The Thrifty Woman's Yarn Workshop

A handful of folks saw me at Costume College plying yarn with my homemade drop spindle.

A drop spindle made from things you can find around the house (well, my house, anyway).

Now, I have a very nice, wooden drop spindle, but it has yarn on it that I don't want to take off yet. So I needed second spindle. I made one using these instructions, though I didn't want to hunt for the plastic grommet, so I hot glued the disks in place (I glued one disc on at a time, letting the glue cool a little first, and spun the dowel while the glue was cooling, to keep the dowel centered and the glue even).

Once I plied all the yarn, I needed to get it off the spindle so that it could get a quick wash to set the twist. I don't know if this next tool has a name; it's a box with holes and slots cut in to hold the spindle while I pulled the yarn off.

Spindle holder? Spool winder? Spinny thing? I don't know what to call this box-with-holes cut in.

Lastly, here's my...well, let's be honest, this is the GHETTO-est yarn swift ever. It's a box on a small lazy susan. 

The ghetto-est yarn swift ever.

Oh wait, one more tool was involved. I don't have a yarn winder, so I hand wind on a nostepinne. Except that I don't have a nostepinne, I use a clean chopstick.

My "winding stick" (a chopstick).

I'll show you later what I actually made from this yarn (which I was also carrying around with me at Costume College).

Now, for the yarnies that are still with me, here's a treat: I was at the Whaling Museum in Nantucket just recently, and found these beautiful, whalebone yarn swifts.

Whalebone yarn swift at the Whaling Museum in Nantucket.

It's such a delicate thing, can you imagine it being actually used to wind yarn? Moreover, can you imagine the labor to make this thing (each strut is ornamented) and the feelings of the woman who would have received it? She had better have been gratified.

The museum had a couple of whalebone swifts.

Whalebone objects at the Whaling Museum in Nantucket.

These were displayed with several whalebone knitting needles, sewing clamps, and some other objects that I didn't take note of. These objects are made from bone and not baleen, which is the "whalebone" used for corsetry. I saw some samples of unprocessed baleen, but didn't get a photo.

And of course, one can't discuss objects made from whalebone without mentioning BUSKS.

Whalebone busks. The darker one might be baleen, I didn't read the label.

The museum has managed to get a hold of quite a few beautifully carved busks.

The Whaling Museum is very nicely done. A lot of time (and money, probably) has gone into the displays, and there are some very nice talks (though skip the movie, it's heavy on "isn't this island great" and way to light on history and facts; the presentation on the history of whaling was VERY good, however). If you happen to be on Nantucket Island, I recommend a visit.

The Pink Parasol's New Handle, Part 1

Give a woman power tools, and creative things will happen (whether they were meant to be that way or not).

Some years ago I bought this little parasol:

Small parasol that's lost it's handle. Hard to
date, could have been made anywhere
between 1890 and 1930.

It was cheap. Even in its day it was must have been cheap, its construction is mediocre, its parts are economy. And your eyes do not deceive you, its handle is broken off and irretrievably lost. But that made it unloved, and cheap.

This isn't the only parasol I have that has lost its handle, but because it's such a budget frame it's going to be my first full-handle-replacement project. Over the last few weeks I've been gathering the tools and parts I need. Today I went at it (though I'm REALLY supposed to be doing Costume College prep. Oh well.)

First thing is the replacement handle. I had originally planned to use an ordinary dowel, but went with the top end of a walking cane instead. A dowel would have had uniform thickness from top to bottom, while canes are generally a bit tapered, and that made, I think, for a more natural shape. The cane I used was *ahem* cheap, not very round, and not even meant to be used as a cane (it's only decorative). But it was a tapered stick of wood, which would do the job.

What's left of the cane. I was too trigger-
happy with the saw to take a photo before
cutting it up. It has an orange stain that
would look fine, but it also has a nasty-
varnish on top.

And now I had to solve a problem: how to drill a straight, centered hole into the end of a dowel? I explored a narrow handful of options (including buying a drill press, but I don't have anywhere to put a 100+ lbs tool), and then Lynn McMasters said, go buy this:

My doweling jig.

This is a doweling jig, which one uses to drill holes into the ends of planks in order to join them with dowel pins. Lynn has one that she's used to build a table, or something (Lynn is a master at technical solutions).

The doweling jig solved half the problem. I still need a way to hold the dowel itself, because if I just clamped it into the jig, the dowel would likely just rotate with the drill bit (or so I read on woodworking websites). So, I needed a dowel jig...for the doweling jig. Yeah, stay with me here.

I found the solution here: http://www.woodworkingonline.com/2008/04/08/dowel-drilling-jig/  I just needed to adapt it for the doweling jig.

First, to drill a big hole. So happens I have these big drilling bits (don't ask why, I do a lot of DYI on my house).

Big old bore drilling bits.
The big one is missing because it's stuck in the mount
(long story).

And here's what happened.

"Clamp" for the work piece on the left,
piece-to-be-clamped on the right. If I
had planned better, it wouldn't have split.

I wanted to fix a second piece of wood at a right angle to the one with the dowel hole, so I drilled holes for two dowel pins into the piece on the right (and used the doweling jig for this, yep, it works every bit as well as advertised!) Then I went to drill two holes into the piece on the left, and, well, I tried to drill into the kerf and split the wood.

I went at it with a file to see if I could make it work anyway. I got the other dowel pin to fit, but notice here that the upright piece is at an angle.

How they fit together (off-kilter; that'll need
to be fixed.

Yeah, that's not helpful when you're trying to line things up perfectly. These are postmortem photos, and I only noticed the off-kilter angle when I took them. I'll have to fix that before I try this again.

Now to put it all together. I clamped the work piece, the new handle, into the hole, and clamped the whole thing into the doweling jig. Yes, that made quite a contraption.

All clamped together.

Ready to drill. Here you can see the work piece.

And here's what it looks like. Bit off center, but it'll do.

3/8 inch bore hole for the new stick.

On the left, the new handle with new
partial stick. On the right, the frame with
a brass tube on the end, which will
connect and support the joint.

Notice that the frame, with the tube attached, is bent. I don't know what the original frame's stick is made of but it's certainly not a great piece of wood.

At this point I need to trim the brass tube, and I want to sand the handle some more. But it was late, I was hot and hungry, and decided to call it an evening.

Cutwork and Soutache Bodice, circa ? (date this bodice!) Part 2

Ok, now it's time to help me date this bodice!

My first inclination is that it's from the 1870s. I'm looking at the shoulders, primarily: the sleeve heads are very fitted, and have no hint of puff that makes me think of the 1880s. But is it meant to sit over a bustle? Here are some comparison shots. Tell me what you think.

Mid-1870s bustle.

Over a mid-1870s bustle, side view.

Over a mid-1870s bustle, front view.

Over a mid-1870s bustle, back view.

My conclusion: this bustle really shows off the tail, but the bodice bunches up at the front waist.

Small back pad.

Over a small pad, side view.

Over a small pad, front view.

Over a small pad, back view.

My conclusion: the back waist is starting to creep away from the mannequin's back. That will probably be mostly fixed when I've relined the whole thing. The front still bunches a bit at the waist.

No padding.

No padding, side view.

No padding, front view.

No padding, back view.

My conclusion: the back waist really stands away from the mannequin now (though I really think that will be fixed when the whole thing is lined). The front waist hangs naturally and with little wrinkling, while the tail has acquired a fold on each side.

The final word: I think I'm going to have to repair the lining before I can really get an idea how this bodice is supposed to sit. The mesh that makes up the exterior stretches, even though it's so heavily covered. In the meantime, though, all you Victorian mavens out there, drop me comment and tell me what you think!

Cutwork and Soutache Bodice, circa ? (date this bodice!) Part 1

Before I dive in, first a personal note: those of you who stop by regularly (hi mom) may have noticed the looong periods of silence. I'm afraid I go through bouts of the-rest-of-my-life-taking-over, during which no costuming happens. I know you know what it's like, and thank you for coming back whenever I manage to find something to post about. :)

Tonight I'm taking a break from rest-of-life because I just acquired something AMAZING.

This is a vintage bodice that I bought earlier this week from Via's Vintage in Minneapolis, from her etsy shop (Kellie, the shop owner, is super nice!) I usually stay away from vintage garments that are this old, mostly because I want garments I want to be able to wear, and I worry about 100+-year-old clothes being too fragile. The other reason I stay away, is that I'm simply NOT shaped like a Victorian, and vintage garments from that time from just won't fit me.

This one, however, DOES. In fact, it's even a tad large.

This bodice is composed of a great deal of soutache and cutwork silk applique on mesh (probably cotton), lined with silk.

The exterior is in remarkably good shape.The silk cutwork is shattering in some spots, and bits of the soutache are coming off here and there, but all of the work is almost entirely intact. The lining is another story, and I'll explore the interior in another post.

The sleeves are a little extra long, and end in these wonderful peaked cuffs that extend over the back of the hand.

This is the fun part. The bodice has a long tail, also covered in cutwork and soutache. It was probably also lined once, but as you can see the lining stops short of the waist.

In this batch of photos I have the bodice on over a mid 1870s bustle and an unfinished petticoat I had laying around (yes, I have a lot of random, unfinished bits laying around). In the next post I'll show you what it looks like over other shapes, and I will solicit your opinion on the probable date of this bodice. In the meantime, here are a bunch of gratuitous close ups!

Back.

Side front of the bodice, featuring what looks
like tatted knotwork, but is really a couched
boullion type of thing (I'll have to look it up)

Side of the collar, which features a patch
decorated with chain stitch embroidery. There's a
matching patch on the other side.

Back of the collar.

Outer sleeve.

Close up of the upper sleeve. Both sleeves are
frayed the same way, and I think this spot is
where the soutache joined.

Back waistline, with more of the couched "bullion."

The unlined tail.

Inside the Parasol, Part 1

The parasol canopy that's featured in my earlier workshop posts on parasol restoration (Part 1 and Part 2) wasn't turning out as good as I wanted, so I took it off. This gives me a chance to talk about some of the innards of the parasol canopy. Fair warning: this is going to be a rather pedantic post, but I find these details just SO interesting, and if you're an aficionado of parasols, then hopefully you will, too.

Today I'll be discussing two common features you'll find underneath a parasol canopy. For lack of being able to find consistent terminology, I call these the "donut" and "joint wraps." More on terminology in a moment. I say they are "common" specifically because they are not universal, or at least there is no way for me to prove that they are universal. In the dozens and dozens of parasols I've seen either in person or online, however, I see them more often than not, and thus feel safe to conclude that they are common.

Ok! So first: the "donut" (I'm going to keep putting it in quotes to underscore that this is terminology I made up). This is a circle of fabric or leather that sits between the ribs and the canopy.

Fabric donut (cotton) on an 1890-1910 parasol.

When made of fabric, it's often (but not always) the same fabric as the canopy.

Donut that is made from some sort of canvas. The canopy
was silk taffeta. The parasol is from 1870-1890.

My guess is that the primary purpose for the "donut" is to protect the canopy from the metal, moving parts of the frame. I've also found that it's sometimes used as an anchor to stitch the canopy to, around the base of the parasol tip.

Remnants of a leather donut on an 1855-1870 parasol.

 Another purpose I've found served by the "donut" is to hide the spring mechanism of pagoda parasols. I've seen one "donut" that had this function that was enormous. This was on a friend's parasol, and unfortunately I don't have a photo.

Vinyl donut on a modern parasol (note the plastic top notch).

The Fox Umbrella Company ("Keeping you dry since 1968") calls this thing an "inside cap". I've also seen it called a rosette, but I like to think of rosettes as gathered, scrunchy rings of fabric, and the "donut" is invariably a flat, circle.

Here is the "donut" I put on the workshop frame:

Reproduction donut made from silk taffeta.

It's the same powder-blue silk taffeta as the canopy. It's a little big for the scale of the frame, but I can't be bothered to do anything about it. Now, fraying is completely historically accurate. But I hate fraying, so this little ring was completely soaked in fray check. Don't hate.

Next: "joint wraps." These are bits of fabric, also commonly the same as the canopy, that are wrapped around the point where the spanner ribs meet the canopy ribs.

Remnants of silk joint wraps on an 1890-1910 frame (this one).

The Fox Umbrella Company calls these "prevents," and, indeed, their purpose appears to be to prevent the canopy from rubbing the metal at the joint. On older frames, where this joint could have some sharp edges, this was probably quite necessary. Newer frames, however, (say, 1875 and later) have pretty clean joints, and I would think the "joint wrap" isn't as necessary. But tradition is hard to overcome, and I have an 1910-ish frame that was refurbished sometime after the invention of nylon and the commercialization of plastic that has vinyl "joint wraps."

Canvas wrap from the 1870-1980 parasol picture above.

I've found that "joint wraps" come in two styles: either a simple oval of fabric, as seen immediately above and below, or a tidily folded bit of fabric, as seen two photos up.

Cotton wrap on the 1890-1910 parasol pictured above.

Loosely and broadly speaking, the folded type of "joint wraps" that I have found are made from silk, because, well, an oval of silk would fray away. Both styles, though, are attached the same way: doubled thread wrapped a few times above the joint and a few times below.

Here are the "joint wraps" on the workshop parasol:

Fold silk taffeta joint wraps.

I've attached them with doubled Gütermann silk thread in a matching color (from ye old big box store), with a simple knot at the first stitch and last.

And that's the end of today's lecture.

I've ambitiously labeled this post "Part 1" because I figure I'll be talking more about the innards of parasols in the future. I just find them so ridiculously interesting, but I'll try to focus my posts on restoration issues. Anyway, I'm done for tonight, but I'll leave you with a teaser of where the workshop parasol is going: