Judith and Prudence

On December 17, 2021January 5, 2022 By BrendaIn antique bobbin winder, Antique reel, Antique textile tools3 Comments

Despite a lot of research, I have not been able to identify the elusive J. Platt.

It seems pretty certain that he was a Connecticut wheel maker working in the late 18^th and early 19^th century. His wheels share characteristics with those made by a group of wheel makers in Fairfield and Litchfield counties, including the Sanfords, the Sturdevants, and Silas Barnum. Those wheel makers, and various branches of Platts, were connected with a web of marriages through several generations.

Surely, J. Platt fits in with them somehow, but just how remains a mystery. For those interested in more details of my Platt research, I am including a reference below to my article in the Spinning Wheel Sleuth. In short, there are several candidates, but each possibility lacks that final bit of evidence to put the hunt over the top from theory to probability.

*Judith, Mercy, and Katherine the* *Witch*

I have already written two posts in this blog about J. Platt wheels. “Katherine the Witch,” my first wheel, continues to be my workhorse for flax spinning. “Mercy,” a lovely great wheel, bears a striking resemblance to Silas Barnum’s work. I never really expected to find any more Platt wheels, so was gobsmacked when a marked bobbin winder turned up in Maryland.

Bobbin winders are rarely marked, so I could not believe my luck. And, as it turns out, there was a lot of luck involved. When I contacted the seller, he said that he would have to see if he still had it because he thought he had thrown it out. My heart dropped. Apparently, he cruises estate sales and auctions for things to resell on-line.

He had been given two bobbin winders at an estate sale and, having no idea what they were, threw them into a storage unit. When he needed more room, he decided to throw them out. Fortunately, his wife convinced him to save the one with the name on it and to try to sell it. I shudder to think how close this winder came to oblivion.

Instead, it was rescued, named Judith, and joined my family of Platt wheels. Although it could be over two hundred years old, it now works regularly, doing what it was intended to do.

Bobbin winders, such as this one, were used by weavers to wind bobbins (or spools). Once wound, the bobbins were mounted on a skarne (also called a spool rack or creel), which allowed for efficient warp winding, with multiple threads wound on the warping rods or mill at the same time. This marvelous photo of a Quebec woman shows her bobbin winder being filled from a skein on a swift and the bobbins mounted on a skarne from which she draws eight warp threads at once to wind on to her huge warping mill.

Unfortunately, when this photo was made into a postcard, it was inaccurately labeled “Habitant Carding Wool.”

In contrast with the Quebec winder in the photo, J. Platt’s has a flat rim

and a box for the spindle. Box-style winders are often found in New England. I was fascinated to see a similar winder on a 1792 Conder token from Norwich, England, a town famous for its handweavers who produced the beautiful silk and wool Norwich shawls.

Platt’s bobbin winder could have been made around the same time.

The box is convenient for holding empty (or full) bobbins.

Some boxes have supports for the spindle ends, but many, like Platt’s, are just plain wood with gouges made for the spindle tips through use.

This bobbin winder did not have a spindle when I got it, but I found one to fit.

I have not used it yet for winding bobbins for weaving, but regularly use it to wind singles off my wheels onto extra bobbins for plying.

These winders were also used to fill bobbins for weaving shuttles. Perhaps there were spindles of different diameters or lengths to accommodate the smaller bobbins used in shuttles, which might explain why there is a wide variety of depth and placement of holes in the box ends.

The winder looks a lot like a miniature Platt great wheel, with similar turnings.

Unlike Platt’s wheels, however, it has scalloped carvings on the table ends.

The inside of the box and the table are covered with indentations, perhaps from tapping the spindle end to loosen the bobbin for removal.

The axle is wooden, with a broken end when I got it.

My husband made a beautiful repair.

The inside of the hub is just smooth wood, with no sign of a metal or leather bearing.

The legs have incised rings, rather than the dark burned-on rings of Platt’s flax wheel and winders.

There is an interesting corner piece nailed in next to the box. I do not know if there is a functional reason for it, but it looks nice.

While I had never expected to find a Platt bobbin winder, I had been keeping my eye out for a Platt reel. When one appeared in Vermont, I jumped on it and, with the help of several people, got it to Maine.

The reel, named Prudence, has six arms and a slanted table—an unusual feature found on some Connecticut reels. (see Pennington & Taylor, p. 161, Fig 14-6). I am not sure of the reason for the slant, perhaps for ease of storage or some particular positioning for winding off from a wheel. It certainly makes for a very stable reel.

The legs and winder arms have faint traces of dark rings and the legs are, in general, similar to those on Platt’s flax wheel.

But neither the table nor the legs are the same sizes as those on the wheel.

The top, which has a broken edge, is flat, without any knob for carrying.

It holds a two-yard skein and the arms, like the top, are plain, without a handle for turning.

A simple clock hand on one side of the gear box measures rotations. While the reel arms turn clockwise, the clock hand turns counter-clockwise.

The other side of the gear box is unadorned.

The gears run smoothly and the click mechanism still works beautifully, making its “thwack” every forty rotations.

*The wooden clicker being pulled by the metal pin on the gear before the click*

After the click–the metal pin that triggers the click

The hub is pegged on the axle and nicely turned.

The arm crosspieces have lips on the ends, except for one, “the stranger,” which has one smooth end to allow for removal of the skein.

After I got the wheel home and cleaned up, I sent photos of it to another Platt enthusiast, Cindy Lincoln, in Massachusetts. She has been restoring a Platt winder and used this one as a model. In return, she sent me some photos from Ron Walter in Pennsylvania of a John Sturdevant reel in his collection.

The Platt and Sturdevant winders are remarkably similar, with the tilted bench, and lack of carrying knob and winding handle. It gives another possible clue into the identity of J. Platt. I now will be digging deep into Platt and Sturdevant connections.

Although we still do not know J. Platt’s identity, as far as I know, he is the only Connecticut wheel maker from whom we have marked examples of all of the five major spinning tools.

We know of several marked great wheels and reels, at least two marked single-flyer flax wheels, one marked double-flyer wheel, and my one bobbin winder. Quite a legacy. I am hoping one day to find a Platt double-flyer wheel for a Platt full house.

Thanks to Cindy Lincoln and Ron Walter for the Sturdevant reel photographs, to Tina M. for finding, picking up, and railroading the bobbin winder, to Jessie R. for finding and picking up the reel, to Nora R., Andrea M. and Amy T. for the reel railroad, and to Jan C. for the spindle.

For more information see:

Page, Brenda, “The Search for J. Platt,” The Spinning Wheel Sleuth, Issue #113, July 2021, pp. 1-6.

Pennington, David A. and Michael B. Taylor. Spinning Wheels and Accessories. Atglen, PA: Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., 2004, p, 161.

Scutching knives

On June 7, 2021 By BrendaIn Antique flax processing tools, Antique textile toolsLeave a comment

It is not easy to turn flax into linen. There are multiple steps, with marvelous names that evoke the Middle Ages—rippling, retting, breaking, scutching, and hackling.

In a previous post, I wrote about the first steps for processing flax into linen.

In short, after flax is grown and the seeds starting to mature, it is pulled and dried.

At this point, the seeds usually are removed

—a process called rippling–and the stalks are retted, so that the fiber can be separated from the woody boon or shive—usually with a flax break. For detailed explanations and photographs of these initial steps, see my previous post “A Ripple and Breaks.”

After breaking, the next step in most flax growing regions is the scutching process. Scutching helps further remove the woody boon and shorter tow fibers, while softening and aligning the long fibers for the final step—hackling (or heckling or hatcheling).

*The* *breaks are on the left, scutching board in the middle, and hackles on the right*

The term “scutching” derives from the Middle French word “escochier,” meaning to beat or strike. Another term for the process, “swingling,” similarly came from the Middle Dutch term with the same meaning, “swinghel.” And that is how scutching works, by striking the flax fibers at an angle to scrape away the bits of boon still clinging to the flax fibers after breaking.

*The scutching board is not antique–it was made by my husband*

The simplest method is to use a wooden scutching knife while holding a bundle of flax against an upright board. As with most steps in flax processing, there are regional variations. In Sweden, for example, other tools were also used to remove the boon, a draga (puller), which looks much like a flax break with metal edges and a stångklyfta (cleft bar), which looks like a long pole with alligator jaws, again with metal on the edges. In some places, the scutching step is skipped altogether.

*Swedish stångklyfta–this image is from the Skansen/DigitaltMuseum*

But in most flax growing regions in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, some version of a scutching knife was used. By the 19^th century, scutching machines were developed. These had multiple blades on a turning wheel, powered by foot or, later, water.

*Scutching machine at Landis Valley Farm Museum in Pennsylvania*

Eventually scutching machines were mechanized and in Ireland, scutching mills were commonly used by the mid 19^th century. They were efficient and dangerous, with fast whirring blades always a threat to cut off fingers and hands, or even entangle long hair.

Before mechanization, the biggest danger in scutching may have been over-imbibing at a community scutching bee, as depicted in this wonderful 1885 painting by Linton Park.

Sober scutchers on the right, working diligently,

While those who have had a few drams are getting rowdy, brandishing their scutching knives as weapons.

As for scutching knives themselves, they ranged from extremely basic to elaborately decorated. They come in various shapes and sizes and usually are not too heavy, so that they can be used for extended periods without putting too much stress on the wrist and arm.

In New England, it is hard to find scutching knives these days.

*A New England scutching knife–this one is actually too heavy for me to use*

Probably because they were plain and utilitarian and would have been burned or thrown out once flax was no longer produced.

*This New England knife survived some dog chewing–the handle extends from the upper edge*

Those that have survived in New England usually seem to have the handle on the upper part of the blade. Those from Pennsylvania, on the other hand, more often have handles in the center of the blade.

*Pennsylvania knives at* *the Schwenkfelder Museum–the handles extend from the midpoint*

Of course, scutching knives that were decorated were less likely to be thrown away and some truly beautiful ones have survived.

These two initialed knives came from a Pennsylvania auction.

They carry the same initials.

Unfortunately, I do not know whether they were originally from Pennsylvania or Europe or Scandinavia. Having a “D” as the last initial suggests Scandinavia for a “daughter” name, but the decorative compass stars are typical of Pennsylvania and Germany.

Another two that I bought as a pair are also a mystery.

Both have “D” as the last initial, so I am assuming they are Scandinavian, but, other than that, I have no evidence as to their origin.

They have lovely details.

I use both of them regularly—they are light but work well and fit my hand as if they were made for it.

*Comparison of heavy large New England knife on top and smaller, lighter (likely) Scandinavian knife on bottom*

At the other end of the spectrum from the simple knives of New England are the elaborately painted ones from Scandinavia, especially Sweden.

They were often bridal gifts,

usually from the husband-to-be, typically with initials and dates, and painted with flowers.

But my favorite has no initials or dates. It is much more personal than that.

It depicts a woman standing in front of a house with a birch tree at the edge of a lake, with amazing details such as the rocks and grasses at the lake edge.

She is exquisitely dressed in the traditional costume from Rättvik in the Dalarna region of Sweden.

Painted on the handle is “Rik nog som nöjd är,” which roughly translates to “you are rich enough if you are content” (Swedish speakers, please correct me if I am wrong). I am in awe of this knife and the history it carries with it.

References:

Burnham, Harold B. and Dorothy K., ‘Keep me warm one night,’ Early handweaving in eastern Canada, Univ. of Toronto Press, Toronto and Buffalo, 1972.

Eliesh, Rhonda and Van Breems, Edie, Swedish Country Interiors, Gibb Smith, Layton, Utah, 2009 (p. 16).

Dewilde, Bert, Flax in Flanders Throughout the Centuries, Lannoo, Tielt, Belgium, 1987.

Heinrich, Linda, Linen From Flax Seed to Woven Cloth, Schiffer Publishing, Atglen, PA, 1992.

Meek, Katie Reeder, Reflections From a Flaxen Past, Pennannular Press Int’l, Alpena, Mich., 2000.

Merrimack Valley Textile Museum, All Sorts of Good and Sufficient Cloth, Linen-Making in New England 1640-1860, Merrimack Valley Text. Mus., North Andover, Massachusetts, 1980.

Zinzendorf, Christian and Johannes, The Big Book of Flax, Schiffer Publishing, Atglen, PA, 2011.

The blog “Josefin Waltin Spinner.”

A Ripple and Breaks

On December 22, 2020June 8, 2022 By BrendaIn Antique textile tools, Flax processing tools2 Comments

Flax is amazing. It has been used by humans for fiber for about 30,000 years.

*From a children’s textbook, Orbis Sensualium Pictus (Visible World in Pictures), by Johann Amos Cornelius (1592-1670), 1705 edition at Huntington Library, Museum, and Botanical Gardens.*

Fiber flax today, Linum usitatissimum, is a slender plant, often three feet or more in height, topped with a blue flower that bobs and sways in the wind.

Its stem contains long fibrous strands that, when separated from the woody parts, can be twisted or spun into strong, long-lasting linen thread. But getting from plant to linen is a laborious, exhausting process, made somewhat easier by tools developed over centuries. Fortunately, in New England, where I live, many of these tools can still be found in barns, antique stores, and at auctions.

Many European settlers in New England came from flax growing regions and brought with them the skills and knowledge for flax production. New England’s climate was well-suited for growing flax and during the 17^th and 18^th centuries, it was widely grown and processed by households for bedding, clothing, ropes, string, and sails.

It must have been a beautiful sight to see acres on acres of flax in bloom. But the work involved for a family to process enough for its own use is almost unimaginable to me. After processing my own flax for several years, I will never look at linen in the same way again. I am in awe of the fabric and the people who produced it, one backbreaking season after another.

I became intrigued with the thought of growing and processing my own flax after seeing a demonstration at Maine’s Common Ground Fair the year we moved here. Soon after, I read A Midwife’s Tale, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s book based on the diary of a Maine woman, Martha Ballard. I found a complete copy of Ballard’s diary online and searched for all references to flax growing and processing to get a better idea of how it fit in to the rhythm of her year. http://dohistory.org/diary/1785/01/17850101_txt.html. When I planted my flax seeds the next year, I followed Martha’s schedule.

Flax is easy to grow in Maine and has thrived in my garden. I plant it in May and harvest it 90-100 days later, when the plant has turned a golden-yellow on the bottom third. The flowers only last a day and then rapidly turn into roundish seed pods, which change color from green to gold as they mature.

Flax also is valuable crop for seeds and seed oil, but seed flax is a different variety than fiber flax and does not grow as long and tall. Fiber flax is harvested by pulling it up, roots and all (the roots are small). It then is bundled and dried, usually by setting the bundles into shocks or by hanging them.

After it has dried, the seeds are removed—a process called rippling. This can be done by laying the flax down and crushing the seeds with a wooden mallet or flail or by using a rippling comb, also called a ripple.

Of all the flax processing tools, ripples are the hardest to find in New England. It was not until this summer that I found one, and I had already rippled the year’s flax.

So, I don’t have a photo of it in use. Instead, I took some stray flax plants that grew from seeds dropped in the garden while harvesting and used them in the photo to give an idea how it works. The ripple has metal teeth, nicely spaced to whomp off the seeds while allowing for a nice smooth motion pulling the plants through.

Two prongs at the bottom can be secured between or in boards and allow the ripple to be easily carried for use in different places.

There are initials “CW” in a corner on mine and some decorative lines and balls. I can’t wait to put it to use next year.

Rippling is just the start of processing. The next stage, retting, is a tricky one. Retting dissolves the pectins connecting the fiber bundles in the stem, allowing the fibers to be separated from the woody inner core and outer skin. It is essentially a bacterial rotting process, but must be handled carefully so that it doesn’t progress too far and break down the fiber itself. Traditionally, two types of retting were used—water retting and dew retting. I also use a third, less common method—snow retting. In water retting, the flax is submerged and weighted down.

It is the fastest, and smelliest, retting method, usually taking about 5 days for me in summer heat. For dew retting, the flax is laid on the grass and turned regularly. I usually dew ret in September and it can take anywhere from 10 days to three weeks, depending on the weather.

For the last two years, I have retted some of my flax on snow, laying it down when there is sufficient snow cover to keep it from touching the ground then leaving it there until snow melt—2 to 3 months.

Every type of retting produces a different color fiber—almost white for tub-retted, gray for dew-retted, and golden for snow-retted.

*Retted and ready for breaking. From front to back: snow-retted, dew-retted, water-retted.*

It is tricky to time the retting just right, but every year I get better at it. Once the flax is retted and dried again, it is ready for breaking–the process that removes the fibrous strands from the wood core and epidermis. The woody bits that break off are called boon or shive.

Mallets can be used for breaking but hinged wooden flax breaks (or brakes) are much more efficient.

They have a blade or blades on the upper arm that descend into grooves in the lower part, smashing the flax between them.

Most breaks are on legs, but some were designed to be used on a table. This break has three blades on top and four on the bottom. I bought it from a friend in Maine and another Maine friend has one that is almost identical.

Interestingly, there is one just like them from Lunenberg County, Nova Scotia, pictured in a book about early handweaving in eastern Canada, Keep Me Warm One Night (p. 28, photograph 6).

I have also seen a photo of one in Kentucky and some similar ones in Switzerland.

It is a good solid break, the crossbars on the legs make it easy to pick up and move around.

My second break appears to be much newer.

In fact, I suspect it may have been made in the 1960s or 70s. I bought it at an auction for $10.

The auctioneer had no idea what it was and called it a “farm implement of some sort, maybe it could be used to make pasta, ha, ha.”

It has two blades on the top and three on the bottom.

It is simple, sturdy and works well.

Each break has its own feel and way of working—both good, but different.

I also bought this beauty at an auction.

It had belonged to couple living on Rings Island near Newburyport, Massachusetts. Unlike most breaks, it is dated and initialed and has a seat. I have seen a few breaks with these seats and would love to know more about them. (see the update below) Breaking is rough and repetitive—hard on the back, the hands, the wrists, and the legs. It must have eased the burden to be able to sit on the bench. I like to think of it as an old woman’s break. Sadly, it is riddled with woodworm tunnels, so I only use it occasionally.

Finally, here is a little toy break.

I would love to know how old it is and for whom it was made.

After breaking, flax still needs to be scutched and hackled before it can be spun. Scutching knives and hackles come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes and I will do later posts on them. In the meantime, there are wonderful books on flax for anyone interested. I only skimmed the surface here.

Burnham, Harold B. and Dorothy K., ‘Keep me warm one night,’ Early handweaving in eastern Canada, Univ. of Toronto Press, Toronto and Buffalo, 1972.

Dewilde, Bert, Flax in Flanders Throughout the Centuries, Lannoo, Tielt, Belgium, 1987.

Heinrich, Linda, Linen From Flax Seed to Woven Cloth, Schiffer Publishing, Atglen, PA, 1992.

Meek, Katie Reeder, Reflections From a Flaxen Past, Pennannular Press Int’l, Alpena, Mich., 2000.

Merrimack Valley Textile Museum, All Sorts of Good and Sufficient Cloth, Linen-Making in New England 1640-1860, Merrimack Valley Text. Mus., North Andover, Massachusetts, 1980.

Zinzendorf, Christian and Johannes, The Big Book of Flax, Schiffer Publishing, Atglen, PA, 2011.

Update on October 1, 2021: Recently Christiane Seufferlein, who started the wonderful group, Berta’s Flax, on Facebook, posted this photograph of a woman using a seated flax break like the one I bought from Newburyport.

According to Christiane, this photograph was taken in the 1930s in the Bavarian region of Austria. She also sent me a photo of a similar seated break and scutching wheel from the Mühlviertel region of Austria. Similar scutching wheels were used in North America and there is a photograph of one from Pennsylvania in the post “Scutching Knives.”

And, finally, here is a drawing of flax processing in Austria with an intriguing multi-station flax break.

As Christiane explained, “There have been many customs when it came to flax processing. In Kärnten, one part of Austria it was common to celebrate the breaking of the retted flax. This task was done by the women if a farm and whenever a man came near he was ‘attacked’ with flax. The girls stuffed the little flax bundles in his collar and pockets and only stopped when he paid for his freedom. In the evening there used to be a dance in the barn.”

Thank you to Christiane for allowing me to use these photos and, especially, for her work in sharing the dowry flax of Berta, Rosa, Maria, and others to people around the world.

Phoebe

On November 13, 2020 By BrendaIn antique spinning wheel, Antique textile tools, flax wheel, Maine spinning wheel2 Comments

Phoebe is my gateway wheel. She is not the first wheel I brought back to spinning life. That was Katherine the Witch, the family antique that I somehow managed to get spinning when I was a teenager. It is Phoebe, though, that led to my retirement addiction to antique wheels. Although I prefer to think of it as a love affair.

When we retired, I had not done any spinning in decades and had no intention of taking it up again. Until, one afternoon, I spotted Phoebe in an antique store in Union, Maine. According to the store owner, she had belonged to an elderly woman in the neighboring town of Appleton. The wheel had all her necessary working parts but had obviously been stored in a barn or attic for many years.

She was grime-black and bespeckled with bird or bat poop. I did not buy her, or even seriously consider buying her. We were house hunting–nearing the end of our year of travel–and had no place to put her. Over the next weeks, though, I could not get her off my mind. The poor filthy thing was crying out for a rescue.

So, I returned to the store and the owner agreed to store her for me until we had a house. Little did I know that she would open an entirely new world to me—a happy obsession progressing from flax wheels and tools to great wheels and tape looms, bringing an added advantage of wonderful friendships with like-minded antique wheel addicts.

As soon as we settled into our house, I brought Phoebe home and cleaned her up. No easy task. But, under all the crap, she was a beautiful little thing.

She does not have a maker’s mark but appears to be typically New England. Her maidens and the upright support suggest a Connecticut influence, while the simple spokes have a Maine Shaker look to them.

She is made with a variety of woods.

Some parts appear to be cherry, with a red glow, while the table and treadle support are a coarser grained oak or chestnut, perhaps.

The table has gouges in the middle, which, as mentioned in an earlier post, are speculated to be from a knife (or fork) used to guide or separate the drive band at the cross, perhaps for plying.

There are scratch marks at various places.

It is hard to tell whether they were deliberate or not.

Two legs are quite red and appear to be made of cherry, while this one is light, perhaps maple or apple wood.

The treadle appears to be a replacement and the distaff supports are missing, although a partial bird-cage distaff was propped in the support hole.

There are crossed scribe marks under the table for positioning the legs,

similar to those on other northern New England wheels, and an interesting three-dash chuck mark.

Phoebe provided a good education in getting a wheel up and running again.

Many of her joints were very loosey-goosey, so I learned to shim the mother-of-all (clarinet reeds make great shims) and wrap joints with linen yarn.

Her whorl was stuck and the flyer hooks—those that were not missing—were severely rusted. At that time, I used WD-40 to loosen the whorl and fine sandpaper on the hooks. I now use a rubber strap wrench for stuck whorls and abrasive cord for rusty hooks.

What an amazing feeling it was to get her spinning again. I was hooked.

Her bobbin is a little short, giving her a low chatter, unless I wrap a little wool around the mandrel. And, interestingly, the wear marks on her orifice and flyer arms indicate that the spinner brought the thread around from the underside of the orifice hole. It still amazes me to see wear marks from thread–likely linen–on metal parts.

I always like to follow the thread marks on a flyer, to try to interpret how previous spinners worked with the wheel. Was the orifice threaded this way to slow down the uptake, to change the amount of twist, or to accommodate flax vs. wool? Even though it is not that long ago, we are ridiculously ignorant about spinning methods in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. At least these old wheels can give us some clues, if we can understand how to read them.

Two Reels

On October 17, 2020 By BrendaIn Antique reel, Antique textile toolsLeave a comment

Reels, like wheels, come in a wonderful variety of styles, often reflecting a region and a time. Within each style, makers used their own ingenuity and personal touches, often to increase ease of use and efficiency.

No matter the style, the function is the same–to take yarn off of a spinning wheel’s spindle or bobbin to create a skein. The skein can then be washed or dyed in preparation for weaving or knitting.

One of the simplest reels is a niddy-noddy. It is relatively easy to make and is portable and easy to store. On the down side, it is not particularly fast or efficient and there is no mechanism for counting the rotations of yarn as it is reeled.

Simple niddy-noddies are easy to find and inexpensive in Maine. Decorated ones, however, tend to go for high prices. I was at an auction where a chip-carved niddy-noddy—nice, but nothing awesome—went for $450, while the Shaker wheels at the auction went for less than $50. Ouch.

I only have one niddy-noddy and it is the first reel that I bought. I found it at Elmer’s, a local junk barn, one of four hanging from an overhead beam. I liked the way it felt in my hand and its simple, swooping lines.

The length of yarn for one full turn is 72 inches—or two yards. Its handle, worn to a glass-smooth feel, has a slight curve to the side, which I assume was an intentional design to make for an easier rocking motion when reeling on and easier removal of the skein.

The next reel I bought (Lucy) came from the American Textile History Museum (ATHM). I spotted her at one of the auctions of ATHM items and, although I had no intention of buying a reel, was attracted to her small size and simplicity.

I was the only bidder, brought her home, and she has been my go-to reel ever since.

One of the nice features of this reel is that the box top opens, making it easy to paraffin the threads for smoother rotation and to troubleshoot any problems with the gear mechanism.

Another nice feature is the little handle for turning the arms. It rotates around a center piece, allowing a constant grip as the reel is turned, making for faster reeling.

The clicker is a long wooden piece that gives a nice thwacking sound when it hits a small metal barb on the gear.

Five of the six arms have lips on the end-pieces to keep the yarn in place,

with the sixth being smooth for easy removal of the skein.

In A Book of Spinning Wheels, Joan Cummer refers to the oddball smooth end-piece as “the stranger.” Cummer, p. 302.

In addition to the clicker, Lucy has a simple clock mechanism on the side. Originally the reel may have had a paper label under the arm for rotation count.

There is a somewhat similar reel in the Mount Lebanon Shaker museum collection, with the same simple clock arm and a paper label. https://www.shakermuseum.us/object/?id=5542&limit=24&offset=24&sort=name_ref&tags=weaving

As with my niddy-noddy, the length of yarn for one rotation on this reel is 72 inches, or two yards, and the clock clicks at 40 rotations, making an 80 yard skein.

Joan Cummer indicates that the distance between clicks is 85 yards on most American reels, which gives an 80 yard skein after washing and shrinkage. Id. I am not sure if my reels are outliers or if I am measuring improperly.

This reel is a typical style found in New England. I do not know where she is from originally. An almost identical reel came up for auction in Maine a few years ago and was said to be Shaker made.

It is probable that the maker also made spinning wheels because the legs, cross bar, and table appear to have come from wheel stock—and do have a Shaker look to them.

But, who knows?

In any case, she is beautifully made and her clicker and clock still work perfectly. And she brought along a piece of what looks like handwoven linen tucked in to tighten a cross piece.

For more information on reels:

Baines, Patricia. Spinning Wheels, Spinners and Spinning. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1977, pp. 302-327.

Cummer, Joan. A Book of Spinning Wheels, Portsmouth, NH: Peter J. Randall, 1993.

Beatrix

On August 16, 2020June 8, 2022 By BrendaIn Antique textile toolsLeave a comment

When I first saw this, I suspected it was fiber related, but had absolutely no idea what it was. It turns out this odd looking, hamster-playground-contraption is a wonderfully versatile fiber tool.

It goes by multiple names, including squirrel cage swift, drum swift, barrel swift, and wool rice.

I was puzzled by the squirrel cage name, thinking that surely our busy 18^th and 19^th century forebears did not have the time or inclination for caging squirrels. But a quick internet search proved me wrong. Apparently, squirrels of all kinds—gray, red, and flying—were popular household pets as early as the 1700s and as late as the Victorian period.

Some were actually leashed, while others were housed in cages complete with exercise wheels about the size of the wheels on this swift. I love how researching antique textile tools can bring to life other details of their time, like a penchant for pet squirrels.

Swifts are designed to hold a skein of yarn and to turn, allowing the yarn to be easily wound off into a ball or onto a spool or bobbin for knitting or weaving.

A reel or winder would have been used before the swift, to unwind the yarn from a spinning wheel and make the skein. Like most swifts, squirrel cage swifts can be adjusted so that different sized skeins will fit.

On mine, both cages are moveable and held in place with friction wedges on the opposite sides of the cages.

Unfortunately, if the wedges aren’t positioned just right, the top cage has a tendency to go crashing down at the slightest bump. It is quite heavy and, aside from concern that the swift will be damaged, I was afraid that it might land on a finger or two, crushing them into so many pieces.

I finally learned to insert clarinet reeds as wedges underneath, which works well to keep the cages in place.

Most squirrel cage swifts have barrels big enough to fit two skeins side-by-side. That makes them ideal for plying, which is how I most often use mine. I also use it to smooth my handspun linen, running it from the swift to a reel through wet fingers or a bar of soap.

They also work wonderfully as yarn blockers. Wet skeins can be stretched to a desired tension and then periodically rotated to efficiently dry the skein by moving the wettest area at the bottom up to the top.

My swift, Beatrix, appeared outside of our local antique store one day, an oddity to draw in the curious. According to the store owner, it had belonged to an old woman, two towns over, who had been a weaver.

Her loom had been sold to someone on the coast, but he picked up this swift and a reel. I was smitten the deep groves on every cross bar of the cages.

Imagine all the skeins that ran over those bars. There were some bits of linen thread tied at the edges of two bars, so I like to imagine that it saw its share of locally grown linen in its day.

But, really, I don’t anything about when it was made or by whom.

It’s very sturdy, with substantial weight and short legs, so won’t tip, no matter how it is used.

Some parts are beautifully turned, some hand carved.

The holes in the supports under the cages are seen in other reels and swifts, and there are various theories about their purpose, but I’m not sure that anyone really knows why they are there.

These holes do not show any yarn wear marks, but they must be there for a reason. Any and all theories are welcome.

I have never seen another swift quite like this one. In fact, I have never have seen two squirrel cage swifts that were the same.

But there are a wide array of styles, so they must have been popular in their time.

Perhaps not many survived because they didn’t have the decorative appeal that allowed so many of our antique wheels to escape the burn pile.

January 2021 update: Thanks to the knowledgeable and generous woman known as whiteoakgrandma on Ravelry, the mystery of the holes in the arm supports has been solved. They are for dowels to keep the skeins separated and from slipping off (or piling up on) the ends of the cages while plying. Whiteoakgrandma learned this when she was growing up from the elders in her community in West Virginia. It works brilliantly!

Polly and a Skarne

On July 11, 2020June 8, 2022 By BrendaIn antique spinning wheel, Antique textile tools, flax wheel, Maine spinning wheel7 Comments

This attractive bobbin winder was made in Turner, Maine, by a man with the wonderful name of Hannibal Thomson. Unraveling the who, where, and when of Thomson’s wheels illustrates why many of us are addicted to rescuing these old wheels. There’s the thrill of the hunt—for the wheels themselves and to discover the wheel makers. And there’s the collaboration with other antique-wheel addicts, railroading wheels to new owners, sharing knowledge and research, and getting ridiculously excited about discovering a wheel’s origins.

My Thomson journey started at a Maine antique store, “Den of Antiquities,” where I spotted a Shaker-like flax wheel with an un-Shaker-like maker’s mark in large letters on the table. The mark had been worn to oblivion on one end but enough was there to make out, “Thomson.”

I knew nothing about Mr. Thomson and brought the wheel home in anticipation of a history hunt to find the maker. I found references to three Thom(p)sons in Ravelry’s Antique Spinning Wheel group, J. Thompson, T. Thompson, and H. Thomson. All the table stamps were in the same style, although the spelling varied. A wheel making family, perhaps? My wheel matched those of H. Thomson. I had found my maker.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to discover exactly who he was. My on-line research found many H. Thomsons who had come to Maine from Massachusetts, but I couldn’t find any references to wheel making.

I did find, however, another H. Thomson wheel owner on Ravelry who lived not far from me in Maine. Jan had an H. Thomson bobbin winder (like the subject of this post), and flax wheel, but the drive wheel was not original.

*Jan’s Thomson great wheel, and bobbin winder, reunited with my flax wheel (which I passed on to Jan)*

She had been looking for an H. Thomson great wheel and when one became available at a large “wheel rescue” that I was helping with in Massachusetts, we arranged a wheel railroad.

I drove a number of wheels that Jan had been fostering down to their new owners who were also at the rescue and brought back the Thomson great wheel for Jan. In the process, I got a chance to spin on the great wheel and it was love at first spindle click. As with the flax wheel, the Thomson great wheel was a beautiful spinner, well- balanced and designed for effortless spinning. I was hooked.

*The maidens on the bobbin winder and flax wheel are almost identical*

Some months later, a Thomson bobbin winder came up for sale in New Hampshire. It was a long drive, so I decided to combine it with it a trip to see Craig Evans, a wheel and textile collector, historian, and weaver, who lived in the same area and was selling some of his collection.

I picked up the bobbin winder and a large skarne that the seller desperately wanted to unload (“take it! take it!”) and headed to Craig’s. While admiring some of his amazing collection (and picking a few things to bring home), we talked about wheels and wheel makers, including H. Thomson. Craig recalled seeing a Thomson flax wheel in an antique store in Alfred, Maine years earlier, but didn’t know anything about Thomson himself.

About a year later, I heard from Craig that he had discovered the identity of H. Thomson. During that year, I had acquired a Thomson great wheel and passed my flax wheel on to Jan, to complete her Thomson collection. I excitedly contacted Jan with the news and she and Craig collaborated on a fascinating article, with Craig’s research and Jan’s wheels, titled “Hannibal Thomson and His ‘Widely Known and Sought For’ Spinning Wheels.” The Spinning Wheel Sleuth #107, Oct. 2020.

The title quote was from a book on the history of Turner, Maine, the town where Hannibal lived and worked in the early to mid 1800s. The description of Hannibal brings him alive: “Mr. Thompson was a good mechanic, and his spinning-wheels were widely known and sought for. He prosecuted his business for many years, and being remarkable for ready wit, his shop was an agreeable place in which to spend a leisure hour.” French, pp. 87-88.

Hannibal died at age 79 in 1861, but not before seeing his wheels become obsolete: “He lived to a good old age, but in the last years there were few calls for his work, as in the change of customs, spinning-wheels, carding machines, and fulling-mill, all went down together and became things of the past.” French, p. 88.

What would Hannibal think if he could see how we value his work today? His wheels once again are spinning, while we marvel at his skill and thoughtful design.

Hannibal’s name in his lifetime was spelled in a variety of ways, with his last name spelled both “Thomson” and “Thompson.” Craig found that Hannibal came from a family of wheel makers. His great-grandfather, Archibald Thompson, emigrated with other Scots-Irish in the 1720s from Ulster, a center of Irish linen production.

Archibald settled in North Bridgewater (now Brockton), Massachusetts, and was reputed in local histories to have made the first treadle spinning wheel in this country—or New England. Others, however, have credited the Scots-Irish who settled in Londonderry, New Hampshire in the early 1700s with that distinction.

In any case, Archibald’s descendants (called “his posterity” in one history) also made wheels. Given the similarities in the style and placement of the makers’ marks, it’s likely the wheels marked “J. Thomson” and “T. Thompson” were made by family members, although that hasn’t been established yet.

As for the winder itself, it’s a little beauty. Its overall look is similar to Shaker wheels, which isn’t surprising because Turner, Maine is not far from the Maine Shaker colonies and Hannibal’s wheels were made in the heyday of Shaker wheel production. The Shaker style influenced many local wheel makers.

These bobbin winders were used by weavers to fill bobbins, which were then placed on a skarne (or creel) (photos at the end of the post) for winding warps onto a warping board or reel, or directly onto a loom’s sectional beam.

The bobbins often were filled from skeins on swifts. But, in my case, I usually tuck the winder right next to my great wheels and unwind from the wheel spindle directly onto the bobbin.

The winder’s legs are slightly offset and the mother-of-all is angled—features that presumably make for ease of use.

There is a similar Thomson winder in Pennington & Taylor’s book, with slightly different maidens and a spindle tip, which would allow it to be used for winding quills or even spinning. P. 29, Fig 2-33. Quills were inserted into a weaver’s shuttle, which carries the weft across the warp. This one doesn’t have a spindle tip, just a long metal rod with a whorl.

The rod on my winder is pretty thick, so may have been rather large for quills. Its axle is wooden, which I keep well lubricated because I use the winder all the time. It’s a marvelous tool.

I hadn’t planned on buying a skarne when I picked up the winder, but they are very difficult to find, and the owner wanted to get rid of it.

So, home it came.

It has holes for 10 crossbars, so would hold at least 20 bobbins, more if they were smaller. Once I get additional crossbars in, I’ll put it to good use.

My resources for information on Hannibal Thomson and bobbin winders:

Cunningham, Jan and Craig Evans, “Hannibal Thomson and His ‘Widely Known and Sought For’ Spinning Wheels,” The Spinning Wheel Sleuth 107 (October 2020).

Feldman-Wood, Florence, “Bobbin Winder Basics,” The Spinning Wheel Sleuth 36 (April 2002)

Taylor, Michael, “Londonderry, N.H. Flax Wheels, The Spinning Wheel Sleuth 48 (April 2005)

Books:

All Sorts of Good Sufficient Cloth: Linen Making in New England 1640-1860, Merrimack Valley Textile Museum, North Andover, MA 1980.

French, W.R. A History of Turner, Maine, From Settlement to 1886, Portland, ME: Hoyt, Fogg, Durham, 1887.

Pennington, David A. and Michael B. Taylor. Spinning Wheels and Accessories. Atglen, PA: Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., 2004, fig. 2-33, p. 29.

Free Standing Distaff

On May 25, 2020June 8, 2022 By BrendaIn Antique textile toolsLeave a comment

This standing distaff is a bit of mystery. Free standing distaffs were commonly used in many regions of Europe, but North American versions don’t appear very often. Those from Europe tend to be tall and ornate, accompanying beautifully turned wheels. They were used for spinning long flax and sometimes hemp fibers. Most flax wheels in North America had built-in distaffs, but there must have been spinners who preferred to use standing distaffs, so it’s surprising that we don’t see more of them.

I bought this distaff at one of the American Textile History Museum auctions (see previous post “Jo”). The accession number indicates that it was part of Joan Cummer’s collection. While living in New England, Joan Whittaker Cummer collected antique wheels and textile tools for years. In 1993, she documented her collection in A Book of Spinning Wheels, which was thoughtfully put together with beautiful photos, descriptions, and measurements. She offered the book as “a tribute to the individuality of the men who made the wheels and the spinners who used them.” (Cummer, Preface, p. xiv).

At the time the book was published, Joan had already donated her collection, in 1991, to the American Textile History Museum in Lowell, Massachusetts, noting that it was hard to see them go, “but it was a good and appropriate place for these wheels. I look back with joy on the years I had them and hope that other people will enjoy them in the years to come.” (Cummer, p. 3).

Sadly, when the museum closed, Joan Cummer’s collection scattered, making her book all the more valuable. Although the collection no longer survives intact, other people continue to enjoy the wheels and tools she collected–some, like me, in a very personal and hands-on way, which would not have been possible had they remained in the museum.

The museum’s accession numbers identify items in her collection with “1991.178.” followed by the individual item number, which, in the case of wheels, tracks the wheel number in her book. The accession number on this distaff “1991.178.211,” appears to indicate that it was from Joan’s collection.

But the distaff does not appear in her book. In fact, in the book, she includes one photo of a free standing distaff (Accessory 46, p. 371), noting that: “Only one other has been seen over the years these wheels and accessories have been collected. It was a carved and beautifully finished article.” (Cummer, p. 370). She clearly wasn’t referring to this distaff, which is neither carved nor beautifully finished. So, unless I’m mistaken and this isn’t a distaff at all, it’s puzzling as to why it wasn’t mentioned in her book. Perhaps it was a last-minute acquisition.

The distaff itself was made simply—a strong and useful tool—heavy enough for stability, yet light enough to easily move.

The base is a chunk of wood—it appears to have been shaped with an ax—with a hole for the distaff pole.

There are some cross hatched marks on the pole.

The arms of the cage at the top of the distaff are made from some light weight, pliable wood—almost like basket splints—and have small fish-hook-like prongs on the top.