A second Weaving in the Navajo tradition

 In April, 2024, I started my second weaving project. This time I went with a larger size 24 inches by 38 inches. Two feet wide is about as wide as the tools and the loom I have can manage.

I finished the new rug on July 15th. I had a hard time controlling the width (too wide in the middle) and the length is off as well. Color changes proved to be a problem in the early stages but the second half looks clean. Over all I am pleased with the way the design came out. May think about a new project when the weather gets cooler. Please understand that what I am doing is not "Navajo Weaving" since I am not Navajo or Diné. I just weave using the Navajo technique.

Working at the loom.

Mostly done, June.

Finished. Ready to come out of the loom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Small Weaving

Sadie Curtis working the big loom at Hubbell's Trading Post in Ganado, 1979

Between 1978 and 1980, my family and I lived in Ganado, Arizona—in the heart of the Navajo Indian Reservation (Diné Nation). I worked as a librarian at the College of Ganado. In the spring of 1980, my wife took a course at the college in Navajo weaving. 

Building a loom

 I built her a loom and she wove a small Ganado-style rug approximately three feet by two feet. We bought a lot of yarn, including hand-spun warp. Linda roamed the hills gathering local plants

Linda gathering juniper berries for dye

and she dyed white yarn to have a sampling of vegetable-dyed colors as well as greys, black, white and red.

Linda at the loom, 1980

All this got put on hold when we left Ganado and moved east for a new position in July 1980. 

 

Tapping in weft.

Fitting in the last rows of weft.

Linda's finished rug. Simple, but beautifully woven.

Still, we never threw any wool or tools away. This past winter, as I became active in the Navajo rugs Facebook discussion group, I recalled the loom we still had stored in a barn and the many yarns stored in a box and flour sack.

 

 

 

Weaving tools brought from Arizona and saved for 44 years.

Yarns saved, some with labels indicating the plants used for dyes.

 I hate to have anything go to waste. I decided to make a weaving of my own. We brought the loom up to our house and framed a small rug approximately 13 by 23 inches. I wanted to start small. I also decided that a small effort would allow the use of the vegetable-dyed yarns that we had small samples of. I began weaving in early January and confined my efforts to two hours each morning when the sun shone best on the loom and my eyesight was fresh. I had a rough design worked out in my mind and on graph paper, but nothing turned out as I thought. I found that weaving on a small scale is probably as hard or harder than working on a larger piece. 

 

Warping the loom

Warping in place.

Tying in the edges.

First few rows of weft in place.

I found that maintaining straight lines was harder than I thought.

The loom all ready for weft.

I knew it would not be easy, but every step proved harder than I thought it would be. I cannot remember how many times I had to backtrack, take out and redo lines of weft to correct mistakes.

Ready to come out of the loom

The finished rug. Raven and Turtle

I now marvel at how perfect Linda’s first effort turned out with smooth, flawless lines and how crude, rough and strange my own rug came out. But I learned a lot. The greatest wisdom might be knowing that weaving is just as hard or harder than I thought. My respect and admiration for the weavers who create beautiful tapestries of wool has grown even more. In a another few weeks when my back and shoulder have fully recovered, I might be ready to try again. This time it will be a wee bit larger, the design will be worked out in advance but I will still take my time. I am 78, but why not learn a new skill and practice a new hobby—at least until the yarn runs out?

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New novel coming next month.

 

Available September 2021

Wes' newest novel:

 

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Eugene Highlanders in competition 1982

 Back in 1977 while studying for my masters in librarianship, I discovered the local bagpipe band, the Eugene Highlanders. Here was a chance to fulfill a lifelong dream. I had started studying the pipes back in 1963 as a freshman in college, but let the opportunity go. I would not give up on this second chance. I took lessons with the Pipe Major, Hector Smith, a Canadian-born lawyer who gave lessons for free if you joined the band. It was a wonderful experience and gave me a solid foundation that I used to build a musical career, first as a soloist, then Pipe Sergeant with the Cairngorm Pipe Band, then as Pipe Major for the Hawk Mountain Highlanders, a position I hold to this day.

    Hector was patient, careful and always ready to help. I kept in touch with him for many years. In 1982, while working as a naturalist at Olympic National Park, I had an opportunity to attend the Portland Games and watch and record the Eugene Highlanders in competition. I do not remember how they did, but they sounded and looked sharp.

Hector Smith, Pipe Major

Band warming up.

Hector listening to pipes while Pipe Sergeant tunes.

Playing in the competition circle.

March off after competing. The young woman in the center is Maggie Thorpe (maiden name). She was a student of Hector's at the same time I was, and we got to know each other pretty well. I doubt any pipe band uses that small a bass drum anymore.

Political coins for our times

As we live through current events, perhaps a look back at previous tremendous times might give some sense of balance. Andrew Jackson is today a controversial figure in American history, but he was popular during his presidency—only to have his fiscal policies turn to economic disaster during the administration of his hand-picked successor, Martin Van Buren. Political coins were popular tokens during the early 19th Century. Here we have two such “coins.” In size and copper makeup, they are like the United States large cent of that period (which in turn was modeled after the British penny). The date of these tokens is not certain, but the clearly relate to the Jackson and Van Buren administrations, and the one date of 1837 suggests that they were minted in response to the Panic of 1837—the worst economic crisis the United States would face until the Great Depression of the 1930s. 

 

 In the first picture we see the two tokens placed with a 1846 one cent piece for scale. Below is a closeup of the obverse of the two tokens and below the reverse of the same tokens. 

 

 To the left we see an image of Jackson, sword in one hand, money bag in the other emerging from a treasure chest. The inscription reads: “I TAKE THE RESPONSIBILITY.” The reverse shows the Jacksonian donkey or Jackass (still the symbol of the Democratic Party) with the text: “THE CONSTITUTION AS I UNDERSTAND IT,” with “ROMAN FIRMNESS and “VETO” above and below the donkey. The donkey’s body once had letters, but only a ‘D’ remains. [Jackson was the first president to actively use the veto power.] 

 

To the right we see a turtle with a money box on its back labeled “FISCAL AGENT.” The words “EXECUTIVE EXPERIMENT” and the date 1837 complete the lettering except for a label on the money box which might read “SUB TREASURY.” On the reverse of this token, the Jacksonian donkey again appears, this time running, with the motto, “I FOLLOW IN THE STEPS OF MY ILLUSTRIOUS PREDECESSOR”: an obvious reference to Van Buren’s sticking to Jackson’s fiscal policies. 

Yes, the donkey or jackass as a symbol of the Democratic Party dates back before Thomas Nast, and yes, what happened then led to the formation of modern American political parties. Back then, people didn’t put sign in their yards, they carried around tokens instead, which they gave away or even used as money.

Dad in the war

A salute to my father on Father’s Day.
I’ve read a bit recently of “Antifa” as if it is a scary, dangerous term. But I believe that it stands for “Anti-fascist.” Aren’t fascists what we fought a huge war to rid our world of? If “fascist” means dictatorships that led to millions of deaths of innocent people, then I’m an Antifa.
My father fought in World War II to rid this world of fascist governments. He was an officer in the anti-tank battalion attached to the 10th Mountain Division—the best-educated, highly-trained and one of the most effective combat units the US army ever fielded. Three pictures from his service:
The portrait of my dad was taken in Italy where he fought. The mustache disappeared the moment he got home and my mother took one look and said “shave it off.”
The second picture has an interesting history. Immediately after the successful night-time assault on Riva Ridge, members of the 10th put together an aerial tramway to quickly haul supplies and ammo up the mountain and evacuate wounded. My father was in charge of the low end. He appears in this picture on the far right without a helmet. A couple of reporters/photographers approached my father and asked if they could hitch a ride up the tramway to get to the front. Dad refused them permission since the upward flow of ammo and supplies at that point was critical. So the press guys were stuck taking this picture of the bottom end of the tramway. This photograph appeared in the December 8th, 1945 issue of the Saturday Evening Post in an article on the 10th that helped make the division famous.
The last picture is my father’s medals:
European/North Africa theater with two battle stars (North Apennines and Po Valley), World War II Victory medal and the Bronze Star—not easy to get back in those days. But the badge Dad wore with pride is the Combat Infantry Badge at top.

Please remember those who fought—many who did not come home—to save our country and the world from selfish, psychopathic men and their followers.