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She didn't have the slightest idea of how to use a loom. Neither did her husband, Gilman Wilson. He was a well-known concert singer and she his piano accompanist. For fifteen years they had been making beautiful music together in New York.

But he was a practical fellow. He decided that a house full of antiques and a big old country loom added up to but one thing: a gift shop. So he put a gift shop sign in the front window and began tinkering with the loom.

A few days later a stranger from Boston rang the Wilson bell. He took one look at the loom and asked the surprised couple to send him some samples of their work. The Wilsons agreed—then forgot all about it. After all, they didn't have any samples. Besides, they reasoned, they probably would never hear from him again. But a few weeks later they got a letter from Boston. It was from the persistent stranger. "Where are my samples?" he wanted to know.

"For the next week," recalls Mrs. Wilson, "Gilman and I sat down and pored over books on weaving, day and night. Finally we got three samples of table mats made. We sent them to Boston. Back came an order—for twelve dozen mats. That first order looked as big to me then as the national debt does today."

IT TOOK many months to fill—and Mrs. Wilson had to finish it alone. In January of 1937, her husband died. She buried her grief in her work. For five years she stayed on in Templeton—originally her husband's home—weaving table mats and napkins, curtains, drapes, scarves, guest towels and table runners.

"For six months," she says with a smile, "I used only one table mat pattern. I didn't know there were others. Since then, however, I have studied weaving in New York and at the Worcester (Massachusetts) Art Institute. Now I have hundreds of patterns, and most of them are original."

But home, says the songwriter, is where the heart is, and Rose Wilson's heart was in her native Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Seven years ago she closed the shutters of her little gift shop in Massachusetts and began searching for a spot to settle near Milwaukee. Years in a small town had spoiled her for metropolitan living. On a hillside in Port Washington, Wisconsin, a town of 5,000 on Lake Michigan, forty miles north of Milwaukee, she found what she was looking for. There's a quaint charm about this little fishing and tourist town that reminds her of Templeton, she says.

There she built a modernistic, snug, one-story home that hugs the hillside. From her picture windows she can see stretches of the cold, blue water of Lake Michigan and the spire of the town's Catholic church. It's one of those cheery, cozy homes that looks out onto a wooded hillside; it was designed by the noted small homes architect, Harry Bogner.

THE RUSTIC, Old English sign, "Templeton Weavers," looks a bit out of place hanging from the unpainted California redwood siding of a home with a carport instead of a garage. But Rose Wilson's home is a skillful blending of the old and the new. She has furnished her ultramodern house with antiques from Massachusetts. The L-shaped living-dining room is cozy with spinning wheels, sofas and chairs covered with fabrics she wove herself, a 75-year-old music box that delights all the children of the neighborhood, and two looms. But her pride and joy is the woven glass screen hanging from the utilitarian fireplace in the center of the room.

"I made it on my loom," she says proudly. "It's woven of glass thread—as soft as silk, but it won't burn. Stains wash off—if you don't throw it in the washing machine. At first it was as white as snow, but who ever heard of a white fireplace screen? I wanted it to be black, so I cooked it in dye one whole afternoon. The result is that gray shade. I still won't be satisfied until I get it a dull, gunmetal shade."

The screen has given Mrs. Wilson another idea for her weaving. She says an ordinary fireplace screen—selling for $50—can be duplicated on the loom for $15. "And it's something different," she adds.

The pleasant, gray-haired, little woman, who looks as natural at a loom as does a spinning wheel on a hearth, loves to be different. She weaves the usual articles of cotton, wool and linen, but prides herself on making others of unusual materials, such as glass thread and fishing cord. She achieves a prized, unusual texture and color effect by interweaving cotton, wool and linen threads of all colors.

THE INSPIRATION for weaving napkins and table mats out of old fishing cord came to Mrs. Wilson quite by accident one day. She was showing a few visitors around Port Washington when they came upon some fishermen drying and repairing their nets.

"What do you do with the old cord?" she inquired.

"Throw it away," one answered.

They still throw it away, but Mrs. Wilson salvages all she needs. She spends a lot of time untangling it—and it has to be washed to remove the fishy odor—but she's a patient person.

For example, it was two years ago that she first decided to weave with glass thread. She had read a magazine article about things being woven of the material commercially. Why couldn't a hand weaver do the same? she wondered. She wrote to one glass company after another before she got the right one. This firm finally sent a salesman to her home.

"You should have seen the look on that man's face when he discovered that Templeton Weavers consisted of a little gift shop in the home of one woman," she says. "I guess he expected a small factory."

The salesman refused to sell her the glass thread. He said he was afraid people wouldn't know how to use table mats made of this material, that it might shatter. But later, when she wrote the firm and told executives of her idea for a fireplace screen, they consented. Now she has no trouble getting material. And none of her customers has had any trouble with glass mats.

She wove the material for the drapes in her home. It took twenty miles of thread just for the warp (vertical threads) alone. It may take a day to set up a new pattern on the loom, but she can weave a mat an hour once the pattern is set.

BUT BEFORE Mrs. Wilson can even tackle the big task of setting up the loom she has to decide upon a design and the materials to be used.

"I prefer to make up my own designs," she explains. "I don't like anything that's not original. I believe that if I can't make something that is impossible to buy most places, there's no use in my weaving at all.

"However, the beginner can find hundreds of suitable designs in any one of dozens of good books on weaving—together with simple instructions on how "to execute them on any kind of loom. You'll find designs for table mats, scarves, towels, neckties, purses, handbags, belts, stoles, curtain, suit, dress, apron and drapery material, upholstery fabric, baby blankets and bibs—to name a few items."

Mrs. Wilson says that weaving patterns are like cooking recipes. They are passed from weaver to weaver until their origin and sometimes even their names are lost.

A loom is nothing but a frame or machine for interweaving yarn or threads into fabric. This is done by laying lengthwise a series of threads called the warp and weaving in across this, other threads called the weft, woof or filling. In selecting materials, the weaver must remember that there is a tremendous pull on the warp; therefore the warp must be warp as specified by the manufacturer. But almost any thing—even thin strips of plywood—can be used for the weft.

"I generally use white or natural colored cotton thread for the warp," says Mrs. Wilson. "But for the weft—the horizontal threads you actually weave with—I use colored cotton of various weights. Colors are picked to go with the color scheme of the place where the article may be used, the dishes or some equipment. Nubby yarns are also popular for weft."

Materials are quite inexpensive. For example, Mrs. Wilson estimates her material cost for one place mat at from 30 to 35 cents. The finished mat sells for $1.50—and up. The mat itself takes about an hour to weave, but she figures another hour is spent in setting up the loom.

FINANCES, space, size of articles to be woven, purpose of weaving—these are all factors to consider in choosing a loom. If the weaver wants to commercialize on his product, make big articles like bedspreads and has the space and money necessary, he would do well to choose a loom with four or more harnesses. Also to insist on a loom sturdily built of hardwood, says Mrs. Wilson.

"For patterns you need a loom with at least four harnesses," she adds, "although you can do some interesting things on a two-harness loom. In fact, if the weaver is content with simple types of weaving, and lacks time and inclination to delve into the subject of weaving, a two-harness loom is recommended. Many beautiful designs, patterns, color effects and textures can be worked out on a two-harness loom costing about $7.50.

"But the four-harness loom—price about $ 50—will do all a two-harness loom will do plus overshot, simplified summer and winter weaves, twills and many other techniques. On general principles it is recommended because of its greater possibilities."

Setting up the loom is the big job. Mrs. Wilson usually sets it up for a dozen articles, such as place mats, at a time. She always makes place mats twelve by eighteen inches. The actual process involves preparation of the warp, threading and sleying, tieing the warp ends, warping the beam, the tie-up, preparing the shuttles, testing the loom and finally weaving. She says that a normally intelligent person should be able to learn to set up a loom after six weeks of weekly instructions.

"But," she adds, "I remember a pupil who began studying with me at 11 o'clock one morning, took an hour off for lunch and by 4 o'clock in the afternoon had learned to thread the loom and had started to weave. She was the best pupil I ever had."

THE WISCONSIN weaver says that while weaving "requires a feeling for colors and a lot of originality," it is easy to become enthusiastic about it. "Of all the creative arts," she asserts, "it is the easiest to learn. A pianist spends years learning his art; a weaver can do it in weeks. What's more, out of a class of a dozen or so weavers I never have any two doing identical things."

In setting up a loom, Mrs. Wilson advises the weaver to stick closely to one threading—then you can make a dozen place mats, for instance, without changing the loom. All you do is to tie on new warp. That takes about an hour—in contrast to the best part of a day spent in re-threading the loom. And even when using the same threading, you can vary your place mats by changing the design as you go along and put in the weft.

Mrs. Wilson works at her looms from ten to twelve hours a day six days a week. She says she could sell twice as much material if she could handle the work. She has sent hand-woven articles to every state in the Union, as well as China and Brazil. Her big guest book is full of names of tourists attracted to Port Washington every summer. Her business cards distributed at Smith Brothers famous Fish Shanty downtown arouse the attention of people who like off-the-beaten-track articles. She also fills orders for customers of Chapman's department store in Milwaukee and Carson Pirie, Scott and Company, Chicago.

MRS. WILSON'S weaving has supported her comfortably for years, made it possible for her to build a home and given her two pleasant vacations every year. Yet the only effort she ever put forth to commercialize her art was placing those business cards at Smith Brothers Fish Shanty. To understand that, the reader must realize that Smith Brothers is nationally famous as an out-of-the-way, excellent eating place. People who patronize the colorful restaurant are people who like off-the-trail food—and other things. That means department store buyers, too, as well as people who are constantly looking for something original, something different." Once a weaver sells a few articles, says Mrs. Wilson, other sales will follow. She feels with the least bit of smart advertising a weaver can get all the business he or she can handle—in his spare time, or full time. Once a department store buyer had seen her card at the fish shanty and had come up to inspect her weaving, Mrs. Wilson had all the work she could handle.

When she inaugurated a weaving class at the Port Washington vocational school five years ago, none of her first students had ever, seen a loom; now some of them help her with her work.

"Weaving is something of an art," she explains, "but it can be learned faster than most arts. It satisfies the creative urge. I think that's what is behind the current revival of this ancient craft. It requires neatness and creative ability, co-ordination and rhythm. People used to working with their hands are apt to make the best weavers."

MRS. WILSON spent fifteen years in New York as a musician before taking to the loom. Besides playing piano accompaniment for her husband, she was accompanist for many well-known singers of yesterday, such as Frederick Jaegel. In the early days of radio she appeared on station WEAF, New York.

"In those days I didn't know a single person who owned a radio," she recalls. "The studio was located in the telephone company building. We were paid off in long distance phone calls."

Music still is her first love, but the loom she found in the attic of that Massachusetts farm house twelve years ago reversed the pattern of her life. It's a good life, too. That loom built her home; it sends her on a New York vacation every year. How many women in the late fifties, faced with the necessity for changing the pattern of their lives completely, have proved as resourceful as Rose Wilson? As she puts it: