mama dear | reverse threading

January 16, 2026
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

so. to sew. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i used the old singer when i sewed the shutter-curtains for the nursery. i placed it on a piano bench and sat on the loveseat to sew. it was mama dear’s no-bells-no-whistles machine – the kind that is stored in a black case – and i was hoping that her seamstress skills would transfer to me as i stitched. i didn’t quite finish the curtains before our daughter arrived – a week earlier than expected.

i have another machine – a sears kenmore – from when i was about ten or twelve, i guess. it’s in a sewing cabinet – the machine stores down under the lid – and one can sit right at it to sew. i’ve sewn innumerable things on this machine. it doesn’t have bells and whistles either, so it’s a workhorse.

because i was dedicated to the art of sewing – at least back in the day – i’ve accumulated many patterns through the years, storing them carefully in a bin so that they would keep their tissue-pattern-integrity.

i just opened the bin and took them all out, laying them on the dining room table, organizing them to move them along. there are about 75 of them, many toddler patterns and craft patterns. the 80s and the 90s were craft-heavy times and i was right in there sewing bunnies and dolls, quilting pillows and piecing sweatshirt appliqués. the fabric store was an inspiring adventure limited only to your imagination. attending art and craft shows was glorious fun, a place to get new ideas and marvel at others’ craftiness.

it was quite late in the 90s when it occurred to me to show at these art and craft fairs as a musician. way different than concerts or even wholesale show marketing, i’d set up a booth with a keyboard and displays and play all day while simultaneously selling cds. the being-a-mom skill of talking while playing transferred easily from mom-ing to entrepreneur. providing music for the background of people – most notably, women – to shop with friends and linger over beautiful homemade objects was a joy and i sold thousands upon thousands of cds at these shows over the course of some years.

until, of course, the advent of writeable cds.

being able to rip a cd from another cd enabled the buying market to do-it-themselves and severely shrunk cd sales from independent artists.

and then came streaming, a death-blow to these same independent artists.

but i digress.

i wonder how many people sew now. i wonder if moms still make matching jumpers for their baby girls and themselves. i wonder if people are still sewing bunnies and dolls and pillows. with the bankruptcy of joann fabrics – a legend for those of us who devotedly bought fabric there – i wonder if imagination is sparked as brightly in small fabric departments of other craft-type stores; joann’s was packed with fabrics and knowledgeable store personnel who could answer most any question from aspiring seamstresses.

sewing is kind of like riding a bike. you think you’ve forgotten how to thread the machine – until you sit down in front of it and your hands automatically weave the thread in and out of tiny sprockets and around dials. you think you’ve forgotten the little tidbits of wisdom you’ve gleaned along the way as you lay out a pattern or cut or piece a few patterns together to craft your own iteration of something – and then it all comes rushing back as you touch the ever-familiar manila-colored tissue paper.

i thought i would just move all the patterns along. and then a few caught my eye. “i could make those overalls,” i thought, and “what an easy pj pattern” – and i was hooked.

maybe half a dozen patterns made the cut – to stay with my sewing supplies. the toddler patterns moved on – for other moms or for grandmas to joyfully create. the craft patterns will move on as well. i already have a yo-yo quilt in my future and who knows what i’ll do with all the sports t-shirts left behind by the girl and the boy. we’ll see.

the coolest part of it all – revisiting all these patterns – was remembering the fun challenge of a sewing project and the excitement of a newly-purchased bag of fabric, feeling my grandmother’s legacy surge through me, the expansive way creating creates more ideas for creating.

*****

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September 18, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 3 Comments

the L box. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

mama dear repurposed gramps’ old wooden cigar boxes. she’d label them with a magic marker with a big Z or a big B on the front – which stood for zippers and buttons.

i have these old cigar boxes. The Z box now stores nespresso pods in our sunroom. the B box stores harmonicas, kazoos, egg shakers in my studio. the unlabeled corona cigar box is in the office and is loaded with business cards from days when my recording label was flourishing.

the zippers from the Z box are in with my sewing supplies.

and the buttons from the B box? there is a giant collection of buttons. tiny buttons, metal buttons, plastic buttons, wooden buttons, buttons with distinction, whimsical buttons, spare buttons in those tiny plastic bags along with a bit of matching colored thread – that used to come with every blazer, every shirt, every coat.

it is a direct connect to pass by these button-flowers – these fading daisies in the meadow – and think of mama dear, my grandmother, my sweet momma’s mom. she is the person who taught me how to sew and i simply cannot so much as thread a needle without thinking of her.

i found a letter from mama dear the other day. it was from early 1980. i was 20. in it she thanked me for a christmas gift i had given her and a card i had sent from a trip to visit my parents. no one knew at the time it would be her last holiday season. born in 1899, she was a feisty almost-81 with bright red hair and a penchant for gambling slot machines in vegas. in her letter she wrote, “i hope you are happy with your choice” referring to my staying in new york instead of going to florida with my parents as they retired.

at the time it wasn’t really a difficult choice. i was at the beginning stages of a composing/recording/performing career and retirement-central wasn’t the place to grow. so, yes, i was happy with my choice. until one day when that choice became dangerous and i fled all semblance of my budding career, leaving any feisty i had inherited from mama dear behind, devastatingly leaving all artistry buds behind for decades to come.

the button-flowers are charming. they punctuate the masses of goldenrod lighting up the meadows. and they make me think of my button collection.

i have no idea what i will do with all of those buttons. i suppose one day i will list them on marketplace and give them away to a seamstress or crafter who will make creative use of them. maybe i will tell them a little about mama dear, about how many of these buttons are vintage, about how they carry a spirit of feisty red-headed grandma in them.

or maybe i’ll just quietly gift them the collection and hold onto the feisty myself.

and every time i pass a button-daisy on the side of a trail i’ll check in – inside – and make sure it’s still there – the feisty – still growing, still challenging me, still repurposing into profound and important choices for the L box. Life.

*****

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October 12, 2023
by kerrisherwood11 Leave a comment

lipstick. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

mama dear always wore lipstick. it really didn’t matter what the occasion or if there even was an occasion. she had her lipstick on and carried it in her purse to refresh. she came to mind the moment i saw this hibiscus. this was the color.

my grandmother had red hair – for as long as i can remember. she also had a red-hair-personality. she was sassy and stubborn, full of sisu; she did red hair proud. she was one of my best friends and we sat together and ate rye toast sipping tea talking about life in her last years. i was in my beginning years when she was in her ending years. i was just experimenting with make-up and she wore lipstick. well.

i still don’t wear lipstick. sometimes a little lip balm, but never lipstick. despite my big sister’s best efforts – for decades – to find the right shade, the best hue, the most moisturizing, the longest-lasting, it’s never felt quite right on me.

even now, as i see my lips fade a bit from my face – in the way that aging does that – i can’t wear hibiscus – or even soft peach-fuzz-rose – on my lips. though mama dear, my own sweet momma, my sister all looked and look stunningly beautiful with the added color to their perfect faces, something has always precluded me.

in the photo shoot for my second album cover, the make-up artist chose a lip pencil, carefully outlining and then filling in with – yes – deep red color. after the album was released, i had my dear graphic designer tone it down, re-releasing the jacket to resemble me a little more. for to release a jacket that didn’t hold true to what i looked like felt contrary to the release of music i had written from deep in my heart. i believe mama dear would understand.

so i guess i will stick with lip balm and the hibiscus will stay on the stem and i will have sweet memories and giant appreciation for its color in the world.

*****

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*mama dear 1974 in finland at the unveiling of famous composer and relative uuno klami‘s monument*. *uuno would understand, too.*

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June 2, 2023
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

rag rugs and quilts and wood floors. [k.s. friday]

mama dear made rag rugs. i still have a few of them. for a long time, a rag rug served as a faux tablecloth on the kitchen table. eventually, after years of washings, the stitches loosened up and i tucked it carefully into the drawer of a cupboard in the dining room.

my grandmother also made yoyo quilts. she took outgrown clothing and bits of leftover fabric bolts and cut circles from them. sewing a running stitch along the perimeter she pulled and it gathered into a rosette-round. hundreds of rosettes later, even thousands, she stitched them together into quilts full of visceral memories of moments spent in party dresses or aprons or simple a-lines. yoyo quilts sell on etsy for a few hundred dollars, but i would never sell mine.

some day i’d like to make a yoyo quilt. i had envisioned my children cherishing one made from clothing they wore as little ones, but i realize that their level of thready is nowhere near mine, so i will have to make the quilt for myself. i have saved their clothing to do just that – tiny overalls, sweet sundresses, toddler leggings, mini blue jeans, printed onesies and receiving blankets – for a yoyo or even for a traditional quilt, both projects which seem like mindfulness exercises even with the tedious work needed to create them. someday.

we walked into the door of the farmhouse. it was our second time there. i remembered it as homey and just perfect for what we needed – as a gathering space for the family, the rest of whom were staying in a hotel. i remembered the blue walls, the chalkboard cabinet doors with messages, the photographs. i remembered the cheer.

but i had forgotten about the rag rugs. instant bonding.

in early morning, the sun rose past the horizon, peeked under the porchroof, around the adirondack chairs and the swinging platform, past the sleeping gracie-cat and up and over the fern perched on the rusty-red outside cellar doors.

but at just the right time, in later afternoon, it curled around the silo and the barn out on the west side, streamed in through the screen door and bathed the old wood floor and the rag rug in light. like a spotlight on something simply beautiful, it called out to be noticed.

i wonder how hard it is to make a rag rug. mama dear never showed me how she made them. i suppose i could take them out of the upstairs closet where they linger, waiting for the right chance to use them again. maybe i could figure it out. it can’t be too very difficult to discern the process. but my grandmother was a talented seamstress and i remember mama dear sewing and sewing, her hands moving quickly – at her singer or with needle and thread – and talking, talking, talking as she sewed. the only time she didn’t speak was when she would (don’t try this at home) store pins pursed between her lips. i thought that straight pins needed ‘spittin’ on’ in order to use them. it wasn’t for a few years until i learned that my grandmother was not spitting on the pins before she used them. perception – as a child – is a funny thing. what i did understand was how much she made things for all of us. no spit needed, just lots of love.

rag rugs and quilts and wood floors. they go straight to my heart.

*****

WHERE I’M FROM ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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July 5, 2021
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momma’s 100th birthday. [merely-a-thought monday]

i hope there is chocolate ganache cake and asti spumante. today is my sweet momma’s 100th birthday and, wherever she is roaming in that other plane of existence, i want there to be an enormous celebration of this day she was born back in 1921. there is not a moment i don’t miss her. there is not a moment that i am unaware of her presence.

the dining room table is piled with all kinds of finnish glassware and etched crystal and scandinavian birchwood as i empty bins that have been packed for years. i carefully unwrap the end-of-roll-clean-newsprint that layers between these and i’m immediately reminiscent. every here and there there is a tiny note, written by my mom, to explain the origins of this vase or that kissing-couple-wine-stopper. i have many questions and know that they will now go unanswered. i find myself researching and researching, a google-fest of information about these items, some of which have no story i can access.

i am drawn to pieces and carefully clean them. we poured chilled white wine into a pair of chunky goblets, ittala ultima thule glass designed by tapio wirkkala, inspired by melting ice in lapland. yesterday i made strawberry rose sangria and poured it into glasses from a heavy crystal etched pitcher, which i remember was a gift to my parents early in their marriage. the other day we had happy hour snacks out on the deck, olives and crackers and goat cheese on hand-painted japanese china, a post-world-war-two-origin lost to me, served on a glass mid-century hazel atlas boopie berwick party platter (which is actually called a ‘smoke and snack tray’ but i can’t bring myself to call it that.)

the history gathers in our dining room and i can almost feel the cheers of my momma and my dad, my grandmother mama dear and grandfather gramps. they encourage my googling and they also encourage me to sort through and find the things that really resonate with me. i can hear my momma telling me, “pass it on to someone” or “sell it!” as i unpack more bins of things, things, things that would otherwise remain packed. although i still abide by the unspoken ‘beaky rule’ to saaave new things for a bit before using them, keeping all these things packed in bins for years, no, decades – unused – is silliness and it is rewarding time spent opening it all up, seeing what’s there, going through, incorporating these jewels into our daily life. i know that is making my momma smile.

today we will lift our glasses to my momma, our beaky, and celebrate her. her spirit and spunk live on. her stink eye penetrating look, her raised eyebrow “oh?”, her ‘write-a-lettuh’, her sisu, her new-yorkishness. her kindness, her storytelling, her love.

today i will light a candle and gently ring the delicate glass bell she and my dad received as a wedding gift and i will be grateful that this day – 100 years ago – my momma was born on this earth. for that, this world is better.

*****

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November 17, 2020
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unpredictable beauty. [two artists tuesday]

“sometimes beauty is that unpredictable; a threshold we had never noticed opens, mystery comes alive around us and we realize how the earth is full of concealed beauty.” (john o’donohue)

a simple errand. we needed to pick up some furniture to transport in big red for a friend. destination: ikea.

there is something magical about ikea. we hadn’t been there in ages and were relieved to find few people there and everyone masked properly. vowing to hopefully come back soon and browse a bit, we pulled the boxes off the shelves on our pick list. pushing our cart to the front checkout lines, david, more than once, had to re-focus me away from the enormous displays of product. iphone in hand, we wove our way through the covid-floor-circles-disney-style line, waiting our turn at the cash register.

every where i looked, we were surrounded by interesting color, repeated pattern, textures that begged to be touched. david, more than once, softly called my name from the other side of the pushcart, gently spurring me out of the threshold-of-alive-mystery-of-concealed-beauty, snapping pictures with inordinate joy. “k-dot,” he would quietly prod.

the spatulas called my name too, repeating patterns of red-mama-dear-lips making me smile. spatulas are usually not mysterious creatures, but their color, design, stacking lures you out of ordinariness, opening that threshold, the place for glitter to be seen.

it wasn’t just the spatulas, though. i was victim to the lint rollers, the stainless steel utensil holders, the cork trivets. hidden beauty everywhere. i could feel my sweet momma and poppo cheering me on; they were likewise entranced by ikea.

if safety allows, we will return. there are a few small things on my own pick list i’d like to consider purchasing. but mostly, i just want to wander the aisles with my camera, noticing the unpredictable beauty.

yes, not a bad way to spend any day. noticing the unpredictable beauty.

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April 16, 2020
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hope in the midnight sun. [d.r. thursday]

EARTH INTERRUPTED VII 48″X36″

we drew heavy curtains to sleep in the land of the midnight sun. my grandmother mama dear and i were in the arctic circle in finland and, much to the fascination of my eight year old mind, the sun refused to set. i remember a twilight like no other – a time of in-between that just lasted and lasted, not day, not night. it was stunning and magical and wreaked havoc on circadian rhythms, necessitating new practices.

EARTH INTERRUPTED VII makes me think of that twilight, that time in the river of not-this-not-that. a time of waiting, it appears that the telescope zeroed in on earth detects an interruption, a wafting darkness. in this time of pandemic, it would seem a portrait of covid-19.

but, as in all other times of darkness, there exists a glow of light. the blackness is dissipating, the shape of the earth is visible, the twilight is vibrant. this painting offers radiant hope.

just like pulling back the curtains in lapland, the sun will rise and we will have awakened from the strange twilight. we will have lost much to the dark. we will have learned new ways, employed new rituals. we will be tired and wary, cautious yet sure. we will have crossed the river of the midnight sun into a new day.

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November 12, 2018
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sisu. [merely a thought monday]

sisu. perseverance. fortitude. stamina. courage. determination. my grandmother mama dear used this finnish term all the time and passed it down to my sweet momma beaky who passed it down to me. a philosophy of life, a mantra, “you gotta have sisu!” mama dear would say. if up against the odds, if forging upstream, my sweet momma would say, “you gotta have sisu!” and so it was without a second thought when it was time to name my own company, the independent recording label that has been sisu music productions for the last 23 years. i can’t think of a better name for all the challenges that have risen – and continue to rise – as an independent artist.

any moment of fear, of uncertainty, brings me to draw on that sisu…digging in my heels and standing firmly in it. it’s kind of a blind faith and has everything to do with that. in the face of adversity, of the scales tilted not-in-your-favor, you just keep on. in the face of fear…everyone has their thing…the thing that makes them afraid…the thing that makes them white-knuckled…you just keep on. sisu.

i was flying back from telluride to denver a couple days ago – in a smaller plane. there was a big strapping guy all dressed in camouflage who got on the plane before me. he told the flight attendant he had been out in the middle of nowhere hunting (successfully) elk and mule deer. he was a rough and tumble kind of guy and ended up seated just across the aisle from me. when the plane hit turbulence, particularly over the front range, his face turned red and he looked over at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look and said, “i hate this part!!” i started talking to him then, trying to ease his obvious fear, talking about the wind currents and the mountains…how i could see the airport…we are almost there…just a teeny bit further…wheels are going to touch down any minute…. he was gripping the lock on the little tray table and finally relaxed his grip and smiled. everyone has their thing.

we can loan others the sisu we carry with us. we can bank on the sisu we carry with us. i often credit being-from-new-york for times i have just forged-ahead-anyway, but my sisu roots go way further back than that.

sisu. i stood back from the edge of a deep deep canyon the other day, my beautiful daughter on another boulder a few hundred yards away. i looked at the sky, the sunset playing over red rock. thought about that very moment in time, this moment i was sharing with the part of my heart known as kirsten…this moment that wouldn’t be repeated. and i heard the voice in my head, “you gotta have sisu.” i stepped to the very edge of the canyon, stretched out my arms and laughed aloud.

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May 16, 2018
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oopsies! [flawed cartoon wednesday]

mama dear (my grandmother) used to sew with her lips pursed, straight pins held between them for quick access. as a little kid, i thought that you had to spit on pins in order to sew; as i grew up i realized that this was a falsehood (i’m sure you are thinking, “wow. what an enlightenment!”)

mama dear was the person who taught me how to sew. with an old-fashioned singer, a red pincushion, a blue sewing box and good sewing scissors, she set me on a course of many projects through my life…outfits in the 70s, curtains and shutter screens for the nursery, jumpers that matched The Girl’s when she was little in the 90s, pillows and stuffed animals, mending jobs, craft projects. my sewing machine is set up again, adjacent to d’s studio where he says he likes to hear me talk to myself or hum as i sew, and i love spending time at my machine, dreaming up things to make.

one thing i am proud of these days – that hanging around me (sewing or doing whatever i am doing) david has picked up some of the vernacular that comes out of my mouth….like “oopsies!!!”

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March 27, 2018
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two artists tuesday

the hymn “it is well with my soul” makes me think of the hymn “be still, my soul” which makes me think of mama dear, my grandmother (my sweet momma’s momma.) (are you still keeping up?) these two strong women, so alike and yet so different – were both anchors in my world, quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) shaping my ability to walk in this world and have faith. my sweet momma, for my growing-up years, went to church most every sunday. she and my poppo got dressed up and we would go to christ lutheran church on burr road in east northport. i got to hang with my best friend sue and we went to youth group and sleepaway camp (cool as it was, those days i was never a really big fan of sleepaway camp) and, together, we memorized the books of the bible in order (i still have no idea what the purpose of this was.) i can’t remember mama dear going to church as much; she went on some weekends, on holidays with us or to special events. mama dear had bright red hair, taught me how to sew and adored going to las vegas to play the slot machines. she was obstinate and somewhat opinionated and one of the loves of my early life.

during the time i went to suffolk county community college, mama dear’s house was within reach and i would go there for lunch or tea. we’d eat rye-bread-toasted-with-melted-butter and i’d tell her everything that was going on in my life. she’d listen and, every now and again, she’d say a few words of wisdom. i could tell her anything. she let my soul breathe.

i’d come home from school during junior high and high school and my sweet momma and i would sit on the couch and have tea and chips ahoy chocolate chip cookies, my way-back-then favorite store-bought cookies. we’d talk about my day, the challenges that face girls in high school, cute boys who might have said a word or two, the kids smoking on the bus. she would listen and, every now and again, she’d say a few words of wisdom. i could tell her anything. she let my soul breathe. matter of fact, she let my soul breathe the whole time i had the privilege of having her physically in my life. she still does.

we need that. a place for our souls to breathe. people with whom we can let our souls breathe. a faith in this universe that opens us and simultaneously holds us gently and anchors us. then – we can say: it is well with my soul.

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