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Nick Bowman Features Editor | 770-718-3426 | life@gainesvilletimes.com
She (Times
gainesvilletimes.com
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Between them and the street
Lanier Village Estates residents use
plastic bags to create mats for homeless
BY LAYNE SALIBA
lsaliba@
gainesvilletimes.com
Karen Blaser held
up her phone to show
photos of the work she’s
been a part of for the
past few years. Flipping
from picture to picture,
Blaser showed homeless
men and women under
a bridge near Atlanta’s
Grady Memorial Hos
pital, holding and using
handmade mats that had
been woven by residents
at Lanier Village Estates
back in Gainesville.
The independent- and
assisted-living facility in
North Hall has two differ
ent Mats for the Home
less groups that make the
woven mats, some crochet
and some use peg looms.
But it’s the material they
use that makes them
unique: grocery bags.
“People just drop bags
off,” said Barbara Heartz,
95, who helped put the
groups together and got
others interested back
in 2016. “Bags that they
use, we take them, flatten
them and cut them.”
It’s as simple as that.
They take recycled gro
cery bags and weave them
into a tool to take a bit of
the sting out of on-the-
streets homelessness.
Before starting a
weave, the bags are cut,
flattened and sliced down
the middle to create even
strips. They tie the strips
together, end-to-end,
to make what they call
“plarn.” From there, it’s
used just like yarn in a
crochet.
“It takes about 60 hours
to do a whole mat, when
you’re crocheting,” Gail
Werner said. “And you
can’t do it for more than
three hours at a time
because your hands hurt.
But it’s a good thing to do
in the evening. You just sit
there and watch TV while
you doit.”
Janet Hutts, 93, said she
can’t watch TV like Wer
ner, though. She is legally
blind, so it’s hard for her
to do much of anything
while she’s working on
her mats.
“I like to take a nap,”
she said, laughing.
But still, even though
she can’t see well, Hutts
has used a peg loom to
make five mats for the
homeless and she’s work
ing on her sixth — that’ll
be 360 hours on the loom,
if you’re counting, or 15
solid days of work. She
likes to use the bright-
yellow bags because she
enjoys the colors.
“I like to be busy and
this is a great way to be
Photos by SCOTT ROGERS I The Times
Main: Legally blind, Lanier Village Estates resident Janet Hutts weaves a yellow and
white mat Tuesday, Nov. 20, out of plastic grocery bags to be donated to the homeless.
Left: Janet weaves a yellow and white mat Tuesday, Nov. 20. Right: Lanier Village
Estates residents meet to weave sleeping mats for the homeless using plastic grocery
bags that have been donated to the village. Residents have made 88 mats so far.
busy and do something for
somebody,” Hutts said.
“And I know it’s appreci
ated because I’ve heard
some of the remarks from
people who receive them
... It’s my way of being
happy by doing for some
body else.”
Blaser said one of the
mats Hutts made brought
one man to tears because
he couldn’t believe some
one, especially at Hutts’
age, would make some
thing for him.
The mats are meant to
be slept on, but they can
be used as blankets or
even rolled up and used
as pillows, too. And since
they’re made of plastic,
they can be washed off
and air-dried quickly.
Altogether, the resi
dents at Lanier Village
have crocheted 88 mats
and they plan on continu
ing until they can’t find
any more bags to use.
One of the most impor
tant things Blaser tells
everyone who talks to her
about making the mats is
that it doesn’t matter what
they look like at they end
of the day. As long as they
hold together and serve
their purpose, the mats
will be used.
“There’s no right or
wrong,” Blaser said. “My
motto is, ‘They may not be
perfect, but they’re made
with love.’”
Looking back on hard times and real work
With nary a question, my work
life is much easier than that of my
parents and grandparents, who all
worked by the sweat of their brows
and the calluses of their hands.
I work by the click of my fingers
with the thoughts that flicker both
frivolously and seriously through
my mind.
Sometime last summer, I was
struggling mightily with the weeds
in a flower garden. They had
grown deep and wide and proved
quite stubborn in being removed.
The sun was unbearably hot. I was
determined not to suffer defeat so
I fought them until, at last, I was
triumphant.
After several hours, my back
and hands ached and the sun had
been my bitter adversary. I sat
down on a stone wall nearby and
thought of my granddaddy, Ance
Miller.
Except for Sundays, he always
wore overalls and smelled slightly
R0NDA RICH
southswomen@bellsouth.net
of the snuff he loved to tuck in
his lower lip. He had a farmers’
slump, something that has all but
disappeared these days but back
when he was a young man fighting
the unyielding land and hopeless
ness of the Great Depression, most
men had that rounded slump of
shoulders. It was brought forth by
throwing the leather straps over
their shoulders from behind the
plow and trying to coax a stubborn
mule to take one more step in the
blinding sun.
That mule and plow molded
their upper bodies into a perma
nent hunch.
I sipped water and reflected on
how his easiest day had probably
been much harder than my day
of battling the sun and the weeds.
I thought of Daddy and the time
taxes were due as a serious bout of
the “runs” swept through his herd
of cattle. For days, exhausted, he
and the veterinarian worked to
save them, but two died anyway. It
was a loss he could ill afford. Just
like the time that his only bull got
pulled down in the pond’s deep
mud and was dead by the time
Daddy found him.
I remember those times. Daddy
would come in the door, his clothes
covered in dirt and mud and his
skin leather tanned from the
unkind sun. Even as a child, I rec
ognized the worry that etched his
brow and how his green eyes were
sometimes sorrowed to the edge
of tears.
Recalling the weariness of that
man kicked down by setbacks
that only a farmer can understand
conjures up tears of my own. I was
too young to understand how hard
these worries were.
It’s vital that I remember my kin
and how hard they struggled, for
then I can be undergirded by that
reality when I’m driven to my wit’s
end by my craft. I’m a disciplined
writer, two words that don’t often
go together.
I’m disciplined because I’m not
abundantly talented. There are
folks out there with more creative
talent in one little finger than I
have in my entire body. But many
of those people just “think” about
writing. They fantasize about the
words they’ll one day put down on
paper.
But I’m fierce in scheduling
my time and sitting down to do it.
When I wrote my first book — one
that sold in New York, based on
an outline — I still had a regular
job. I labored through the week,
then on weekends I wrote my book,
finishing it two weeks before the
deadline.
These days, though, my best
laid plans go awry; like the day the
alarm technician was coming at 11
a.m. but arrived at 8. Or the follow
ing day, when an entire morning’s
worth of solid writing — that was
due on deadline to my publisher —
disappeared when I accidentally
hit a button. I wailed in grief.
Then I thought of Daddy and
Pawpaw, of the cruel sun, of the
cows that died and the mules that
wouldn’t budge.
I felt so ashamed.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author
of several books, including “Mark My
Words: A Memoir of Mama.” Sign up
for her newsletter at www.rondarich.
com. Her column appears Tuesdays
and on www.gainesvilletimes.com.
