Project Homestead

domesticity wears a dress

I didn't grow up sewing. I only vaguely remember cursing bobbins in middle school home economics. A few decades later, I am pleased as punch with myself for just completing this ditty of an apron. I have long longed for a stylish, functional coverall for all of my kitchen messes. I found this wonderful pattern in a book that called to me, Lotta Jansdotter's Simple Sewing: Patterns and How-To for 24 Fresh and Easy Projects. This project, labeled a "level 4" was a tad tricky: Seams were ripped, fabric prematurely cut in the wrong places, seams not sewn flat. But it was a wonderful learning experience. 

Sewing, mending, creating and repairing garments for family and home—these are all critical skills in the homesteader's quiver. (I've been hand sewing for a few years now, making toys and playthings for my kiddos.) They're also damn fun. Nearly instant gratification. Simpler than I expected. And requiring very little investment, thanks to my friendly sewing guide, Louisa, who is graciously loaning me her trusty Singer. 

In fact, that brings me to my next project (we're still under about two feet of snow here, so I've got the time...) I have been searching high and low for help choosing a solid, starter sewing machine—that will last. I've found roundups of tools for sewing kits. And good descriptions of how sewing machines work. Then there are the countless incredible blogs about the delights and creativity of sewing (that's worth an entire post, so more on that later). But, when it comes to laying down the hard-earned coin, I've come up short. 

Any suggestions? What sewing machine would you buy?

will it make me sweat? yeah.

In fact, whenever we prepare to make the brave, cold run to our wood-fired Snorkel hot tub, we sing the entire SNL James Brown tribute. It is hardly spontaneous, of course, when the water inside is frozen solid, and it requires a finicky fire to thaw it and another to warm it up to a perfect 100 or so degrees. But, after all that, the smell of wet cedar—transporting me to memories of damp docks that lead to lovely lakes—starry skies, cold cocktails, and these smiling faces are worth all the trouble. (Michael does nearly of the work. I just have to wait.)

We have to earn this great pleasure. But I wouldn't have it any other way. 

a plug for inconvenience

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why, when we visited family in suburban Cleveland over the holidays, my family and I were as sedentary as hibernating bears. We’d leave the house for periods of play—like pulling the new Radio Flyer wagon, heavy with little ones, around the yard. We’d walk to the car to drive somewhere to buy something we probably didn’t need. And we watched far more TV than usual. As much as I love them, I couldn’t wait to come home.

Most winter days here, we’re up before the sun (I’d love to change that, boys). We collect eggs and feed and water chickens. We haul, split and stack firewood. We feed the woodstove three times a day. Ditto for our hungry bellies; we (sometimes grudgingly) cook all of our meals, mostly from simple, natural foods. And it’s at this time of year, when snowstorm after snowstorm lays lovely layers of winter’s cloak down all around us, that we snow blow, shovel and rake our roof to keep the ice at bay. 

I realize that this work, the work that we've taken on by choice so we could feel more connected to the land and a simpler way of life, takes time and effort. It’s not optional for us, either. If we don’t clear snow, we can’t leave our hilly driveway. Same goes for the roof; ice dams and leaks are inevitable if we don’t lighten the load. (This season, we may resort to this inexpensive fix for menacing dams. If you're not from the Northeast, happily read on.) And heating with wood keeps the cost of warming our drafty 60-year-old log cabin in check. Naturally, it’s far more effort than simply tweaking the thermostat.

But all of these “chores” keep us busy and productive. It just dawned on me that they also force me outside for at least part of the day. And that’s a boon for my mental health now, when daylight is in such short supply. The conveniences of modern life can make it almost unnecessary to leave the house when the weather is less than wonderful and we’d rather not. No need to move? Even the most active among us can sink into complacency, which can be habit-forming.

Getting out there, simply because we have to, is as good a reason as any to do it. Besides, it helps me justify eating homegrown eggs and bacon as often as my heart desires.