Page 16 of Let’s Give ‘Em Pumpkin to Talk About

Nine

S adie and Josh made quite a pair riding to the library on the rail trail, Sadie on her bike and Josh on Shadowfax. She could maintain an easy pace alongside him if he kept Shadowfax to a trot.

“You’re going to love the guild,” Josh assured her.

She grimaced. “Does meeting a whole pack of strangers sound like an activity I would, to quote you, ‘love’?”

“They seemed friendly! And they all wore interesting clothes.”

Sadie wore the opposite of interesting clothes. “You’re not strengthening your case.”

“Do you want a loom or not?”

“Obviously I do. I’m going, aren’t I?”

She had never been a part of a guild before, not being what anyone would call a “joiner,” but textile artists frequently collected equipment until they were overwhelmed by it.

They tended to be overly optimistic about their remaining time on earth while also blowing through their disposable income.

Then they’d die with a basement full of premium equipment their families struggled to unload because the deceased’s friends were similarly inundated with their own shit.

Sadie was blessed, in a way, with less free time and money.

What she needed were ideas, something she hoped a change of scenery would jar loose.

If she were to just accept the next commission without doing something from her own mind, she risked becoming an expensive fabric-making robot instead of an artist. And she’d been distracted—by the pumpkin fiasco, and from the low-level anxiety of being back in Pea Blossom.

Now all her ideas were stopped up. She tried to be at peace with it, but finding peace was never Sadie’s forte. She needed to put her head down, get a loom, figure out her next project, win the pumpkin weigh-off, and get back to California. Simple enough, right?

There was the pesky business of one other distraction, whose rolling hip movements teased her peripheral vision. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” she said to him.

“I’ve got my own business at the library,” he said.

“Go Hog Wild?”

“You know it. Also, they’ve got a subscription to nearly every food and cooking magazine there is, and I’m looking for what they’re publishing about squash. It helps me know what to talk about with my customers. Gotta stay on trend.”

Sadie had been scrolling through all the old posts in Josh’s Instagram.

He’d even had pieces in magazines here and there, profiling him as a vegetable influencer of sorts.

It made perfect sense. The broad grin and the shiny hair and the plaid shirts were much more photogenic than someone like Stu, who eschewed sunscreen his whole life, wore drab chore coats that always looked dusty, and squinted into any camera lens he saw.

These thoughts of Josh crept up on her unbidden.

Sometimes she thought about his hands. More often it was his mouth, the way he smiled with all of it, enough to scrunch his eyes shut.

She could feel that smile softening her and she didn’t want it.

Didn’t want to feel out of control. She could try to keep her distance, and yet she kept finding herself drawing nearer.

She had to find a way to take the control back.

But maybe not in this moment, not when the vision of him on Shadowfax was putting dangerous ideas in her head. Maybe she could enjoy those ideas for now.

Thankfully, Josh removed himself from her view shortly thereafter when he left the rail trail to bring Shadowfax to a local barn that offered trail rides to visitors, saying he’d catch up with her in the library after the guild meeting.

Sadie hadn’t worn anything that would identify her as a textile artist. She was more of a visual artist who worked in textiles than someone who made clothes.

She’d never woven herself a scarf or knit a sweater.

Not that that distinction made her superior.

Making clothing for your own body was a true act of intimacy, the kind of thing that took a little more self-love and willingness to expend creative energy without the promise of pay than she was currently able to give. Maybe someday.

In any case, she wasn’t the only person moseying into the community meeting room in the library wearing off-the-rack clothing.

The room was as colorful as Josh had promised, full of people who eschewed fashion trends in favor of personal expression.

Every one of them was someone’s weird aunt, no matter their age or gender.

Sadie admired one person’s shimmering emerald green tunic, too luminous to be anything but silk, and then a neon tweed sheath dress caught her eye.

She’d call it a Chanel dupe except Chanel wished it could be that daring.

Surely none of these people had been in Pea Blossom when she was growing up.

The Pea Blossomites of her youth wore jeans exclusively, with some top that reflected gender norms in the most obnoxious way.

She took a seat in one of the padded folding chairs, declining to make small talk with any of the guild members, knowing there would likely be some time they’d ask new attendees to introduce themselves.

And when that time came, she felt the eyes of the room on her, excited at the vision of a newcomer in their midst.

“Hello, I’m Sadie. I’m originally from Pea Blossom, and you might know my father, Stu Fox, from the farmers market.

I’m a weaver and a dyer but not much of a spinner.

I’m here while my father is caring for my uncle in Florida, and I’m in search of a loom.

Four shafts would be great. If anyone has a loom I could perhaps rent, please talk to me after the meeting.

Also, I don’t drive, so I would also need you to deliver it. Thanks.”

Her words were as upbeat and friendly as she could manage, which she was afraid was not up to snuff with the standard Hoosier hospitality. She hoped that excess hospitality on other people’s parts would bridge the gap.

After the business portion of the meeting was finished, the show-and-tell portion commenced. Projects were set down; presenters stood at tables for attendees to shuffle past. The first table Sadie visited showcased work from an Asian woman named Kyaw. She inspected the incredibly intricate fabric.

“None of this is embroidery? You wove with all of these colors?” she asked. Kyaw showed photos of her weaving in progress with a hundred or more little bobbins of silk thread on the loom.

“It’s all woven. This is a traditional Burmese method. Another person from my community, a refugee like me, is now a folklore student at Indiana University. She won a grant to provide me and some other weavers with supplies. She documents our techniques for her thesis.”

“I’m in awe,” Sadie said.

“This piece will be auctioned off at the guild’s annual gala. If we can get some more looms and supplies, we can teach the youth who didn’t learn to weave before coming to the United States. You’re a weaver, too?” Kyaw asked.

“I am,” Sadie said, fishing in her pocket for her wallet, which held her business cards.

They were made from scraps of her own handwoven fabric, screen printed with her information and stiffened with a thin layer of resin.

Her next batch of cards would all be ass-cheek beige, but she still had some of her more colorful ones left.

“I didn’t come prepared to share today,” she said as she handed Kyaw a card.

“Oh, this is so clever,” Kyaw said. “Lovely work. Can I add you to my mailing list? It’ll keep you up-to-date with my work and fundraising efforts.”

“Of course,” she replied, knowing she’d love to keep up with Kyaw even when she was back in California. Maybe she could get Josh to drop some cash on that auction.

At the next table, an older white woman with a steely gray pixie cut petted a length of plaid fabric folded and draped over her shoulder.

“Hello, I’m Sharon. I’m showing this tartan I made for my grandkid before I send it off to be made into a kilt.”

“This isn’t from any clan I’m familiar with,” Sadie noted.

“That’s because my grandkid Jess is starting their own clan.

They live with me, though not for much longer because they’re getting married.

They’d always imagined wearing a MacIntosh kilt to their wedding, but the MacIntoshes let Jess down.

So I told Jess they could design their own tartan, with whatever patterns and colors they wanted, and I’d weave the fabric for a kilt and any other garments they wanted for themselves or their partner. ”

“It glitters.”

“There’s silver in with the wool. It suits Jess, who was always a pretty glittery kid, and I’m so proud of them.”

Sadie felt tears threatening to spill and she was furious about it.

She loved textiles but worked so separately from anything she’d call a community.

She put her pieces in shows and sold them in galleries and took commissions, but it was nothing like what these weavers had done, connecting them so meaningfully to family and community.

Had Josh known this meeting would give her these kinds of feelings? Had he done this on purpose? She’d yell at him later.

Sadie moved on to the snack table and snagged a brownie. There, she was approached by an old white lady with an indigo-dyed dress, glasses that made her pale blue eyes owlish in size, and hair in two braided pigtails.

“Here’s a loom for you,” she said by way of introduction, and handed Sadie a wooden ring with evenly spaced holes.

Its faint campfire smell sent her on a sensory journey to baking potatoes over a fire with Stu.

Childhood memories of camping mingled bitter and sweet like a perfectly charred marshmallow.

Even if they argued over where to set up camp, he always took care to teach her the name of every plant she asked about.

“I know it’s not what you were looking for,” the woman continued, “but everyone can use a portable loom or two. I was testing out this design with the laser cutter in the creativity lab before the meeting.”