Superman, The Man of Steel, on Cotton

 

5x5 inch square; outline free motion quilting; colour added with Inktense Pencils

Part of The Tunnel Journey

I’m trying to remember when I first stumbled upon The Man of Steel.  Probably, some older cousin forgot one of his Superman comics at our house.  Initial contact isn’t that important.  It’s the outcome that counts.

While I don’t know how the affair started, I do know that it has never really ended.  I still have that same fluttery feeling when I see that muscled blue unitard with the red cape flying defiantly behind it.  Surely this is the ultimate pinnacle of society’s ethics.  Surely it is a sign that one day we will seek to do only good.  And be able to fly.  My nine-year-old concept of Superman remains my adult version of him. 

 My childhood was littered with criminals, all of them fictional.  In this particular sphere, crime, in all its myriad ugliness, existed only so that Superman would have something to do - immerse himself in vigilantism.  It mattered not that he completely lacked any policing credentials whatsoever, and had never spent even one minute at any law enforcement academy.  He was an innate crime fighter, proving that you didn’t really need special training if you have enough passion. Without Superman, Lex Luther, the embodiment of badness, could easily take over the world in a single afternoon, subverting all that is nice and replacing it with all that is un-nice.  Bad without its corollary, good, is, well, just bad.  It’s the contrast that makes it salient.  And if you can add an amazing flying physique to that contrast it makes for some great escapist fiction, with a side order of morality.

But, despite all his prowess, Superman still had his foible. Notice that there is no ‘s’ on that word. Superman was assigned but one foible – susceptibility to kryptonite.  This substance is so synonymous with the concept of fatal weakness that things that cause us to fall prey to our flaws are now referred to “our kryptonite”.  Superman made that possible.

I always worried that I would find a chunk of kryptonite in the back yard.  It seemed possible, as other stuff showed up there inexplicably – bits of glass in brown, green, or blue (never clear), unidentified car parts, evidence of dogs we didn’t own, rocks that weren’t there yesterday. Landscaping wasn’t much of a priority back then, nor was there much guidance about where to throw your junk.  In the post WWII neighbourhood, you had a house, maybe a driveway, and likely a picket fence to enclose your kingdom.  Planting stuff was left up to God or Nature, depending on your leanings, and a mingling of grass and weeds was a more than suitable lawn.  The peony bush that crept over from the neighbour’s yard was dually claimed without further thought.  It was enough.

The on-going and seemingly insurmountable issue of the kryptonite threat kind of bothered me.  I felt like it shouldn’t exist, him being “invulnerable” and all.  But I could not deny the role kryptonite had to play in demonstrating how elusive and unreachable excellence could be.

The kryptonite thing got started when Superman’s planet spontaneously blew up, in what Wikipedia lists as a “cataclysmic event”.  There are no additional details.  In my ever-growing list of apocalyptic events to worry about, cataclysm doesn’t even make the first eighteen.  That kind of bothered me – if planetary annihilation happened to Superman, maybe it could crop up here too.  Thankfully, Jor-El, Superman’s dad, saw it coming. He built some kind of space cradle and jettisoned baby Superman into space at the last possible second, aiming it at the ever-reliable Planet Earth.  Baby Superman didn’t need food or diaper changes, so he was fresh as a rose and quite appealing when he and his space cradle plopped down at the Kent’s farm somewhere in fictional Iowa. They took him in and raised him like a single-bodied twin, with the Clark Kent/Superman alter-ego thing known only to them.

The ultimate downside of Superman's planet going kablooey (other than losing a whole planet full of very technically advanced people) is that it generated a whole lot of kryptonite, as is common with exploding planets.  And some of that foul mineral followed the super cradle to Earth.  Some of this kryptonite arrived sooner, some later, and most of it fell preferentially into the back yards of super villains, many of them babies themselves at the time.  This did not bode well for Superman’s future.

Kryptonite introduced me to a whole new term: invulnerable.  What? I had to look that up in the dictionary at school, the internet still being at least thirty years out from being invented, and Mom being too preoccupied with apple pie baking to stand in as a dictionary.  I discovered that things were either ‘vulnerable’ or ‘invulnerable’, but mostly the former. Kryptonite, in all its gleaming green glory, not to mention its alternatively coloured forms, could jolt Superman out of his never-going-to-need-a-gym state of health. He could be killed, or just be injured, or get sick. Superman could throw up.  

Was nothing in life perfect?

Despite the kryptonite affliction, Superman had a few lessons up his Spandex sleeve. Don’t be a criminal was probably the most memorable one, although I kind of liked the idea of crime, since it gave Superman and Nancy Drew a raison d’etre.  Other than that, it was all just the white bread world of Winnie the Pooh. 

Superman also motivated me towards independence.  Each Friday I was given my allowance, a quarter. It was never two dimes and a nickel, always a quarter.  Out of that twenty-five cents I had to come up with a sound financial plan each week.  Would I squander it on a sickeningly huge bag of candy, or maybe a modest bag of candy with an ice cream cone on the side?  A five-cent popsicle could also be good value for my money, leaving twenty cents for discretionary spending. But there was always that twelve cent Superman comic to consider. Issues of the comic didn’t necessarily come out every week, but the odd time two issues would come out in the same week, leaving only enough change for the purchase of a wad of gum drops.  Comics, however, could certainly be read numerous times, an excellent and lasting investment.  Foregoing the candy was a no-brainer.  I bought and read those Superman comics like a dying man reads the Afterlife Manual. 

Each Saturday I would take that twenty-five cents in my fist (never once losing it) and venture six block to the magazine store downtown.  I would bypass the local “corner store” in case they lacked the newest comic and induced me to waste my money on sponge toffee. It was a solo journey that I undertook with all the solemnity of a first climb of Everest.  If no new Superman issues waited in the display case, I would ponder other purchases, perhaps Richie Rich, or Donald Duck, or even Archie – but only if I thought this might be the week where Betty would triumph over that b----- , Veronica.  It was imperative to buy the Superman comic, lest he be stuck in kryptonite up to his neck.  If so, I would need to rescue him by grimly turning the pages until he out-witted his evil opponent.  After that, we would both need to retreat to our Fortresses of Solitude in complete exhaustion.

While Sunday school, regular school, and “the look” from Mom were all valuable in tweaking my moral compass, I could not deny that Superman played a more than a minimal role in the crafting of my ethics framework.

Lessons Learned

Invulnerability:  Good

Crime:  Bad

Kryptonite:  Really Bad

Financial Management:  Forego the candy

Walking to the Store Solo:  Stellar

Beaky (Or Julie?) the Greedy Duck

 

5x5 inch square; outline free motion quilting; colour added with Inktense Pencils

Part of The Tunnel Journey

 

When I was about eight years old my mother gave me a copy of Beaky the Greedy Duck.  I no longer have that book so I can’t consult it for a refresher of the plot.  However, I recall that Beaky was a white duck who wore a blue and white checkered pinafore, and lived with a bunch of other non-pinafore wearing ducks in a farm yard.  If there was an explanation for the pinafore it escapes me, as does what exactly a pinafore is.  What I do remember about the book was that Beaky, unlike all the other nameless ducks in the barnyard, was guilty of greediness.  A bad thing. 

 

This was the first time I ever stuck my head out of my childish self-centeredness long enough to examine my own character. Was I too weighed down by greediness? Had my mother given me this book as a lesson and a warning to mend my greedy ways?  Was I so far along on the Scale of Ultimate Greed that she could not face telling me, and had to let me discover my ultimate evil nature in a book?

 

This seemed odd. She was pretty skilled at telling me when I was too loud (my Dad’s Prime Rule being “no hollerin’ in the house”), or when I needed to be nudged back into unblemished obedience by remembering to take that clean hankie for health inspection at school.  A Kleenex wouldn’t do for that all important weekly event. It might get tattered in my pocket and was likely to come out with at least one gumball stuck to it. She was the picture of persistence on the topic of picking up the clothes that I’d artfully flung about my room.  But here it was in all its ugliness.  Greediness. I had a character flaw so monumental that it needed to be pointed out in a textual parable.  And this flaw was of such magnitude that I dared not address it by asking my mother about it.  It was up to me to mend my ways by avoiding the pitfalls of greed into which the motherless Beaky had unwittingly fallen. 

 

At age eight I was a little hazy on what did and did not constitute greediness.  Beaky wasn’t really helping me, seducing me into wanting a blue and white checkered pinafore just like hers.  Lacking the word for “coveting” I labelled that pinafore lust as “greed”.  Not only was Beaky not helping me, she was throwing gasoline on the fire of my greediness.  Why would Beaky do this to me?  Maybe greed wasn’t her only flaw. I began to suspect that all ducks were an unsavory breed, purposed with teaching naughty children painful lessons and subverting childish self-satisfaction.  Did adults know this about ducks?

 

Greed began to sneak up on me from everywhere.  It gnawed at me when I went for that second piece of pie…but not enough to stop me from eating it.  It glowered at me when I divided up the chocolates even though I gave away more than I kept.  What was the magic number needed to dispel greediness?

 

Possibly, “want” was greediness in disguise and I denied that my too-small gym shoes were in need of replacement, despite the appearance of my big toes through the canvas. When Christmas came, I circled an austere ten items in the Sears catalogue, not the usual twenty-five.  I clenched my jaw and left the picture of the Lincoln Logs un-circled.

 

But was it enough? Had Mother noticed how rarely the monster of greed squeezed me in its claws? If she did, she was adept at keeping it to herself. 

 

Like a dying leper clutching a Bible, I continued to read Beaky almost daily, searching for clues that would heal me.  When dust cover fell into a shambles my mother at last commented.  “You really like that book, don’t you?”  She failed to recognize that the stains she thought were Allen’s Apple Juice (the best kind, from the giant can), were actually tears of despair. 

 

I needed to up my game by giving something significant away.  Certainly not my hand-crafted Barbie clothes or the collection of scarves I’d knit for my stuffed animals. And not my Superman comics, which still had plenty of entertainment and enlightenment left in them, having been read a mere seventeen times each.  My eyes fell on my bag of marbles.  If I gave half of them away, I would still have plenty left to play with, especially since, being a girl, we did not play for keepsies.  That was for those crazed risk-taking bad boys with no respect for their own personal property.  I sorted out my least favourite ones with satisfaction - some of them being scratched, or chipped, or both.  I distributed them among various friends, and tried not to bite my lip too hard when I saw how emaciated that left the Crown Royal bag.  Battling greed required sacrifice.

 

No one seemed to notice my new found philanthropy, and how I always insisted that my second piece of pie be “not too big”.  How could I have extinguished a major, possibly fatal, character flaw and not one single person came forward on bended knee offering gratitude?  I was discovering how cruel the world could be.

 

One day when I came home from school, there was a brown envelope on the table.  For me. Oh joy, an unexpected gift, such a rare and precious thing.  My smiling mother directed me to open it.  It was…another book.  “Look! It’s the next one in the series. I subscribed for you - I know how much you loved Beaky”. 

Mick the Disobedient Puppy stared up at me with perceptive eyes.  I was pretty sure that Mick was about to make that duck look like a saint.

 

Light at the End of the Tunnel - Getting Started

 

February 2021

5x5 inch squares; outline free motion quilting; colour added with Inktense Pencils

Part of The Tunnel Journey

Once again, the guild gauntlet has been laid down.  This year’s quilting challenge: The Light at the End of the Tunnel.  I’m hoping that when I read this in a few years’ time I won’t remember why we needed to visit this particular concept.

It’s now been a year since I’ve seen the other guild members in person, except for “lucky” circumstances - like when we’ve crossed paths in the hospital or at the drug store. Such is the wonder of living in a small city.  Like everyone else in my life, they have receded into figures that populate Zoom meetings, FaceTime sessions, or primitive non-video phone calls.  It’s a scary fact that the non-family member I’ve seen the most in the last year is the woman who cuts my hair.  And right now, even she is out of reach, all stores and so-called non-essential services being closed.  Strangely, dog groomers are open.  They refuse to cut my hair.  These are trying times.

Yes, it’s COVID time. We’re one year into a pandemic. Each dwelling is a private fortress. No non-family member can enter your personal Fortress of Solitude.  You can leave, but only at your own peril. Social gatherings, travel, and shopping have fallen into the forbidden zone; fashion has ceased to exist unless you are considering what face mask matches your parka.  We have all become major consumers of alcohol – on our hands.  For the first time in my privileged life, I am witnessing poorly stocked shelves in grocery stores, something I’d previously thought impossible. 

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.  This bit of folk wisdom basically means, meh, wait it out. You’ll adapt.  You won’t necessarily be made stronger by adversity, but as time passes the hideous situation you’re facing will seem less onerous, giving you the illusion that you are stronger.  And really, you don’t need much more than illusion to get through situations you can’t possibly change. 

Different people are coping with the pandemic in different ways.  My sister is accessing every written word and podcast on the subject of coronavirus, knowledge being a cushioning sword.  My husband is tracking vaccine news at a fevered pace that has me running for the thermometer.   He gives hourly reports on the hopeful/shocking/enraging/encouraging statistics as they vacillate like lathered-up horses toiling along in the Kentucky Derby.

So, you can see why Light at the End of the Tunnel became the concept for this year’s quilting challenge.  Now there doesn’t have to be an actual tunnel, the idea is to create something that makes you feel joyful, happy or hopeful. Actually, reading over the minutes of the last meeting, I see it is “joyful, happy and hopeful”, but I’m pretty sure in that tall order, “or” should be substituted for “and”.  Nailing all three seems more like a lifetime pursuit, not a quilting challenge.

Of course, I am inclined to take things in a literal direction, so I immediately started exploring tunnels.  Virtually, of course.  I looked at online photos of tunnels, and investigated arches as well, because when seen in a disappearing cascade, they suggest tunnelishness.  Concentric rings and the like were also potential creative fodder.  All of these photos looked great, but, ugh, what about that ever-present monster,  The Copyright Beast?  Of sure, you can try to contact the photographer to get permission to do a derivative work, but, HA, just try to find that mythical unicorn-of-a-person after their photo has been sent through the mill of Google and Pinterest postings!  Sherlock Holmes would despair of ever pulling the cat of that labyrinthic bag. 

Never mind the photos. I drew a picture of a tunnel (okay, it was just a doodle) but could not make myself scale it up into a quilt. It seemed like something that would reactivate my vertigo if it ballooned into anything big enough to be hung on the wall.  I didn’t want to quilt anything that would require maintaining an ongoing therapeutic level of Gravol in my bloodstream. 

I consulted some photos we had taken of Kettle Valley Steam Railway in British Columbia.   This is a tourist site of walking trails through defunct railway tunnels.  My photos were so-so.  I had been more enamored with the rarity of playing with a flashlight in a tunnel than I was of capturing clever, nested tunnel photos.  Nothing quilt-worthy there.  Maybe I could do a flashlight in a tunnel...oh wait, I forgot to take a picture of that.

I consulted my artist friend.  She’s not a quilter, but when it comes to designing something, your medium of choice doesn’t matter.  Through discussions with her, I was yanked out of my blocked tunnel and into thinking about the actual concepts at stake: joy, happiness, hope.  I started to think that COVID with its seemingly infinite imposed limitations was perhaps not the first “tunnel” I had encountered.

Every life comes with at least a dollop of adversity, and sometimes it comes with gobs, shovelfuls, or even truckloads of the stuff.  It’s part of living, and like the days where you realize you left your wallet at home after pumping the gas, there’s just no getting around it.  But sometimes, you can temporarily escape from hardship.  Like everything else to do with the pandemic, it will have to be a virtual escape.  And while I’ve been known to perform my virtual escape act with tubs of ice cream, I do have to admit that is a fairly risky option if deployed too often.  And I have a drawer full of elastic topped pants to prove it.

But…what about…fiction?  Haven’t I done a disappearing act into fiction since I first encountered Beaky the Greedy Duck (so, so, SO, much more greedy and imperfect than me!) and Nancy Drew?  Didn’t I solve mysteries with Nancy when I lacked a playmate (as close as I got to the “end of the world” in my gloriously simple childhood) or the day I broke the frog flowerpot?  Didn’t I fight jungle ants with Tom Stetson when boredom threatened to chew off the edges of my soul?  Weren’t Charlie Brown and Snoopy my guiding lights who were not only funny but who seemed perhaps a little less lucky than me, making my own particular tunnel a little shinier?  These beacons were the collective fictional souls who had populated my childhood when the real stuff was, well, just too real.

Surely, they were quilt worthy.  I wondered if using images of them would awaken the slumbering Copyright Police. It’s a good thing Charles Schultz wasn’t looking over my shoulder during all those hours when eight-year-old me was trying to perfect my own Snoopy drawings!  I decided I would have to be willing to just take the insane risk of having Charles Shultz’s estate sue me for stitching one image of Charlie Brown.  Surely, they would not do this to me after I’d spent the better part of my allowance on those 40 cent joke books for years on end, and then sheltered those same books for over fifty years.  They would show compassion. It’s pandemic time!  We all have to make sacrifices.  

So, I’ve taken Charlie Brown and Snoopy and characters from Frogmorton, and I’ve outline stitched them onto unbleached cotton, and coloured them with Inktense pencils.  I have no idea if these squares and the others honoring my favorite fictional characters will ever make it into a finished quilt, or if perhaps they will just end up in a really pretty box sharing space with the dust bunnies under the bed. But, while making these squares, I have indeed experienced joy, happiness, and hopefulness.  I’ve also experienced the nostalgia of knowing that every member of my childhood household read these Peanuts joke books.  Numerous times.  And there it is - the light at not only the end of the tunnel, but at the beginning as well.

The Tunnel Journey - Looking for the Light at the End of the Tunnel

 

February 2021 - Books that have inspired the Tunnel Journey

The design of quilts often has curious origins.  My current project has involved a lot of reflection on tunnels.

We routinely drive through tunnels without much of a thought.  But have you ever noticed that a feeling of relief comes over you when the light at the far end is sighted, and you know for certain that you will make it through?  It’s a bit of sparkle that comes unbidden from somewhere deep in our psyche.

We often casually use the expression “the light at the end of the tunnel” without really digging into its meaning.  Tunnels are a deep metaphor for trouble in our lives, and how we must strive/endure/cope until that stressful situation comes to some kind of resolution.  The current pandemic has been a globally shared tunnel for over a year now.  Many exit routes are offered up; at this moment, all are tantalizingly beyond our grasp.  But, slowly, we are making our way toward those exits. 

Mired in various tunnels over the years, I have often turned to the distraction of fiction and stories.  Their characters easily populated my overactive imagination as a child.  These fictional friends often allowed me to find a bit of respite while battling my way out of a tunnel - which in my younger days was usually something monumental - like having my skipping rope stolen right out of my hands.  Stories were a great place to wait it out, and looking back, I can see many covert lessons in those stories.  Morals, values, aspirations, humor – they were all there, carving out new ways of being, tweaking my character as I empathized with the woes of Charlie Brown, shared the lonely triumphs of Superman, saw my own childish anguish diminish as Rudolph’s imperfection was finally recognized as an essential save-the-day asset.

Unknowingly, I have spent a lifetime under the influence of fictional characters who not only held my hand, but handed me the necessary tools I needed to negotiate the unexpected tunnels of life. And as I take a step back to soak in the big picture, I can see what stitches our lives together. It’s the stories.  They become the framework for how our lives unfold as they weave in and out of the stories of those we encounter.  Some stories intersect for a paragraph, some for a chapter, and some are spread across the encyclopedic volumes that stack up behind us over the decades. Each story has a beginning, and an ending, and if we are really lucky, a lesson or two that will propel us forward.

So, when challenged at our quilt guild to come up with a “light at the end of the tunnel” quilt, I went down a few tunnels, ultimately deciding to yield centre stage to my fictional friends and mentors who have journeyed the unanticipated tunnels with me over the years.  The next post details the beginning of this journey.