Until less than two centuries ago, and for almost the entire history of human life, everything…virtually everything…was handmade. From the building blocks of the pyramids to the simple nails in a farmhouse floor, every object, no matter how numerous or familiar was sculpted, beaten, sewn, carved, woven, cast, or touched by a hand. And, as the maker changes the material, so the object changes the maker, if only a little bit.

I’m not sure if my own creating was life-changing, but I do know that using my hands and keeping in tune with the task has kept me present, awake and vital. The actual act of knitting the same stitches or turning the wheel of my 1890 letterpress has kept me focused on the moment—the way sweeping or washing or polishing gives you hope when a dull task turns to glimmer.

My mother was an inspiration (and still is at 97)...a life-long collector of handmade things - mostly early American folk art and furniture. Her collection is legendary; so is she.

When we were kids, she'd take us to Woolworths and give us five minutes to scurry down the aisles to find the most beautifully designed object in the store under 3 dollars. We brought back paper clips, safety pins and such—all useful and artfully designed—and we had to explain our choices.

My heritage is four generations of gardeners. Nurserymen would show up at our door in the Autumn and Spring, with their trucks filled with American Holly, Dogwood and Mountain Laurel from the virgin forests of North Carolina. We lugged them off the trucks, and with all the strength of family and neighborhood friends, we moved these large, burlapped trees. We dug and dug and planted them. And I watched them grow.

My mother cut and arranged fresh flowers for every room in our house--fresh green Laurel leaves in round wood compotes for the living room; flowers in the bedrooms, often glorious tulips at the center of our round dining room table.

Dinners were formal. I would watch and listen to some of the greatest designers talk about color, fabric, texture, design and debate questions like, What is a great green—the green of a geranium leaf? the green of a fern? the green of a Granny Smith apple?

My parents gave me two spaces that were purely mine—a small art room in our basement and a vegetable patch up the hill from our house. My hands were always dirty.

I gave my children those same kinds of spaces, knowing that gardening, being close to nature and making things with one’s hands would see them through their lives. They knitted, painted, cut and pasted, picked beans and apples, handled garden snakes, caught crayfish and lightning bugs in jars and loved watching bats fly out of our barn at dusk more than watching any TV show.

My profession, beyond writing and publishing essays and poems, has been to tell stories in movies and television. I grew up in a family of boys, and I watched movies with minor roles of women I did not recognize. As a producer, I’ve been particularly interested in stories, most of them true, about women I could relate to…some of whom became heroes.

As I waited, pushing and prodding to tell these stories, I relied on the rhythm of writing, of printing, of planting to calm me.

I am an impatient woman. I like to get things done. So while I waited to hear from directors and actors to commit, I committed myself to the repetition of digging in dirt, designing objects and turning a wheel over and over to get that perfect or even interesting, imperfect impression.

The making made me better at waiting. In that time, plants grew, flowers bloomed, and I made things that were useful. In turn, I connected with other creators and designed with them and found and curated handmade, beautiful things to share.

My dearest friend’s daughter came up with the name of my product line. Like me, she makes things. We both know, along with my daughters and my mother, that using our hands creates a great deal of satisfaction. The act of making gives us a sense of connection, of playfulness, almost child-like and certainly freeing. And then...when others notice and like what we make...we soar.

I hope you enjoy Helen’s Homegrowns.