poem

Painting by Joan Polishook

Left Behind

by Joan Polishook The old road looms before me A steep trail Telling its own story Reminder of youth’s vigor Easily climbing the hill Hiking three miles beyond Today Driving past the old cemetery Tilted terrain Weathered stones

Then the pond Where a duck once swam And a dog barked Rustic log cabin Belonging once To someone famous

A former boarding house Shabby In its state of disrepair Next

Sloping sun drenched field Autumn’s faded grass cut low Strangely unfamiliar Slowing down Looking for a white clapboard house With the front porch Facing the road Where I often sat On an August afternoon Sipping lemonade with friends Gone

Not a trace House shed apple tree mailbox Ghosts living in my inner sight Memories mine

’Round the next bend The pink house is painted grey There is no flower garden The years have not been kind to the old road Desolate dwellings Crying out for attention A forlorn landscape I opt not to go on … The tick of the clock Has tarnished the sheen Of fond memories For a hamlet in the mountains

The old road Once familiar

Left behind

Parallel Threads That Parallel My Life

Daryl Lancaster

Most of my peers are now reaching retirement age, moving to warmer climates, and showing photos of life on the beach. I’m an artist. Artists never retire. They just keep reinventing themselves. I have a studio in my home, and it beckons me every day.

As I look back on my life as an artist or fine craftsman— though the words have different meanings, both terms are appropriate in my case—I have nothing but gratitude that life has allowed me to be curious and productive and proud of what I’ve accomplished. Life has blessed me with the ability to share what I know through teaching and now the use of digital platforms.

I graduated from Montclair State University in 1977 with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts, and a concentration in Textiles. Fine Arts, in academia, teaches you primarily to see the world in a way that’s different from most other disciplines. I had training in all of the traditional mediums, painting, drawing, etc., but I knew I was home when I discovered the weaving/textile program. That was a long time ago. I already spoke the language of threads; my mother was an expert with a sewing machine and had taught me early. to sell at craft fairs. I traveled all over the East Coast selling my heart out, learning how to work with clients and run a business.

Eventually, I discovered that teaching empowered students to create from their own hands, and I reinvented myself as an educator, instead of a production craftswoman. I spent 30 years traveling around North America, teaching at craft centers, guilds, and conferences, and I loved the moment when a student stood in front of the mirror with a garment they had just created and saw the pride in what they had accomplished. “No, I won’t make it for you, I will teach you how….” became my motto in life.

The ability to create something with your hands is an incredible gift. Whether it is tangible, such as a pot or a garment or a painting, or whether it is in the form of words or sound as in music, that ability is one of the greatest experiences as a human being. To be able to stand back and look, listen, read, or experience the results of the perfect blending of mind and hands has kept me going through the darkest of times.

And there have been dark times; no one gets through life without them. Twenty years ago, I had a mastectomy for breast cancer, and five years ago, I sat with my husband of

Wildfires, Vibration & Frosted Florals Dress Left to right: nearly 40 years as he died from esophageal cancer. Through all of it, and even during the pandemic this past year, my hands stayed busy, and my mind stayed creative. There were days that just sorting buttons was all I was capable of, but the ability to look at life through a creative lens, training from college, was what kept me going. I did my best work under the worst circumstances.

Though I use many different techniques within the Fiber Arts umbrella—felting, stitching, lacemaking, spinning, knitting, dyeing, surface design, basket techniques, and weaving—garment construction still is and has always been my area of focus. The garment is such an integral part of how we define ourselves each morning when we dress, and even when we don’t, as happened during the months of lockdown.

There is something rich in metaphors about the garment. It can mask or celebrate or camouflage or protect who we are inside, and there is a front and back to the garment, which are never viewed at the same time. The garment becomes alive when worn and changes as we move and navigate the world around us. And if that weren’t enough, garments have a secret inside that no one sees unless we remove the garment. The lining or interior of the garment is for us to know, and I can’t think of a better metaphor for life.

Garment-making is part creativity, part engineering, and part technical skill. Each garment I make is a challenge and a grand adventure. Making the materials work (and for me in most cases that would be handwoven cloth, often from hand-dyed yarns) is something that keeps me awake at night and passionately focused during my early morning walks. “How can I make this work?” is a constant thread running through my creative brain.

About 20 years ago, I was asked to write for a publication that focused on the weaving community. I discovered that I could be just as creative and empowering through words as some of the work I was making. I’ve written more than 100 articles at this point in my life, both printed and in digital form. I’m grateful for all those early teachings of sentence structure and grammar, and I’m also grateful that I have a passionate skill that people are interested in reading about. I’ve been blogging for more than twelve years now and have amassed a content of

A side part of creative writing and journaling is coming up with creative names for the garments I produce, none of which I sell. They are all grand journeys of mine and are made to fit me. I no longer produce garments to fit others; I teach them to do it themselves.

The names of my garments come from current events, such as Forest Fire or Wild Fires, or references to what surrounds me in nature, including Frosted Florals, Pacific Sunset, Winter Landscape, or Butterfly. And sometimes the titles just describe the technique that defined the joy in the piece, such as Felt Collared Jacket, not terribly original but accurate.

One of the many venues where I taught over the years was Peters Valley School of Craft. As early as the mid-1980s, I was a fixture in the weaving program there, teaching, exhibiting, and even serving for a couple of years on the Board of Directors. Having a nationally known and respected craft school within commuting distance of where I live is such a gift, and I’ve been a staunch supporter since I first discovered the Valley when I was still in college.

It is not lost on me that as I move on from traveling to teaching to other creative outlets, my last in-person class was at the beginning of August in the newly renovated and refurbished weaving studio up at Thunder Mountain on the Peters Valley campus. I feel like an important part of my creative journey began as an exhibiting craftsman in their annual craft fair in the early 1980s and drew to a close with one final in-person class.

I’ve won many many awards in my creative life, but those oddly enough don’t define me. It is always a surprise when I win a ribbon for my work, and it was really a surprise when I received a standing ovation for a keynote address I gave at a conference in the Midwest a few years ago. Awards are mostly one person’s preference on a specific day. Rather it

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is the personal triumph of mind and hands over technique and materials that keeps me moving forward creatively, not the potential for a ribbon.

And now, having made the decision to stop traveling and teaching on the road and, instead, to encourage students to come to me, I look inward at the time I have left in this world to keep exploring new ways to use my equipment and my skills. My daughter, an outstanding weaver in her own right, has helped me develop a YouTube channel, The Weaver Sews, where I can reach a more global community and share what I’ve learned about creating garments from handwoven fabric. And she helped me develop all of the garment patterns I use for my workshops into digital downloads that allow a global audience to create their own handwoven adventures. pointed me to what I really wanted to be doing—to take the materials at hand and see what kind of journey we can take together. I wish for everyone who reads this article to have some sort of passion that gets you out of bed in the morning and keeps you curious and busy in thought throughout the day.

There are all levels of classes in all mediums taught at Peters Valley, and with the pandemic there is now the ability to learn online through many many venues. I’ve heard lectures and taken workshops just in the last three months at four different online venues, without leaving my house. We are in a new and changing world, scary at times, but through all of that change, there is one constant, my ability to create with my hands. ......................................................................................... To learn more, see Daryl Lancaster’s blog at www.weaversew. com/wordblog or visit www.Daryllancaster.com.

A Springhouse in Town

When I was a young boy, I spent a lot of time listening to stories that my grand- parents would tell of local history and the folks that made it. They also taught me the importance of sharing that history so that it lives on for generations. I would like to share some of that history with you.

In the earliest times of American history, most settlers were looking for fertile land on which to build a home and grow crops to provide fodder for their livestock. Forests supplied wood for fencing and for all phases of home construction. Settlers heated their homes with wood, as well. Plus, there was always a need for a perpetual source of fresh water, and there was no better source of water than a natural spring. In most cases, that would be the determining factor on whether and where to settle. Locating a spring felt like a gift from above for many of those settlers.

In order to keep the spring clear from meandering livestock, leaves, and natural debris, a structure would be built over it. Mother Earth provided the water, and everything needed to build a springhouse. Settlers who made their way westward would find springhouses all across the land. Sussex County, New Jersey, was no exception, with these structures dotting much of the landscape.

For the most part, oblong or square seemed to be the most common shape of springhouses, but due to topography, other configurations may have been required. One source of suitable construction material, readily available in Sussex County, was field stone. This, mixed with rubble stone and a mortar mix of lime, water, and screened gravel would serve as sufficient wall material to enclose the spring and keep it free of foreign matter. The roof, in most cases, was built with wooden shakes—cedar wood, when available, was used because it was so durable. or rock and mortar, and would extend at least four inches above the floor. A channel at least two feet wide seemed to be the norm.

A floor of sufficient material was carefully installed; in many cases the floor was well-tamped gravel or flat rock that was mortared into place.

After the walls were built, an alcove or shelf would be made. Here, the communal old tin cup ladle would be kept so that all could enjoy a sip of the spring water—the ever-present elixir of life.

The alcove also made an ideal spot to store firkin downed butter. What is firkin downed butter you may ask? Firkin downed butter was an expression I heard many times living with my grandparents during World War II, and it was shared by many people of their age.

A firkin is a small crock that was used to store homemade churned butter, which would then be kept in a cool place, such as a root cellar or spring house, to keep it from going rancid. Thus, the butter was put into a firkin, and the firkin was placed down in a cold spot. All this, before electric refrigerators, of course.

Spring water, on some of the hottest days of the summer, remained at a temperature of about 50 degrees or below. Since the rock walls would absorb the moisture and coldness, baskets of fruit, vegetables, and eggs could be stored in the springhouse, and meats would be hung. Thus, all stayed preserved.

On a day of sweltering heat and hard labor, I imagine that there was nothing like reaching into the spring water and pulling up a well corked jug of homemade hard cider or dandelion wine, sitting back, and enjoying a few pulls on that old jug.

Springhouses not only serviced household needs, but also provided for the health and well-being of all livestock on the property. Settlers would direct water from the spillway of the springhouse to a small stream or a manmade watering hole for their animals to drink from.

Many townships in Sussex County had their fair share of springhouses. One that comes to mind was located on the Mary Smith Farm, which later would be known as the Campbell Farm, located in Branchville. This tract of land was quite large, with many acres of fields on both sides of Fox Hill Road and beyond. It was part of the 1801 property owned by a Mr. John Dalrymple, which originally contained 88.14 acres, many years before Branchville was incorporated.

The large barn on the Campbell Farm and the spring house built there were located approximately eight hundred feet from that little wisp of a village that sat to the west. That little wisp, one half mile square, would, in 1898, sprout the name of Branchville, after splitting from Frankford Township and becoming incorporated.

The springhouse fell within Branchville’s limits, so the borough could brag of having its own springhouse!

Today, all of the Ruggiero property and part of the old Culver and VanAuken garage properties are sitting on Mary Smith’s farm acreage. The specific location of her barn was on the property where Montague Tool Company is presently located. From there, walk across Broad Street (County Route 630), and go down the slope. The springhouse sat in the triangular area between Broad Street and Lloyd Avenue, just before the Dry Brook Bridge.

Back at the farm—after the afternoon’s milking, cans of fresh milk would be lowered into the cold channeled spring water for safe keeping. The following morning, after milking time, all cans of milk would be delivered to Borden’s Creamery just a few hundred yards away.

Brothers Percy and Wilber Campbell would be the last operators of the farm. Come along to the mid-forties or thereabouts, the Campbell brothers gave up farming. All property was to be sold, including the small triangular area on which the springhouse sat. There was a general concern about what lay in store for the ancient edifice that had quietly served so many generations.

This concern was not taken lightly by resident Jessie Grant Roe, who made a good faith effort to do something about the preservation of the springhouse, especially since it was located about 800 feet from the center of town. Roe approached the town fathers with a request: Would the town be willing to buy the small piece of property for the asking price of five hundred dollars? In so doing, the town could have the springhouse deemed a historical site, as it had served so many for so long. And the structure would take very little maintenance.

Unfortunately, one council member who was employed in the same company as Mr. Roe was apparently jealous of him, and Roe’s request was swiftly and flatly denied. Eventually, the property was sold to a nearby neighbor, and the springhouse remained in utter disrepair.

In the mid-1950s, at many times during dry spells, low water pressure from the town reservoir hampered the fire company in their efforts to put out fires in the community. After many discussions and meetings of the town council, the State Water Commission approved a “diversion of 200,000 gallons of water daily from a drilled well at the eastern corner of the town’s ballfield.”

It was in January and February of 1958 that the well drilling got underway. It did not take long for the drill to hit the vein of water that had been feeding the springhouse for generations.

The springhouse lay dormant for about two years and then was demolished and hauled away. Landscaping and seeding took place, and no piece of that history could be seen, ever again. The old generational communal tin cup ladle was not even saved!

Antique Firkin

How I love to think of those days with my grandparents and the stories that were told across their big old oak pedestal table. .............................................................................................. William Bathgate III is the fourth generation of his family to live in Branchville, NJ, and has served as a town council member, as well as on the local school board. Bill considers himself to be a local historian.