Bob Babbles Blog

Disclaimer:  Nothing on this page represents
the views of the Spring Valley Quilt Guild. 
I have only myself to blame.

OLD PEOPLE

Yes, I know that isn't politically correct.  It is just accurate and in my mind is not disrespectful in the least.  I have spent my life around old people.  My parents were old people.  Mom was 39 when I got here and 45 when my younger brother arrived, and Dad was 46 and 51 for the two events.  Three brothers and two sisters were pretty much grown and gone by the time I arrived so we were sort of two families in a way.  This means both parents were at or near retirement age by the time we finished high school.

Somehow I always had a deep respect and natural affinity for old people.  When I was age 7 an 80-year-old lady taught me how to type.  She was losing her sight and wrote a weekly social column for the El Paso Sun Times.  She would dictate and I would type on her old Remington Noiseless portable typewriter.  This was 1947 and she mostly paid me in nickels, old Readers Digests, and an occasional cookie or two.  Flora Dietrich had moved to El Paso from upstate New York which made her additionally interesting to me--another world away from Indiana.  It turns out she wasn't to be my only friend from that area.  My best Army friend who virtually became part of our family was from Ossining and we manage an annual visit to this day.  Another Army friend from Germantown who liked to appear as a gruff and radical person was in truth a gentle angel who saw me through a very difficult portion of my Army time  Sadly, he mysteriously disappeared from the world a good while back.

So now that I am old people too my perspective has changed a little about the subject of old people, but not much.  Most cultures in the world respect and revere their elders, they nurture and care for them in exchange for the nurturing and caring they received when they were young.  The same doesn't apply in the USA these days in my view.  The youngest member of our family has always been ill at ease around older folks.  She would complain loudly to her grandparents when they would take her out to eat at Cracker Barrel or a cafeteria, asking the question:  "Why do we have to be around all these old people?"

Old people have a richness of experience to share with anyone willing to keep their eyes and ears open.  Most young folks only have eyes and ears for electronic devices these days and the rich experience they are receiving from those devices is at once shallow and misleading at the very best.  (Bob Turner, August 20, 2013)

 

TIME FOR QUILTS IN THE PARK

. . .  and just looking forward to seeing the beautiful entries arranged inside the museum is pure joy for me.  Just think about all the millions of stitches and yards of ordinary material that are right now in the process of being transformed into works of art.  In living rooms, family rooms, kitchens, back porches, even studios all over the place cutters are cutting and fingers and machines have put the needles down to organize colorful confusions of cloth into harmonious and beautiful quilts.  Will my effort fetch an award this year?  Will it be unique enough to stand out in the wide array of quilts at the Quilts in the Park Show?  And even if it doesn't go over the top at least it will be part of a fine assembly of handiwork in which we all can be proud to be included.

After seeing a lot of quilts and quilt shows, Quilts in the Park gave me an easy decision that this show was maybe not the biggest show around but it was certainly the finest one for content.  It was clearly apparent that here was a group of quilters who were capable of great creativity and possessed of above average skills in bringing their creative ideas to completion.  After getting brave enough to simply walk in and join up, all my initial thoughts about the Spring Valley Quilt Guild have been confirmed.

In my view quilting is really a broad spectrum of both life experience and personal history.  Born of necessity in America and elsewhere we know that it has been around a long time.  While quilts had to be made as an absolute necessity, often they also provided an opportunity to bring a bit of cheer to a not so colorful world.  So when our hands match up two little pieces of cloth and sew them together, we have virtually joined a path of history.  If quilting was a tradition in our family, it becomes an even more important act of continuing a tradition even if our present day goal is more for fun and decoration rather than pure utility.  (Bob Turner, August 11, 2013)

 

TOO MUCH GOVERNMENT

Too much government?  It ain't nuttin' new.  Since the blanketing of our society by government programs to fix the Great Depression, too much government has become the norm.  There is much evidence to prove that had the government not put in its many 'fixes,' the Great Depression would have been over much sooner than it was.

Ronald Reagan was right about the words that strike fear in the hearts of man:  "We're from the government, and we're here to help."  Here is a little story about how our family was directly impacted by too much and overzealous government back in the late 1940s.

My father, born in 1894, was drafted into the Army to fight in The Great War (the war to end all wars) later revised to be designated World War I.  Being a sharpshooter raised in the Kentucky woods, he managed to survive the bullets of the war but he didn't survive Germany's chemical warfare.  After receiving a heavy dose of the Kaiser's mustard gas he suffered his whole life with lung and breathing problems.  Government frequently placed him in various hospitals to treat him for tuberculosis.  "The" cure back then was to surgically remove an infected lung.  Fortunately for him he was smart enough to escape from these hospitals when this treatment was proposed.  No doubt abiding by that bit of wisdom prolonged his life.  He died in 1978 from renal failure.

In those antique times emphysema hadn't been invented yet.  So all those years Dad never had tuberculosis but only emphysema.  But no matter, the government through various agencies treated both my father and our family like lepers.  The entire family were subjected to frequent chest x-rays and other tests to monitor our TB status.  Finally, in 1947 the local public health Nazis insisted that we must leave the state of Indiana and move to Arizona as the only hope for an improvement in my father's health.  Thus we sold our home and 95 percent of our material possessions, bought a 28 foot house trailer, and moved to the burning sands of Tucson, Arizona.

During World War II, our family actively participated in the war effort.  Two brothers fought in the South Pacific and father and one sister worked long hours for little pay at Camp Atterbury, Indiana.  Another younger brother who had contracted blood poisoning in 1940 lay dying, variously at home and in hospital, the entire time of the war.  Amputation of a leg and sulfa drugs were totally ineffective for him.  Despite our Mother's heroic train trip to Chicago to beg one round of the heavily rationed and controlled new miracle drug penicillin from the Army, aged 19 this brother died on the same April day that FDR passed away.  A Nationally momentous event that went entirely unremarked in our family.

Once established with a job in Arizona, father sent word to one brother back in Indiana who had recently been discharged from the Navy that a job was to be had in Arizona.  This brother foolishly rode his motorcycle too long one day, blacked out, and crashed into a car in the middle of New Mexico.  He survived minus one leg but would never have been going to Arizona had not the wise government mandated our exile there.

I often muse what our life might have been without the government intervention.  Of course there is no way to really frame that imaginary situation.  Everywhere we look, in every aspect of our lives today there stands the government on every corner.  Throughout the country taxpayers have been subjected to paying for sports stadiums of all sorts despite evidence that the claims that supported their building are entirely false.  Today's news is fraught with frustrating revelations of just how deep and secret government intervention in our lives really is.  Even more frustrating is how little the officials we elect seem able to do anything about the situation.  Despite promises and more promises, the National legislators have not even done anything to stop the mandate for those curly and dangerous light bulbs.  If they can't fix something that simple, there can be no hope for the larger issues.

Always I am reminded of the crisp and true words of Ralph Waldo Emerson:  "To what avail the plow or sail or land or life if Freedom fail?"  Just say that a few times to yourself and feel the sadness gather around you. (Bob Turner, August 1, 2013)

 

HELP, I'm being held prisoner in my own home!

A family of robins have established residence over my front porch light.  Mama Robin is very dismissive to say the least when I open my front door.  I saw "The Birds" and am not taking any chances with her because I know she has a flock of like minded associates lurking around the neighborhood who could be summoned at a moment's notice.  Facing a robin SWAT team just isn't on my agenda.

Fortunately the kiddies grow up quickly and go on their way so here only a little patience is required.  One can not ignore the opportunity to watch their progress from close range through the window.  Despite all my efforts they conspire to be very camera shy.  When Mama is away I peek out and four hungry mouths are pointing at the sky.  But by the time I get the door open, they have all slunk back down into their nest and I get a nice photo of the raggedy nest. 

The whole family was gathered at home this very rainy morning and I could almost read Mama Robin's mind.  She must have been saying to herself, "Why, oh, why, didn't I build a bigger nest?"  She looked most disgruntled settled on the top and little scrawny children were poking their sharp little beaks out at every conceivable angle.  When the rain ends she will be in luck with her nutrition search because the rain will force the main menu items from the ground.  (Notice how I cleverly  avoided saying the word 'worms'?)

I have confidence this situation will resolve amicably.  The front door is hardly ever used in favor of the garage entrance anyway and there are no UPS deliveries scheduled any time soon.  If they do decide to stay, I'll just present them with a  bill for their share of the condo fee.  That should do the trick! 
(Bob Turner, May 31, 2013)

The Quilt of Life

This story has absolutely nothing to do with actual quilting but more about the threads of life and how they weave together into unexpectedly rich tapestries.  A friend often acquaints me with the wondrous thing known as "degrees of separation" between ourselves and famous people.  Those degrees truly are there and mostly we never know about them.

This story goes back to 1965 during my stint as an Army specialist working in the Office of the Chief of Staff of the Army in the Pentagon.  I was part of a small group that provided administrative and secretarial support to the chief himself, General Harold K. Johnson, and other senior officers as well as visiting high ranking officers.  When I transferred to the Pentagon from New York City, my name was listed on the "morning report" for that particular day with other "Scrap" or in transit personnel assigned to the Office of the Chief of Staff.  I was able to view that report but was not allowed to have a copy of it because it was considered confidential.  But there was my name on the same list as Dwight D. Eisenhower and Omar Bradley, retired but still considered part of the Army.  Of course my name was only on there for a day and then was moved into an active list, but what an honor to be in such great company if only for a brief instance.

It was a tough time that winter of 1965 and spring of 1966 because the Vietnam Was raging and getting worse with each passing day.  My normal work hours were 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. with an hour lunch break and then back to man the phones, take dictation, and make coffee in the Chief's office from 6 p.m. to midnight.  My only real break came at Christmas 1965 when I went along with the General to visit the troops in Vietnam.  There was a glimpse of how the other half lives.  It was just four passengers on a VIP 707 jet out of Andrews Air Force base complete with my own bed and some fine dining provided from the Officer's Mess in the Pentagon.  The VIP thing went all the way and imagine how impressed I was when General Westmoreland shook my hand when we landed in Saigon just as he did for the chief and his staff officers.  Saigon had yet to be destroyed at that time and was still a lovely city with many big estates and houses built by the French in a classical style.  It was also a dangerous city where the sound of helicopters in the sky never stopped night or day.  The officers on our trip all had their own pistols.  As an enlisted man I had nothing except an electric typewriter and a big pair of scissors.  A small villa in a well guarded compound was assigned to me so I felt fairly safe but there were lots of shots in the neighborhood, especially at night.

In 1964 I had trained at Fort Harrison with a guy from San Antonio who had kept in touch.  He was stationed in Saigon at the time and we were able to meet a couple of times.  Our final meeting took us to the famous My Cahn floating restaurant on the banks of the Mekong River in Saigon where we enjoyed a very fine French dinner and some pretty fine wine.  A week after I was back in Washington, the Viet Cong blew up that restaurant and killed nearly 100 people.  Timing is everything.

Enough background for this story and back to the degrees of separation part.  Last night the Military Channel had a program about the last days of World War II which highlighted General Patton's rescue of a POW camp behind German lines.  It was the general thought that if the war ended and the Germans were losing they might just execute POWs instead of turning them over to the Allies.  Patton had been specifically denied permission to attempt this rescue by General Eisenhower, but being General George Patton he did it anyway.  In the film they noted that a Colonel John Waters was a prisoner in the camp.  Colonel Waters had been captured by the Germans in North Africa and Colonel Waters just happened to be married to General Patton's daughter.

Colonel John K. Waters later became four star General Waters and was Commander in Chief U.S. Army Pacific during the Vietnam War.  When he came to the Pentagon for a week's visit in 1965, I was assigned to be his secretary for the week.  It was pretty light duty as far as clerical work because he mostly was involved in meetings.  At the time his son John was a 1st Lieutenant commanding a rifle company in Vietnam.  One morning he asked if I would mind helping him write a letter to his son.  When he finished dictating that letter I don't think either of us had a dry eye.  It wasn't a letter from a general but rather a heartfelt letter from a Dad to a son.  General Waters was probably one of the nicest people I worked for in the Army.  He was scheduled to depart on Friday of that week and told me he wouldn't need me that day so I was working back in the Chief's office.  About noon I got a phone call and was told General Waters wanted to see me.  The Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara was just leaving the General's office as I arrived.  General Waters shook my hand and expressed his gratitude for my help and then presented me with a cigarette lighter that had his autograph and four star flag on one side and the logo of the Army of the Pacific on the reverse.  To this day I have never used that lighter but it has never been cast into a drawer and out of sight either.  So there is my two degrees of separation to two very famous figures and one of which I never knew about for these long 48 years.(Bob Turner, May 29, 2013) 

   

 

Getting Organized (Ha Ha Ha)

Based on all the inspiration received at our April meeting, yours truly has embarked upon acting upon some of those ideas for organizing and storing scraps of all sizes.  First off, it is amazing how obedient your scraps suddenly become once faced with a hot iron.  Instantly your frumpy big piles turn into neat and (possibly) manageable stacks of strips and blocks.  There may be hope yet.  Since I am just in the ironing phase, I understand there is no formal guarantee of success.  My friend who is the professional textile conservation expert and restorer technically refers to ironing as "relaxing the fibers."  As I'm sure you know, it always turns out that some of them need more relaxing than others.

With luck you will find things in your scraps you hadn't the remotest idea were there.  Enough fabric to piece a nice binding for a Valor Quilt popped out of my heap first thing and my brain is matching up scraps for other projects as I go along.

As a side note in case you didn't get my email last week on buying a stacking rollaround cart, good old Big Lots has the best prices and a good selection.  Jo-Ann's were all off the chart pricewise and made the $25 ones at Big Lots most desirable.  They were both the Steralite brand, so no difference in quality.  My Big Lots had two versions.  One had 7 drawers with four smaller drawers at the top and bigger ones at the bottom and then another one with 5 large drawers of equal size.  Looking at my "laundry basket" I may need to get back over there and purchase a second one.

Once the drawers are labeled and the scraps chopped into appropriate sizes, I will make another report.  In truth, goofing off and writing this was a break I needed.  Now a kitchen stool has been positioned at the ironing board so it may be a while until the next break.  Good luck with your scraps!  (Bob Turner, April 8, 2013)

The Quilt Rack That Almost Killed Me

Well, in all fairness I guess I can't blame it completely on the quilt rack; however, it is central to the story and must bear some of the blame.  My brother has built this beautiful quilt rack which he has donated to our guild to enhance our raffle quilt ticket sales.  It is beautifully crafted of poplar and hackberry wood from Milroy, Rush County, Indiana.  Brother is quite a craftsman and the quilt rack is of pegged construction and lightly sealed so one may see the beautiful wood grain.  It is sturdily built to accommodate three quilts as well.

Brother lives in Shelbyville but was visiting in Indianapolis today.  Unbeknownst to me he had completed the rack and was bringing it to me.  He suggested we meet for dinner at our favorite Lincoln Square Restaurant.  We duly met and transferred the beautiful piece of furniture to my car and he and his wife and my sister all sat down to dinner.  Lincoln Square is noted for its prime rib and we all opted for it this day.  Halfway through dinner, I accidentally managed to swallow a piece of prime rib that decided it was too big to go down my throat.  What a frightening sensation to suddenly not be able to swallow and more importantly not to be able to breathe.  I began to make wild gestures pointing at my throat.  My quick thinking brother jumped to his feet and performed the Heimlich maneuver two times before the offending projectile left my airway.  He had seen this done on TV and did an excellent job.  It kind of puts you in a bit of shock and it didn't dawn on me until later what a serious matter choking can be.  I have heard that some restaurants no longer perform the Heimlich maneuver because of liability issues.  If an employee should happen to crack a rib or throw a shoulder out of place. they could get sued in this litigious work we live in these days.  So if I had to wait for a waiter it might have been too late.  Later I issued profuse thanks to my brother who responded that no thanks was necessary.  He did tell the waitress that he had to do it "because he's my brother." (Bob Turner, March 28, 2013)

Help, Help, Help

I have always heard of writer's block, but now I seem to have developed a sudden case of what you might call a quilter's block.  After doing some reading and watching some how-to videos, at long last I bravely resolved myself to attempt some paper piecing. It's something I have studiously avoided for a very long time.  I have always admired the beautifully accurate results so why not give it a try?  The videos were nice and clear but they all hinted at some mysterious possibility of calamity as well. When I got everything assembled and turned to the task, it all went terribly wrong.  Terribly, terribly wrong. Instead of producing some crisp and beautiful results, it seemed I had discovered a new way to turn beautiful fabric into useless scraps. 

Maybe I started with a pattern that was too complicated?  SO I found a simpler pattern and gave it a try.  Well, it wasn't simple enough so I drew up an even simpler pattern of my own.  I will get the best of this thing keeps going through my mind.  Maybe it was too late in the day.  Maybe I was tired.  Maybe it is a "chick" thing and guys aren't supposed to be able to do this?  Give it a rest for a few days maybe, and I did.  The whole project consisting of a pile of haggled up scraps of paper and cloth got shoved into a large Jo-Ann's bag so it doesn't glare at me when I walk by.

Now for the quilter's block part. That dramatic failure seems to have frozen my brain and my will to do anything else in the quilting department. Several unfinished projects got reviewed but they all steadfastly refused to kick start me.  Just to keep busy there is a quilt that needs binding.  Since binding doesn't require a whole lot of creativity maybe that will get things back on track for me.  Only time will tell.  (Bob Turner, February 19, 2013)