A Forest Fern

Every dilapidated house tells the story of her former glory. Many stand their last ground as tree roots pull them under, ripping at their foundations until crumbling is the only remaining option. Even then, their stories can be read. Chapters are exposed and the main characters greet visitors on weather-worn front porches. It is here I find inspiration for my dolls.

Empty breezeways, dilapidated stairways and outbuildings tell of earlier days when farming was the way of life, self sufficiency was a must, and no scrap went unused.

Under every brush pile spectacular enamelware heaped and tumbled. Some lay still where it was casually tossed decades ago. Some can be seen like submarines breaching the surface. A spectacular blue like the first blue bonnets of Texas spring. With so many buckets- literally a hundred or so- coupled with chewed thread-bare quilts stuffed like insulation in the walls, I can only wonder who the industrious owner was.

I imagine she was a commanding woman who loved deeply and moved about her daily chores with precision and purpose. A woman who made prize winning quilts and sang in the Sunday choir. Living in this wee house in the heart of Louisiana's Kisatchie Forest took a fearless soul ready with a gun or a smile depending on the intruder. I imagine her name would be Fern; soft, natural, resilient.

My general rule is to take nothing as I explore the old forgotten ghosts of late 19th century rural architecture but on this trip I broke that rule. I picked up a scrap of pink and white fabric, some mother of pearl buttons from the sawdusty floorboards, and one random shard of blue spatterware. All of these items will be used in Fern's construction as a tribute to the lady who kept her land in rugged times. She has a long way to go to completion but this is her start.

This spring I hope to make it back to the Kisatchie Forest to find Fern's house and return a quilted flower made of the remnants of her past. I will fill it with birdseed and hang it from the rusted tin roof for all the birds to sing again so lovely as they did back when Fern quilted under the warmth of the early April sun.