“Handmade is all about thinking,” Vesta explained to Velma, her new friend at the rooming house. “Handmade allows, encourages, demands that people think. Lights. Cars. Telephones. Radios. Televisions. Computers.  Society-changing developments all start off handmade.  Handmade is new, fresh, thought-provoking.  Individuality cannot be expressed through mass produced objects.  It is a structural impossibility.  The Ada coat’s personal expression cannot happen by shopping at the new department store in the city.

With handmade, producers get the power of production and creative control.  Consumers are offered not just the illusion of choices (Smucker’s or Welch’s grape jelly), but real choices (homemade mango jam).

Buttons made with 16th century method:

Handmade objects themselves come from practices of recycle upcycle reuse – further spurning commodity culture.  They come from history, tradition, and human hands.

Societies benefit with engaged producers, somewhat leveled playing fields, less dominance more engagement.

My purchases feed artists and families, not corporations.

Coral explosion can be found here:

My clothing is not racy or terribly unusual.  Shopping at the department store downtown I would have five choices.  Working with a seamstress or artist on a handmade wardrobe, I have a world of choices.  Handmade is freedom.”

Velma’s chin was down, eyes wide, brows raised, enthralled.


About AngelaLTodd

I am queen of the helicopter parents. But there are enough of us that we are becoming a social problem. Here’s my story. Thing 1 was coming, they couldn’t stop him, it was only 24 weeks and 3 days. Someone asked: should we try to save him? Well, yes. Yes! Ten days later, a team of doctors closed the door behind us to explain brain bleeds, sepsis, meningitis. Shall we pull the plug? Well, no. No! Babydaddy laid hands on him every day, massaged him when he was ready. For the three months he was in intensive care, and the three weeks at an intermediate hospital, I would get up in the night and pump breast milk, thinking about my baby across town. Babydaddy delivered it every morning, earning the name “milkman.” It was funny. We had every therapy going for as long as possible: early intervention, the intermediate unit, private therapies. Terms multiplied: sensory processing dysfunction, sensory integration problems, orally defensive, auditory sensitivities, comprehensive developmental delay, cognitive function impairment, retinopathy of prematurity. He did occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy; we consulted with a neurologist, school psychologist, wraparound service provider, developmental specialist. He worked with an occupational therapist for a year and a half to tolerate teeth and hair brushing. Not surprisingly, parenting didn’t feel natural. I learned to read to my baby watching Phyllis, our physical therapist. Voices, commentary, labeling colors, counting… she was very good! Merging professional research skills with my genetic propensity for silliness (mom was class clown, dad’s distantly related to Lucille Ball), my mothering style came together. Eventually. But I still channel Phyllis on occasion. Thing 2 was full term. They are complete opposites; she is a sensory seeker with a wild sense of adventure and an inventive sense of fashion. Keeping them both busy and happy is an exasperating and sweet challenge. I still believe that every day can be fun and educational while reinforcing kids' boundaries. I’m on a mission to save us helicopter parents from ourselves. No more bubble wrapped kids and guilty parents. Let’s teach them coping skills. Let’s get fun.
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