Gifts

We live in an old house. It' a Victorian-- not the gingerbread variety, but the simple farmhouse variety. It was built in 1900, and has seen a lot, and not all good, in those 109 years. When it came on the market two years ago, we were living quite happily in a 1940 Bungalow, but there was something about this house that compelled us to take a look. While it had a lot of good things going for it, the bad things made us say "not for us," and "too much work." This house was not going to give up so easily though. It kept forcing its way into our thoughts. We started to think more and more about what we could do to fix it up, and what a really incredible place it could be once again. We began to see that by saving this house, we could save a piece of the history of this town. The house didn't care what our motives were. It was grateful to be loved once again, and have owners who didn't write on the walls with markers, or shoot BB's into those same walls, or park cars in the front yard. As we began to fix things up, the house began to thank us. The first year we found a gold wedding ring while putting in a flower bed. The second year, while cleaning out a pipe, we found a dime from 1869. While having this house is a gift in itself, we wonder....What will it offer us in the years to come?

Color

I notice color all around me and am inspired to create bags using bold color combinations. Barkcloth is the perfect canvas for me. I love the way textile artists in the 30's, 40's and 50's put different and sometimes clashing colors together to create some of the most beautiful fabric ever produced.

I found the incredibly beautiful midnight blue vintage barkcloth at mslegacysews.etsy.com. Then the hunt began for the right lining to go with it. I was lucky to find the peacock print and I just knew it would be perfect.

The finished bag. I love the way it turned out!

Inspiration

I have been to Hawaii several times, and the beauty of the Islands never fails to impress me. I have found enough inspiration to make a million bags!

Pete

My uncle, Roland Erich Going, July 1, 1914-January 9, 1945. The origin of the nickname Pete remains a mystery to this day.

Pete at Pearl Harbor. Pete enlisted in the navy in 1934 and became a pharmacist's mate. He was sent to Pearl Harbor for his first duty assignment. He adored Hawaii. He was transferred to Manila, Philippine Islands in 1940.

Pete and Adeline. A love story doomed from the start. Manila fell to the Japanese in January, 1942 and Pete was taken prisoner, as was Adeline. In May of 1942 Pete was moved to the infamous Bilibid prison camp. Because of his carpentry skills, he was given the job of making wooden grave markers for prisoners who died.
















After Pete was taken prisoner, his family began their long and agonizing ordeal of not hearing from him and not knowing his fate. Letters written to him during this time were returned.

A note Pete secretly wrote and kept hidden at Bilibid prison. He left this note behind at the camp when the Japanese moved the prisoners out of the camp Christmas Eve 1944, and loaded them on transport ships known as hellships, so called because of their horrible conditions. The prisoners were to be sent to Japan to be used as forced labor. While Pete was aboard the Enoura Maru, the second such ship he had been on, the US bombed the ship. They were unaware that the ship contained allied prisoners of war. Pete, along with many other men, died. Pete's note was found by the Americans when Manila was liberated a short time later.

My father visiting the grave of his brother Pete around 1950. Pete is buried in the beautiful Punchbowl Cemetery on the island of Oahu. In a final token of love by a father for his son, my grandfather chose Hawaii as Pete's final resting place. My grandfather was given the choice of having Pete buried in a local cemetery where he could have visited his son's grave, but instead chose the place Pete loved best. Towards the end of his life, my grandfather was able to visit Hawaii and finally pay his respects to his son.

Snowflakes

Snowflakes
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air.
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.