) old.

So there I stood, sandpaper in hand, with a decision to make: before I apply lashings of nourishing and preserving oil, do I sand the beautiful elm wood right down until it is blemish free and perfect...and ever so slightly differently shaped from the original? Or do I sand away the worst of the damage, to leave some of the history while removing the risk of splinters for the next little person to sit in the chairs?

I went with column B. The chairs have had their own story. I hope their stories will continue for several decades yet. I don't know how each of the scratches and chips was caused, but I do know that each one has been part of the journey. If you want a blemish-free piece of furniture, you buy a new one. If you want a piece of history, you want it have evidence of said history.

Or so I think, anyway.

It put me in mind of an incident that happened when my niece was a little girl. She was in my Mom's bedroom as my Mom was getting dressed and she asked with a gasp of pure admiration, "Granny, how did you get those pretty finsil (silver) lines on your bum?" Said niece is now a gown woman in her thirties. She almost certainly has 'pretty finsil lines' of her own, and no doubt she hates them as much as my mother hated hers back then. We're raised with the idea that we're to go through life's storms without collecting evidence of the battles we've won (or at least survived). Those stretch marks which bear evidence to the fact that we carried the next generation within ourselves for a time. Those wrinkles that declare that we have been around since before the current norm was the norm...and we're still standing.

More recently: my son was features on the front page of an ice hockey match programme for this weekend. I WhatsApped a copy to my family abroad. Both my mother and my sister - who haven't seen my son in years (such is the reality of living on different continents) remarked on the scar in the middle of my son's forehead. They remember that scar. They remember how he got it: flying at mach 1 into a doorpost. They have seen it featured in every single photograph of my son for the past 20 years and change since he acquired it. It's part of him. It's part of his story. They know how it epitomises the no-holds-barred approach my son still has to life - that he lives at full tilt, with no sense of self-preservation, and saves nothing for the swim back (if you can name the movie from which that reference is drawn, you get extra brownie points).

Vintage is in. You only need to look at an events calendar, or a TV schedule to see how sought after it is. We want things with a past, a history. We want things that look as if they have a tale to tell. Perhaps it's time to adopt the same attitude towards ourselves?

Anyhoo, before I wax too philosophical, let me end this particular anecdote with before and after pictures. The chairs have been uploaded to my Folksy shop.

Before

Sanded and oiled

The statute of limitations on new ventures

There seems to be a bit of a preconceived notion about when it is the proper time to do certain things in life: You attend school from this age to that age. You get married before X age. You started your family before Y age. You learn new hobbies or start new sports by such and such a stage of life. You stop wearing your hair long and your skirts short by this point...

But why?

Okay, I can understand the instinctive drive to procreate before a woman reaches menopause. I get that one. It's primal. Not so sure about the others, though.

Eve Fletcher

I recently saw an episode of Homes Under the Hammer where the developer who bought and transformed the property was a retiree in his 80s. There are countless stories of people in their 70s, 80s and 90s going back to university...and some even to primary school. A few days ago, a friend of mine ran her first 89km (55 mile) Comrades Marathon in the year she turns 50. There are viral videos of dancers in their 80s and 90s (example). And Bette Burke-Nash is still working as a flight attendant at 80. And Eve Fletcher was still surfing in her 80s.

So here I am, in my 50s, embarking on a new chapter in my life, and honing my skills with power tools. In 10 years' time, maybe my arthritis will have become so bad that I won't be able to do the things I can do now. So I'd best get on with it, hadn't I?

Some years ago, my mother in law and I went shopping for a pair of shoes for her to wear to a major family function. One of the several reasons for the shindig was her 75th birthday. She shied away from a lovely pair because they were rather expensive and needlessly good quality. After all, she was only going to be around for another five years or so - why go to the expense of shoes built to last any longer than that? Well, I'm here to tell you that she has outlasted those shoes. She turned 90 earlier this year. Her faithful feet more than deserved the good shoes.

I once read a meme that said "I wish I were as fat now as I was when I first thought I was fat." You might want to read that one again. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Got it?

Do you know that I spent the six years from age 16 to age 22 stuck indoors when the family went to the beach because I was 'too fat' (at a UK size 10/US size 6)? All that wasted time, for a girl who lists among her favourite sights, sounds and smells all manner of beach-related things. What an eejit!

Now I know that too fat and too old aren't quite the same thing. But they're not a million miles apart. They're both matters of perception.

Let's look at it this way: right now you think you're too old to do X thing. In ten years time you'll think, "Dammit I'm too old to do that thing now. I wish I'd started ten years ago."

So the hell with the statute of limitations. Give it a whirl. You'll never be this young again. Go. Sign up for that salsa class. Go skydiving. Learn a new language. Teach yourself to play the guitar. Have a go at being a full time artist/poet/upcycler.

Let's grow old disgracefully!

How do you know how to do that?

People sometimes ask me how it is that I know how to do so many things...or at least how I know what needs to be done, even when I can't necessarily do it myself.

I don't know.

I'm very, very inquisitive. And very, very greedy when it comes to knowledge. I want to know things. And I want to try things.

There are some things that I have learnt on purpose:

Tiling the stairs

• My Granny Norton taught me to knit and sew with a machine. 
• My Granny Snyman taught me to crochet and helped me perfect my hemming stitch. 
• My Mom taught me to cook.
• My step-dad taught me to give a car a minor service (in the days of plugs, points, condenser and oil change - don't ask me to do it now!).
• My Dad taught me to dropkick and fight with my fists. He wanted a son, what can I tell you? These days, it's perfectly acceptable for a girl to play rugby and box. Not so much in the 60s!
• My friend Catherine taught me tiling so that I could do my stairs. 

Then there are other things I sort of learnt by osmosis. I used to watch my grandfather at work in his workshop, mainly because it was made of creosoted split poles, and I loved the smell. I don't know how I absorbed as much as I did, when another person might not have done so. Maybe because I wanted to?

I have sat and chatted with workmen who come to the house to do various tasks, sometimes working with them when a second pair of hands has been needed.

But a lot of it goes back to my earlier post about just assuming that 'it can't be that difficult, surely?' I sort of tilt my head to one side and think 'if I attach a doohickey over there, and connect the hypergrolium to the hyperdinglepuffy (my Dad's favourite two words), it should work'.

Knowing how to do something for yourself is very empowering. Even supposing - for whatever reason - you don't have the time to do it yourself, or you've broken your arm and you're physically not up to the task. If you have a knowledge of what can be done, you can talk confidently to the person who will do the task for you. You can make suggestions about treatments and options, and you can call their bluff if they try to bulldust you about how difficult and/or time-consuming a task is going to be. You can make sensible suggestions about colour or finish or whatever. Even though you're not doing the work yourself, you're not at anyone's mercy.
Today I've been thinking a lot about my lovely Granny Norton. The one who taught me to knit and sew.

An old Singer: an icon

She had a Singer sewing machine. Those black and gold ones, with the wasp-like waist. If I remember correctly, hers had a foot pedal and a foldaway handcrank, so you could choose which you wanted to use. Initially, I think I used the handcrank because it was slower and gave me more control. Then I progressed to the foot pedal.

I can remember sewing all sorts of things by hand in my early childhood, but the first thing I remember making on my Gran's sewing machine was a green T-shirt dress with side pockets. I remember the challenge of working with stretchy fabric (no stretch-stitch in those days). I remember doing top stitching in white around the neck and the pockets. I remember taking the dress back to boarding school and feeling very pleased with it.

I can only think that my Gran must have been very patient with me, because I'm sure I was quite inexpert to begin with. It would have been so much easier (resisting the urge to say 'sew much easier') - not to mention quicker - to just do the work herself. If she had done so, my dress would have been prettier, there is no doubt about that. But I wouldn't have felt the same sense of accomplishment. I wouldn't have worn the dress with anywhere near as much pride.

And I probably wouldn't cock my head and think 'how hard can it be?' quite as often as I do today.

On not knowing that it can't be done

There's something to be said for a certain level of ignorance. It has certainly served me well in my life. Years ago, when I sang in a band, I didn't play an instrument, and I would want to go straight from one song into another. The instrumentalists would tell me it couldn't be done, and I'd say "Like this..." and sing what I wanted. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Nobody died.

The first piece of user-driven 'e-learning' I ever created was done using PowerPoint and a screen capture tool called SnagIt. Apparently that couldn't be done either. Except I did it. And it worked.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not describing a level of defiance here. It's not that people say a thing can't be done and that then fires me up to prove them wrong. It's that I think of something I want to do, and decide on a way to do it. Sometimes I find out before I begin the actual work that it (allegedly) can't be done. Sometimes it is only after I've done it that I find out it can't be done.  Sometimes when people tell me a thing can't be done, they're right. Sometimes I say "But what about..." and it turns out they weren't right.

I seem to have an overdeveloped 'how hard can it be' gland (perhaps it takes up the space where my schadenfreude gland is supposed to be, because those who know me will attest to the fact that I am singularly lacking in that area).

That same blithe lack of realism is found in most areas of my life. The work I do with my hands is no exception. There are so many examples of things that I didn't know couldn't be done before I did them.

Pine, rickety and in need of TLC

Today's post is about one small example of that.

I acquired a little stool from a house clearance not far from my home. It was pine. It was rickety. And it was strung with hideous green nylon twine. I know it doesn't look hideous in the photo, but trust me: it was.

First I took the twine off. I Freecycled that to a keen allotment gardener for his peas and beans.

Then I made it a little less rickety by sanding off a lot of excess of glue, previously applied for no doubt the same reason, and re-gluing it. One tip: new glue doesn't generally stick very well to old glue (does that make sense?), so if you need to re-glue something, take the old glue off first.

Then I painted the frame a lovely duck egg blue, and gave it a good waxing.

So far, I haven't mentioned anything that 'can't be done', have I? Well, here it comes...

What was I going to do about that top? I could just screw on a plank of wood. I could put a piece of wood with a cushion on top. But I liked that woven look. And how hard could it be?

How hard could it be?

I bought cotton ribbon in duck egg blue and cream. Two different designs. Then I cut lengths of it and wove a new seat for the stool. Starting in one corner and alternating between north-south and east-west. I pulled it as tight as I could and stapled it with my trusty staple gun. Then I covered the ends and staples with some calico strips, much as I do when I'm reupholstering a chair. And hey presto! A stool for teddy.

It never occurred to me to think that the width of the ribbon and the dimensions of the chair would be a mismatch...and they weren't. It worked perfectly. It was only when I put the item up on my Folksy store and Facebook page that I found out that it was tricky to do a seat like that and easy to get it wrong.

Hey Presto! A stool for teddy

I say again: there's a lot to be said for not knowing something can't be done. I'm sure there's a lot of deep philosophy that can be extrapolated from this, but it's just how I work. Perhaps I'm just in permanent denial. Don't disillusion me, will you? I seem to get more done this way.

The story of the little drawers that could

When you're making something, do you start with all the thinking and designing and drawing and then move on to the doing? Or do you start doing right away and kind of make it up as you go along? A blend of the two?

Here's how I tend to go about things. I'm going to use a specific piece as an example.

I came across a little drawer unit advertised on Freecycle. The advertiser admitted right up front that one of the drawers was jammed shut, but she thought it might be fixable. It was the fact that it was solid wood that appealed to me, so I arranged to go and collect it.

Under the wallpaper

The sorry little unit had been (badly) covered in wallpaper, but it was clearly sturdy and it had a cute shape. It had promise. I took it home and ripped the wallpaper off. What I found was what had obviously been the drawers of a desk in bygone days. It bore one of those oval shaped stamps in purple ink that appeared on the movable assets of all government departments when I was a little girl. Sadly, even though this one has been stamped more than once, none of the stamps were clear enough for me to read. The desk top having taken a different route at some point, the top of the unit was a piece of badly cut plywood.

Under the wallpaper, the unit was painted beige. And the drawers had those little wooden handles that were ubiquitous at one stage.

Exposed skeleton

I took top off and let the denuded little unit stand as it was for a while, while my subconscious mind toyed with it. Clearly, the paint had to be stripped off. If the wood underneath was good, it could be sanded and sealed and allowed to speak for itself. If not, I would repaint it.

This is going to sound really mumbo-jumbo-ish, but it's when I get hands on with the wood, that I begin to get a sense for what it should become. I'm almost inclined to say I commune with it, but that would be seriously overstating the case. I'm not into animism.

Mismatched wood

As I stripped and sanded the little unit down, it began to take shape organically. It proved to be made of a variety of woods, which I had no plans to disguise. I also opted leave just the smallest traces of the previous paint. All the drawers were in varying shades of the same colour, but with different grains. Just perfect. To make matters even better, once the wallpaper and paint had been removed, all the drawers behaved just as they were designed to do.

After sanding, with new handles

I had no plans originally to replace the drawer handles, but I could clearly picture those brass, cupped drawer handles that were on teachers' desk drawers during my early school days. I went on a hunt and wouldn't let up until I had found exactly what I was after. I had been to all the recognised DIY and hardware stores without joy. But I struck up a conversation with an elderly couple who were also looking at drawer handles in the hardware store. I told them what I was after and they assured me that they had seen exactly that at a budget store in town. I hied me there and found them exactly as described, and at a fraction of what I would have been prepared to pay!

Of course, there was still the little matter of the top. It occurred to that I still had some solid bamboo

Bamboo top

floorboards left over from when we had our lounge and hall floors done. I had already made a coffee table from some of the leftovers, but there were still a few boards knocking about. This could work. It would add yet another colour and texture to the unit. I cut them to size and attached them. Perfect.

Now...was I going to varnish, oil or wax? The feel of the wood under my hands during the sanding process had been so silky, I didn't want to lose that any more than I needed to. So I went with oil. And there you have it: the little drawer unit that could. I think it's lovely. But then I would.

Tada!

So there you have it. Some forward planning. Some subconscious stewing. Some happy accidents. Some flying by the seat of the pants. Some organic development.

The emporium

Over the past few years, I have had first hand experience of the online 'emporium' in the form of both Etsy and Folksy. Drawing traffic to an online stall within these virtual shopping precincts isn't easy. Etsy does at least have an app, making it easier for potential shoppers to find you and buy from you. Folksy has yet to be persuaded that this is a good idea, in spite of repeated calls for this option from users. But more of these virtual marketplaces another day.

Woven bead cuff

If your items are small, like jewellery or baby clothes, you're probably okay storing them within your home. If your items are larger, like sculptures or furniture, having a virtual shop front doesn't solve the physical problem of warehousing. So you are likely to need a physical space to store your products. And if you're going to pay for that space, it might as well be a space from which you can sell, too.

Emporiums (emporia?) are becoming increasingly commonplace. There are several that I know of within a 10 mile radius of my home, and probably many more that I don't know of. The way it works is this: someone buys or leases a space - the quirkier, the better. They then rent out areas within that space to individual traders. X amount will get you a display cabinet, Y amount some wall mounted shelving and Z amount will secure you an area of floor and wall space to call your own.

Upcycled coffee table

Some of these require stall holders to put in time on the shop floor on a rotational basis. The larger your stall, the more time you're expected to put in.

Modern point of sale systems allow sales from each individual stall to be tracked. There may or may not be an additional per item commission to be paid.

Of course, it is on the emporium leaseholder's best interests to keep the stalls as varied and wide ranging as possible. Three makers/sellers of crocheted doilies under one roof is probably not the best way to go. So potential stall holders have to apply for a space. It is seldom 'first come, first served'. If an applicant offers a product that is different and exciting, it will attract a wider range of customers to the emporium per se, which the leaseholder will take into account.

These spaces are in hot demand, and there are usually several potential takers for any space that comes open. This tips the scales quite heavily in favour of the emporium owner, and allows them to pick and choose from among applicants to ensure that they get a wide range, minimal duplications and a harmonious blend. They may also choose not to stock a certain type of item based on a historical lack of customer interest in that type of product.

The rent paid for these spaces cover the overheads of the space itself and are used for promotion and advertising. It is, of course, also up to each stallholder to do their own advertising. The upside of keeping your pieces at home is that there are no additional overheads. Once you start renting a space to put them in, you need to make sure you're going to sell enough to earn that money back. You also need to factor in the time you're going to have to spend minding the store instead of making new products.

Because many of the items I produce are fairly sizable, I have been on the lookout for a physical space in which to store and sell my wares. I have approached a few of these emporiums, but have yet to be successful in securing a space. On one occasion, I was under the impression that we had agreed that I could have a space, only to discover that the emporium owner was under no such impression. On another occasion, the person I spoke to was so rude that I left feeling utterly crestfallen. Mostly, people are very kind and polite, but it doesn't change the fact that there are more applicants than spaces.

As the upcycling/re-use market grows, there will be more and more people like me, making stuff in their home workshops or studios. And presumably, there will be more and more emporiums being opened up to house them all.

So this is me, giving a shout out for your local emporium, populated by individuals who are making, remaking, upcycling or recycling pieces. They aren't likely to get rich off it, but their ethos is probably a lot better for the planet and the local economy than the behemoth mass production outlet in the posher premises. Can I challenge you to do more of your shopping there, and less from the mega-chains?

The joys and woes of Freecycling

I love Freecycling, it has to be said. I am an active member of a few of my local groups. I have 'won' quite a few items, and supplied just as many in my turn. I have had less luck with my own 'items wanted' posts, sadly, but them's the breaks.

This post is about my experiences: the ups and the downs.

If you have something that still has life in it, but is of no further use to, Freecycling is a great way to make sure it doesn't wind up in a landfill, but goes on to become part of someone else's story.

When you advertise an item free of charge to anyone who is prepared to come and collect it, most of the time, you will be deluged with responses. Some sites (like Freegle) ask responders to say why they want and item and what they plan to do with it. They ask advertisers to give a little time for responses to come in, and to choose someone based on...merit? Not sure that's the right word, but you get my drift.

Most of the time, though, you will offer the item to the first person to ask for it. This can mean that, in the rush to be the first responder, people may forgo pleasantries. Responses can amount to the word 'yes' followed by a phone number. I make a conscious effort to be polite and friendly. After all, this person is offering to give me something for nothing. The least I can do is be pleasant about it. This has stood me in good stead on at least one occasion: one advertiser found my response such a refreshing change that he now contacts me first to see if I want an item before he places the ad.

Once you have notified the person who is to have your item, you will of course, supply your address and agree a date and time for pickup. Mostly, people are accommodating and reasonable. But occasionally one will, well... 'take the piss' is the expression that springs most readily to mind. They might ask you to hold the item for several weeks. In those cases, I usually move on to the next person. I don't have the space to provide warehousing.

The most negative aspect of Freecycling is the incidence of no-shows. There is a tendency to undervalue things that come for free, and - often enough to drive some people away from the practice - people simply don't pitch. The worst case was when I had scheduled three pickups back to back on a Saturday afternoon and none of them showed. To be fair, one of them did contact me to reschedule. On another occasion, the person failed to show, so I scheduled a pickup with the next responder who also failed to show. It can be like that.

It can also be a bit hit and miss from the other side, too. The items that people give away are sometimes not worth keeping, but that's a chance you take. I recently went to collect an item that the advertiser referred to as 'solid'. I wrote a bit about that recently. But there are some finds out there, too. Not necessarily always valuable in monetary terms, but potentially useful as a part of your story for a while.

Another place I tend to hang out is the reuse shop attached to our local recycling depot. I picked up a workbench there for £3. Possibly the best £3 I ever spent! If that thing collapsed tomorrow, it would owe me a thing. I use it every day. Every. Day!

So may I encourage you to get involved? Yes, there will be some negative experiences, but it's got to be worth it, right? For the craic? For the community? The planet?