The editor of my new book, Slow Love, Lauren LeBlanc, is not only talented with words; she is adept with needles as well. She sews and she knits, and she gives her friends (and lucky writers) gifts she has made. Last winter, I got a pair of gloves without the fingertips, for those cold mornings at the computer. (I think she wanted me to finish the book!) She recently wrote to me about one day having a sewing room, and that sent me into a reverie. I would love a sewing room. Not because I sew, but because I would like to be the kind of person who sews. And weaves. And knits (something other than scarves). And throws pots. And bakes bread. (Oh yes, I already have one of those rooms. That would be the kitchen.)
sewing kit phase, into a fantasy of a homemade, handmade, life. Lauren's dream room reminded me of a visit to a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in Florence, Alabama. Mildred Rosenbaum was a weaver and a seamstress, who also did lots of embroidery.
She had a small room in the house she and her husband built in 1939 devoted to her craft; it contained a large loom (no longer there) and small hand looms, as well as built in shelves and drawers hidden away for yarns and shuttles and things. I stood in the doorway, entranced by the golden light bringing out the warm patina of the wood, taking in the graciousness of this kind of room of one's own, a room out of which would flow beautiful and useful things for everyone in the family.