Art Journal

Nature Ramblings ~ Past Times Time Travel ~ Romancing Daily Life

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Time Travel Trip, Preparation for a PopOff: Russia Bound (part 6)

 My friend Judy Gosnell, who has visited Russia six times(!),
 took the original photo for this illustration.
She has, very kindly, given me permission to use her work here
Have you missed any of the
 Previous Journal entries
for this Russia Bound Time Travel Serial Story?
Part 1: Trip Planning







I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.

 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off
* Part 3The Winter Palace  
I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.
Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 





I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.
 Part 5:  A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace
I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.






*  *  *
Part6: Preparation for a Pop-Off






 “You’re looking distracted.”

I studied Alina’s classic profile. Was she also a descendant of the Romanov’s, or only a half-sister to Vasily Fyodorovich?

“It’s just so much more than I'm accustomed to, imperial politics, chatting with countesses, and pastry puffs filled with grouse.” I hope my response sounded more off-hand than I felt.

Alina frowned. “Ulyana’s circle is full of gossips. You can’t believe ninety-nine percent of their tittle tattle.”  She sighed. “I should have known their tongues would start wagging the moment I got up. There’s nothing they like better than a new ear to fill up with scandal, ” She gave me a long sideways look, “whether it’s the latest crim con or just ancient history.”

It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “Where are we going now?”

“You’re going to change and then we’re sending you on. There’s a portal in the-”

“No! I didn’t even get a chance to see the empress. Couldn’t I maybe hide under the buffet table, or put on one of the maid’s outfits and take a cup of tea and a sausage roll over to her?”

“And take a chance on the tsaritsa's cousin deciding you’re a tasty little bite of sausage himself? He’s got an eye for any new treat that comes decked in a cap and apron.”

I groaned as she chortled. Her melodic laughter reminded me of the sound of the evening bells.

“There’s a reason you paid for the special insurance on this trip, you know. It’s more than my job is worth. Hurry up, Lariska. Sergei’s assisting with the service and I want to get you changed before he comes looking for me.”

“Are you still concerned about him meeting me?”

“Oh no. I told him earlier, while Vasily was helping you, that  I had a visitor, and that you are a friend of a friend,. “But we’ve got to hurry to get you to the portal on time and, “ she winked at me. “He is such a distraction once he gets talking.”


The bells were tolling once more as we raced along the long corridor. Still my guide was hopeful. “Father Anton likes to keep him talking.”  We slipped past a slow-moving elderly couple who were taking their time leaving. I was darting glances everywhere taking in the details of the gloriously dressed pair, still glimmering candles, burnished icons and gilded walls, as Alina dragged me into the little ante chamber.

I convinced her to loosen my laces as soon as she had the bodice of the Worth-style gown unhooked. Just as she released the final cord, the door handle rattled  followed shortly by the sound of a key turning. “Господь.”(GodAlina gasped .

“назад! (get back) Cover yourself, Lariska!”

She grabbed up the blue velvet cape that was still lying on the table and whipped it’s folds over my half uncovered torso. I was too pleased with my state of now comfortable undress, to be overly concerned about our visitor. Besides that, I half-hoped that Vasil Fyodorovich might have returned. As Alina ran to the door, I gloried in the satisfaction of filling my lungs completely with oxygen.

Just as the door began to open, Alina grasped the handle firmly and called through the crack. “м-м-да (m-m-da) Mmm, da, Sergei. A moment please. I came in to make some repairs to my friend’s dress. She’s not quite decent.”

A man’s whispered response came through the opening. “ш-ш! (š-š-š)shhh!, shh! Alinochka.” It was a tenor voice, not the deep bass one I’d been hoping for. “I don’t want Father Anton to hear me down here.”
“It will be OK,” Alina whispered back to me. “I just remembered that that the engineers set the time back an hour on that portal, the last time they came through.” She opened the door and a dark-robed figure slipped through.
“What a relief. He harangued me for an hour before the service. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Would you believe he won’t let me-“ He broke off, having only then made out my blue-swathed shape in the dim light of the candle.

Alina sighed and assumed a formal tone. “Larisa Aleksovna, make you known to my fiancée, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

I smiled at the novice. “I understand you’re planning to enter the priesthood, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

The man had a smile that spoke of innocence coupled with a great understanding of the sins of the world. I thought it would serve him well in his chosen profession. “Yes, I am training to be a priest. First, of course we must be married.”

I looked questioningly towards Alina.

“You see the church here, Lara, feels it is important that the father have a wife. And, if a priest plans to marry, he needs to do so before he is ordained.”

“Oh, I see,” actually I didn’t quite see. I still associated the Russian Orthodox Church vaguely with the Catholic Church.

“Besides,” Alina tossed her head, “I must marry Sergei as soon as it is possible, to keep the women who pretend that they come only to pray from admiring my Sergei too much!”

“Do you expect to be married soon then?”

“We are looking forward very much to being married but there are a few complications.”
,
“Da, complications!”, Alina nodded knowingly and rubbed the fingers of her left hand together in the universal sign for money. Sergei reached out, took the  hand in his own and dropped a kiss on her fingers.

“So, you are this mysterious visitor of Alina’s - from America I think she said? I very much admire your Populist Party. Such exciting times for your country right now, I wish I could visit and see things there for myself!   Are you supporting William Jennings Bryant for president?”

I’m sure I looked as stupid as I felt. I had a vague memory of hearing some family story about my midwestern great grandmother having been heavily involved in the populist movement.

“Well, I certainly hope he’ll win. I wish even more that I were enfranchised to vote in the election. I hope you’ll get your wish to come and visit. We can always put you up on the family farm in Deerfield Illinois. Just ask anyone in town where to find the Jost Farm.” I knew for a fact that the family farm had been well stocked with Josts from before the Civil War, up until World War II. My mother’s entire family, as well as an assortment of cousins, aunts and uncles had returned to live and work there during the depression, when her father and various other relatives had lost their jobs.

He laughed. “I don’t think I will ever be able to afford to go to America. Besides, Alinochka always says I’m not a good traveler. “

My guide gave me a knowing wink.

“Why are you hiding from Father Anton, Sergei? You said he chewed you out earlier.”

I wondered in what era Alina had picked up this piece of slang, but Sergei seemed to understand her perfectly.

“Oh, it is only that he does not like me feeding Mishenka and Borya.”

“But Miska is a real help around here! This place would be overrun with mice if it weren’t for him. And Borya, well,” she paused.

“Everybody loves that dog,” Sergei concluded. “Well everybody but Father Anton. And he lays on my feet to keep them warm when I have a lot of reading or writing to do.”

“So that, could be considered as important a service to the church as catching mice,” I added.

Sergei gave me a friendly smile. It was clear the man was a charmer and I could see why Alina was taken by his obviously gentle character.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you ladies.” He moved towards the table and reached underneath to draw out a large meaty bone wrapped in greased paper. “But I managed to get this from the kitchen. Borya is waiting for me by the gate. What Father Anton doesn’t know won’t- Say what is this?”

‘This’ was the pince nez that Vasil Fyodorovich had removed from his breast pocket while helping me with the hooks on my frock. I recalled now that he had dropped the spectacles, on top of the table.  They had probably been caught in the folds of the blue velvet cape, which had also been lying on the table, and then fallen to the floor when Alina had tossed the garment over me.

“Bozeh moi,” Alina retorted. “That’s Vasily’s glass. I hope that the poor boy hasn’t needed to read anything since he was in here. He can’t survive without them.”

There was a sudden plaintive sound of mewing and the door rattled again. I recognized the sound of a cat’s paw attempting to gain entrance.

“Help me, will you, Alinocka,” Sergei wrapped the bone loosely in it’s greased paper, and extracted a small glass bottle and chipped saucer from the same box beneath the table. “You catch up Mishenka and put him out the hall window with this, before anyone hears him. I’ll take this out to good old Borya, before Father Anton notices him out in the garden.”

With a hurried murmur that she would be right back to help me finish changing my clothes, Alina slipped out after her fiancée.

I hadn’t really had much time to take in the details of the room, and later on I might wish I’d taken the trouble. Though it was relatively bare, there were a few dark prints on the walls. I walked the room, peering into the dimly lit faces of long-gone saints and sacred babies, but the room’s minimal lighting didn’t really do much in the way of visibility. Besides that, the pictures needed cleaning. I looked around for something else to do.

There was an old piece of newsprint lying on a heavy box bed built into the wall, and I carried that over to the table, where the candlestick was sitting.  There’s something delightful about reading something that still looks relatively new, when, in my own times, it would be a crumbling piece of antique ephemera. By the candle’s light I could now see that the page of paper was primarily dedicated to an advertisement for some kind of household cleaning product. The words, however, were so small that I couldn’t read them in the low light. The pince nez were laying there as well, where Sergei had put them after retrieving them from the floor. I picked up the glasses and held them over the tattered piece of print, wondering idily just how blind Vasily was without it.

The words swam before my eyes. Over and over in my head, I heard the advertising slogan from the paper my dad used to take. ‘Timely news for modern times.’   The newspaper office had long since closed its doors. No, of course it hadn’t. It might not have even opened its doors yet. Let’s see what had the banner proclaimed about the origin of the business? Time travel isn’t quite like dream travel, but there’s a similar quality to it, a sense of floating up and away and also a sense that the physical is no longer important. At least, it’s not important until you come back to your body. And at that point, the physical is really important because you can feel pretty lousy.

I leaned my head back onto the rococo wall trying to get my insides to subside. I was sitting on the floor in a welter of pink lacey skirts and blue velvet cape. The bodice of my gown was hanging down around my waist and my underpinnings were about to become utterly unpinned. I shrugged my arms back into my garments as best as I could, wrapped Alina’s cloak around myself and staggered to my feet.

I’d heard that unexpected time displacement pop-offs could happen when people were traveling, but I’d never expected to go on one myself. So, where was I? That was the first thing to figure out. When was I, would also be nice to know.

* * *

Saturday, February 26, 2011

What if I didn't score every CrackerJack Prize Ever?


Please click on the illustration above 
to enjoy something that even beats finding the decoder ring
 in the CrackerJacks box.

What if I haven't scored 
every prize in life's CrackerJack box?

It's still a pretty good ride!

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Bird Song: Well it Ain't Rainin' Today!


Please click on the robin above to see all the joyful detail
. . .

Bird Song


Well it Ain't Rainin' Today!

I didn't have the nerve to tell Mr. Migratorius, that it's only a brief respite between storms. 

Could you rain on his parade?

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Baylands Refuge

Please click on the picture above, and see if you can spot  this refuge seeker
. . .
Baylands Refuge

Hidey-hole or secret spot 

Humble as a ground squirrel, or wealthy as a Silicon Valley billionaire, everybody needs a place where they can hide out and keep a low-profile

I'm glad to know that these are protected lands for Spermophilus beecheyi.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Time Travel Trip, A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 5)


Have you missed any of the
 Previous Journal entries
for Russia Bound Time Travel?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.


Jan 13, 2011
 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

*  *  *


I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.



* * *

Part 5: A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace

The high drawing room walls were covered with pale green silk brocade and there was gilt everywhere: mirrors, picture frames, and on every kind of bibelots imaginable from clocks to vases. Normally I would have stopped to take in the beauty of the glittering decorations against their background of undersea color, but my attention was drawn to the massive table that dominated the center of the room. I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.

This was, my new friend explained, with an airy wave of her hand towards the enormous table, "just a simple evening tea". I did indeed see tea, being dispensed from a very familiar-looking samovar nearby. That genial beverage was nothing more than a side note, however, though it was a pretty elegant note.

The silver samovar had acquired a nice polish since it had left my possession. In current times, the vessel had that nice new look of a recent wedding present. The intertwined initials "N" and "A" stood out in clear relief. The insignia on the pot was easier to make out now. It was a fearsome pair of crowned, birdlike creatures with rather horrid humanesque limbs. They were holding various nasty implements with strongly royal characteristics. I recognized the emblem from a vague memory of a class worksheet pertaining to the arms of the Romanovs. No wonder the samovar had proved to be such an excellent vehicle for my travels back to the palace.

The urn sat on a small, but very elaborate, boule table shaped like an elaborate fiddle. The marquetry work was lovely, consisting of inlaid mother-of-pearl against an ebony and red background

But it was what was laid out on the thickly patterned damask covered tablecloth that really attracted me. Despite my whale boning, my travel experience had made me frankly hungry. The board was spread with the most delicious looking viands. In the middle of the cloth was a huge pyramid of sparkling crystal platters heaped with absolutely prime looking apples, pears, grapes and mandarin oranges. I've never wanted a piece of fruit so much in my life. Our modern day marketing technicians could learn a lot from whoever configured that display. Off to one side footmen were just lifting the white napkins off silver serving dishes, filled with napoleons, slices of babka and chocolate gateau, small sweet rolls, meringues, almond, raisin and fruit cookies, ginger biscuits, and three other kinds of pastry I didn't even recognize.

There were tiny crystal bowls filled with molded butter, and a colorful medley of jams and jellies, lumps of sugar and cut orange segments covered in a fine dusting of sugar. Nearby were concentric circles of bread platters that seemed to be graded by contrasting colors. There were artfully arranged pieces of black bread, dark and light ryes, steamed bread, french rolls, and slices of light brown wheat bread standing at attention. Opposite the breads where platters arranged, again, in concentric neatly arranged circles of sliced ham, chicken, tongue, turkey, beef, and something I thought might be grouse. There was also cream cheese, grated white cheddar, Swiss cheese, and green wedges that could have been cheese. Off to one side were trays of  sausage rolls and filled savory pastries, absolutely oozing with meaty filling. These were laid out on long platters made of delicate bone china, set three tiers high.

At a nearby small table a party of beautifully outfitted young women were drinking tea out of delicate green and gilt porcelain cups. A dark haired beauty in pale blue was sliding her fork into a piece of glazed babka thick with candied fruit and raisins. My mouth began to water and I looked desperately at Alina. "Do we just help ourselves?"

She answered by thrusting a plate with one of the delicious-looking chocolate laced Napoleons towards me. "Gospedee, bozhe moi, the tsarista has descended on us! Here take a mille-feuille, head over that way, and just blend in before she notices you." 

I managed to snare one of the golden pears and a piece of black bread as she hurried me across the floor towards a table by the far wall, occupied by three elderly ladies. “Why are we running away from the empress? I’d love to at least get a chance to see her. I promise not to ask for her autograph or anything!”

“She's unpopular in St. Petersburg because she's so suspicious of everyone in it.  And that just makes her even more suspicious. If she thinks you're a newcomer she'll wonder what you're doing here. We could both get the boot.

I moved my plate up so that it partially covered my profile. "So what do I do to blend in?"

"Oh Grafinja Ulyana will likely take you under her wing. If you want to get an idea of typical court gossip, you can't do any better then to join Ulyana Marovna's party. I'll introduce you." Alina kept an eagle eye on the gilded main doorway as she hurried me across the room. As much as I'd have liked to spot that ill-fated granddaughter of Queen Victoria, I was even more interested in getting through the evening without losing access to my tasty little meal, even if I didn’t manage to score some of that babka.

Grafinja Ulyana was happy to accept any friend of Alina Fyodorovna without question. It made me wonder just who Alina’s daddy Fyodor had been, when her comrades Grafinja Kseniya  and Baroness Theodora, ("She's an Austrian," Alina whispered,) made a fuss over me as well. A neatly aproned woman came around to refill my new companions teacups and deposit brimful cups for Alina and me. Porcelain cups, not tea glasses, I noticed appreciatively, despite what I'd read in my well-worn copy of Elena Molokhovets' A Gift to Young Housewives. I made a mental note to add this important historical tidbit to my travel journal.

It wasn't too long before the ladies left off complimenting me on the color of my hair, the tone of my voice, the luster of my complexion, and returned to what they'd obviously been discussing when we arrived. The Baroness was having her brand new dacha redecorated and Kseniya Grigorevna had quite a number of suggestions to make. Ulyana Marovna disagreed with most of what her friend proposed. I yawned, thinking that their conversation wasn't that all different from one I'd listened to at the neighborhood New Years Eve party, except that where I lived no landless peasants were evicted when Joy and George who lived down the street, had bought their "little place in Carmel".

Alina didn't seem much impressed by the conversation either. She jumped right up when I finished my napoleon and looked longingly towards the center table. "I'll go, Lariska. Chocolate gateau? Babka?" I indicated that a little of each wouldn't go amiss. The thought reminded me of an old joke of my father's, something about 'a little of ich, that's what we always said in the Russian army.' I wondered if my American grandfather was already hearing that joke from his father across the ocean back home. I wouldn't have been the least surprised.

I managed to slip a few piece of cheese, and one of the meat filled pastries off the Baronesses plate while the ladies heads turned to follow Alina's form across the floor.

"So, are you a member of the family too?," Grafinja Ulyana demanded once Alina had passed out of earshot.

I swallowed the rather large bite of pastry I’d just popped into my mouth. It was filled with what I thought was grouse, and was extremely tasty. I hoped that the napkin I quickly applied to my mouth made me look like I was delicately bred, and not like a glutton who'd bitten off more than she could properly chew.

"Family?" The word, coming on the heels of the grouse, was a little croaky.

"Yes, the family. One of Fyodor's um- connections?"

I suppose I looked as stupid as I felt. "I never met Alina's father. We're not related. I don't even know-"

"Himmel, Grafinja! The girl isn't one of these morganatic connections of which your Russian aristocracy has so many. Anyone can see she's German or Prussian. Our men marry their wives properly!"

Ulyana snorted. "The Teutons are the worst when it comes to morganatic marriages, what about The  Countess of Merenberg?"

Kseniya nodded. "It's true, Baroness. My mother always said-"

"Are you trying to tell me that Alina's parents are Romanov's?"

All three women turned in my direction. Ulyana raised one eyebrow. "No one really knows for sure, but the Tsar's father was very friendly with Alina’s mother before he was engaged to Maria Fyodorovna, when his brother was still alive. And then she married rather quickly and had Vasily. And that marriage wasn’t even recognized. It was all very irregular. Well I mean, look at his name, Vasily, what it means in the Greek!"

The name was starting to ring a bell, all right. I wished I had my cell phone. I was dying to look up the Greek connection for "Vasily".

"I’ve heard that rumor, but I’ve never believed it. Everyone always said that Tsar Alexander remained faithful to Maria Fyodorovna," Kseniya insisted.

"Well, of course they would say that. Though I don’t actually know if there was any gossip after the marriage itself.” Ulyana tapped her front teeth thoughtfully. “I mean Vasily and Alina’s mother married Maria Fyodorovna's cousin, even if the contract couldn’t be acknowledged legally, it gave her children a father. And those children even have the same patronymic as the dowager empress, because it's a family name. These things can be kept in the family. You know that as well as I do.”

I didn’t need my cell phone anymore. I’d remembered the connection. Alina's mother had planted rather a strong hint when she gave her son the Russian name derived from the Greek word for royalty.

“There's no doubt that Vasily has the Tsar's ear.” Ulyana added. “Well he would, if they're half-brothers, wouldn't he?"


Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Baylands: Believing


Please, click on the illustration above 
to enjoy the really glorious detail

Baylands: Believing

It took a lot of people believing that marshlands were vital to the future of a good many people and animals, for this area to be set aside. It took a lot of people pushing, talking and, maybe even shouting down other people. From the birds point of view,  it's the difference between a place to settle for a few days, eat up and rest, and flying on in desperation. When you eat like a bird, that's the difference between survival and raising your family and not making it.


Today I vote for believing mixed with a heavy dose of being pushy. 
* * * 



A few other illustrated Baylands Bites from this journal have included:

Baylands Bounty

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2011

Some of us have to really put our heart into searching for supper.






Jan 11, 2011 

I’m partial to a pickle myself. S. pacifica likes that salty taste even more than I do. 

Jan 02, 2011
California buckwheat,. Eriogonum fasciculatum var. foliolosum. Please click on the picture above to immerse yourself in the detail of this lovely buckwheat bouquet. What's so great about the. BaylandsNature Preserve? ...

Jan 09, 2011
I think this gentleman is trying to nerve himself up to go in. I'm like that about lake swimming. I know you're supposed to be tough and jump right in, but....

Jan 03, 2011
Pretty delicious, particularly if your name is Pickle Weed, Cord Grass or Salt Marsh Harvest Mouse. You may also enjoy A BaylandsBouquet. ... to enjoy this really salty repast.




Monday, February 14, 2011

'Tis a Gift To Be Simple: A Valentine

The Simple Romantic, thinks that nothing could be more simple or romantic, than these butterflies working steadily away to earn their living the old fashioned way. Location: Conservatory of Flowers at Golden Gate Park, San Francisco California

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Sewing: It's Only Fit







It is only fit, my sister, that you turn to your needle, a steadfast occupation such as this will never cause others to doubt your worth.


  from "Lady Lizbeth's Sewin' Chronicles






* * *
Sewing: It's Only Fit



So much blue-skying about the Never Too Many White Shirt Project. Hey, I finally got down to brass ( or is that tailor's?) tacks! It's only fit that I start with fit. 



A great chance to learn to work with one of the Burda Style Patterns. For a study break yesterday, I began figuring out how to trace from one of the magazine pattern sheets. In the past, I've been too intimidated by the hazy, crisscrossed, maze of lines on the Burda sheets, but I'm getting there. I taped together three sheets of waxed paper. A sharpie seems to work better than a thin tipped marker. I got the whole back and the significant part of a sleeve cut out. I love waxed paper.


Decided to start my shirt project with a blouse (I remember that the Sew Forth Now podcast where Lori interviewed Barbara, Barbara said - "Your shirt might be a blouse". Well my first one will be). This is a collarless, rounded-v neck blouse (I think it's Burda Style 412 and I think it's a fall 2010 Burda Style magazine) with, some asymmetric ruffles, and an elbow length sleeve that pleases, though I'll be fooling with how I want that sleeve end to be. 


This go 'round, I'm mostly going to concentrate on getting the torso to fit in a way I like. I took measurements in cm. A little unsure about where I bravely cut the pattern back and where I didn't. Well - that's the point of the muslin. Next time I'll focus on outlining the front - need to tape up more waxed paper - then onto finding the scrappiest muslin or ancient destined-for-the-rag bag material to try out the basic fit. 


Onward.



* * *
This entry represents one sewers progress 
in the 

Followers