I should admit up front that every time I attempt to write a bio, I'm tempted to open in the same manner as Steve Martin did in The Jerk. However; I know that it's mostly inappropriate and not very helpful, so normally, I struggle along until I can come up with something that satisfies the need to inform without sounding like I'm stuck on myself. I call this struggle, "Dances with Arrogance". Let's begin.
I grew up in a family of artists and romantics, in an atmosphere of creativity and (sometimes) angst. My father has been, at various points in his life, a folk/bluegrass guitarist, computer programmer, and stage tech. My mother has dabbled, at various points in her life, in sewing, embroidery, poetry, bead work, tile mosaics, knitting, and choral singing before landing firmly in the fiber arts as a shibori artist. My step-father also plays guitar and writes in his spare time. My mother's half-Choctaw, half-Irish father was a barber, gardener, and bead artist, and did all of his own pow wow regalia. My father's parents were equally talented and creative: my grandfather was a journalist, photographer, researcher, and cook, who dreamed of writing the Great American Novel; my grandmother was a fashion model, painter, sculptor, taught High School English and had college degrees in Art History and French. My younger brother is a dancer/choreographer and bullshit artist extraordinaire; my middle sister can play pretty much any reed instrument she touches, and the baby sister has a love affair with fashion, makeup, and clothing.
Which brings me around to, well... me. In some circles, (as in, those who were there to witness the event) it is said that on the day of my birth, my grandfather, the erstwhile journalist, proclaimed to anyone who would listen that the perfect women had been born. Now, I don't know that I have quite obtained perfection, but the bar was set high and I've tried to live up to the expectations set out for me. I liked school, I'm kind to others, I don't lie, cheat, or steal, and I really like animals, both to cuddle and to eat. I love to cook, I love to laugh, and I love my family (or, most of them anyway).
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| 2 year old Stephie, a cane/mic, and a song in her heart |
And here's where my life took a slight jog to the complicated. See, there was this guy...
("Oh jeez!", you're probably saying to yourself, "Another one of those stories". And I say to you, "Yes, another one of those stories". Hang on though, this one has a happy ending. Eventually. I'll try to get to it quickly.)
Once upon a time, I was a girl who spent way to much time dealing with bad boyfriends. Most of them were slackers with no ambition except to score as many girls as they could, smoke as much weed as they could, and spend as much of their parents money as they could, while keeping constant tabs on where I was, what I was doing, and who I with. After a particularly nasty break-up with a particularly nasty guy, I wondered what I was doing wrong. Of course, looking back at it now, I can see that I was trying to save them from themselves, which is never, never, ever a worthwhile occupation. At the time though, the solution was simple. I needed a fellow musician and artist. I needed a guy who was on the same path as me, one who wouldn't accuse me of cheating when I holed myself up in a college practice room for hours upon hours. So I starting dating a guy who I thought would be a nice compliment to my life. He played cello, sang bass, was a math and science whiz, and came from a family who highly valued education. We were a great couple- until I got pregnant. I dropped out of school; we got married just before Miss Peach was born. Like, a week before she was born. We moved to Alabama for his schooling, and then the sh*t hit the fan. Too much angst and not enough art in the atmosphere, if you will. Granted, we were creative with our angst, but that still doesn't make it art, so we parted ways. Sturm und drang looks great on stage. In real life, not so much.
It was in this new, single-mom phase of my life that I became a fiber-holic. Miss Peach and I had moved into my father's house back in Michigan. I was digging through some old stuff in my old bedroom, when I found a box with a size 8/H crochet hook and a half used skein of bright red, hard wearing, Red Heart yarn. I reached back into my memory vaults and dredged up a fuzzy vision of my grandmother showing me how to turn the corner of a granny square. I needed to do something to keep myself from going crazy during Miss Peach's nap time, so I said to myself, why not? Why not re-teach myself to crochet? It's not like I could sing or play piano while Miss Peach was sleeping. At first, I could only make a chain. Then I would pull it out, and make it again. I spent about three days making nothing but crochet chains and frogging them. Slowly, my fingers remembered how to make a single crochet. Then a double crochet. Then came granny squares, slip-stitches, and crab stitch. Then scarves and hats and mittens, and purses and market bags. Then entire afghans and adorable little amigurumi toys. From crochet I moved to knitting, and I started making socks and lace shawls. Knitting lead to learning to spin, which quickly lead to weaving, needle felting, and tatting, both with bobbins and a needle. I now have more knitting needles and crochet hooks than I know what to do with, a spinning wheel, a growing collection of drop spindles, a 32in rigid heddle loom, a bookcase crammed with nothing but knitting magazines and books, a stash of yarns and roving that would make anyone jealous, and a Ravelry queue that I will quite likely never be able to complete.
All this has lead me to where I am today: happy, accomplished, and a satisfied feeling when I go to bed at night. I live with my F(uture) H(ubby) and Miss Peach, who's now in 7th grade, in a cheerful little apartment with hard wood floors and a patio overlooking a beautiful city park with wooded trails and a cute playground. We grill and grow herbs in the summer and at night we watch the deer wander through the park. In the winter we eat chowders and stews and casseroles, and watch old movies while we wait for the snow to break. FH writes, I sing in the choir at church and volunteer at the community theater, and almost every evening my father invites himself to dinner. Sometimes, my brother joins us. And through everything, I knit, I spin, I weave, I tat, and I enjoy myself thoroughly.
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| Miss Peach, Stephie, and F(uture) H(ubby) |
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