F is for Felt

I am guilty of being a willing participant in the upcycling repurposing trend.  Don’t judge me; It’s not like I’m pickling asparagus and trying to get you to buy them. 

I transform sweaters into blankets, among other things.  This weekend the sweaters I found at goodwill and a thrift store were felted, cut, sewn and repurposed into two soft iPad mini envelope covers for my son and I.  They’re awesome. 

I have made a couple full sized blankets and I’m working on another.  My son is certain I could crank out enough iPad mini covers to pay off the mortgage with my hefty etsy earnings.  

(note to self: keep receipts, craft a budget, look into what it takes to start an etsy business, calculate the shipping on a blanket, oooo sketch out budget ledger cover idea…)

I made the sweater blanket that's on my bed – there was no plan or pattern, I just kept experimenting and then added a border.  

The beauty of repurposed sweaters is they are so soft and warm, the palate is whatever you’ve found over the months of scouring the second hand stores, and each one is totally unique.  Plus they have a history, which is nice.

Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.

ok, this one was a quilt pattern. sue me.

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Joe Clarke

My middle child is all metal.  He is a rock god.  He’s twelve. This past winter, during his second week of cotillion he learned the fox trot.  He’s quick to point out that foxes don’t trot, in case you’re curious.  Cotillion teaches formal dance steps and social etiquette that my kids can’t possibly learn at home.  I was a non Cotillion kid when I was in middle school, mostly because my mother was in her rejection of the establishment phase circa 1976.  Of course it was all the other kids talked about at school the next day – the horror of dancing together in fancy clothes.  But they were grinning like idiots and I knew I was missing out. 

My guy who lives in his black Slayer t-shirt and baggy black jeans with ringlets down to his shoulders cleans up good for cotillion. He had been planning his cotillion attire for two years, since his older brother was forced to attend.  His attitude was much more enthusiastic, provided that I allowed him to wear a camoflage tux with a top hat. Sadly, we never found one. In a navy blazer and khakis he’s still all metal.  A rock god.  James Hetfield in a suit is still James Hetfield. 

That night they learned the art of proper introduction.  When changing dance partners, one introduces themselves, first and last name.  The instructor gave an example:  “rather than ‘I’m Joe’ say instead ‘I’m Joe Clarke’.”  Each time he changed dance partners and was paired with a girl from his school, my son introduced himself, “I’m Joe Clark”.   Bingo.  The girls laughed.  There’s more to cotillion than the fox trot.  Cotillion rocks. 

Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.

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