In the corner of a sunlit room on Indian Island, a woman in her 60s bends over a pile of ash splints and begins weaving.
Her fingers are fast and confident, moving as if they remember what her mind doesn’t need to say. The base of the basket takes shape slowly, then the walls rise, curling upward with a tightness like muscle. She pulls each strip through with a steady rhythm. Tap, pull, tuck. Tap, pull, tuck.
“This basket,” she says, “is for my granddaughter. One day she’ll need to carry something.”
Her name is Theresa Tomah, and she is one of the few master basketmakers in her community. But she’s not alone. Across the Wabanaki Confederacy—the Penobscot, Passamaquoddy, Mi’kmaq, Maliseet, and Abenaki—basketmaking has returned in full force, not just as craft but as cultural reclamation.
And the material at its heart is under threat.
I. A Tradition Older Than the Border
Before Maine had counties or roads, before there were fishing licenses or lumber quotas, there were baskets.
Made from brown ash (Fraxinus nigra) and sweetgrass, woven tightly for gathering, storing, gifting, and trade, these baskets were once a cornerstone of Wabanaki life. Functional and sacred, they carried berries, shellfish, tobacco, medicines—and sometimes secrets.
They were not made for decoration. They were made to carry the world.
Historically, basketmakers were men and women, young and old. The making happened in families, passed hand to hand, story to story. Every village had styles. Every clan had designs. The work was seasonal, tied to the forest and tide: splinting in spring, weaving in winter, selling in summer.
By the early 1800s, Wabanaki baskets were a major trade item across the Northeast. They were sold to colonists, tourists, and townsfolk alike. Wabanaki families would travel coastal routes, selling at fairs and door to door. Some made a full living from it. Others used it to get by when seasonal work ran dry.
II. Cultural Erosion and Survival
As with many Indigenous practices, basketmaking was nearly lost to colonial suppression and cultural genocide.
Between 1879 and 1950, many Wabanaki children were forcibly removed and placed in Indian boarding schools, where language, craft, and family ties were deliberately broken. Parents were discouraged—sometimes forbidden—from passing on cultural knowledge. Basketmaking was dismissed as “primitive” or discouraged entirely.
Simultaneously, economic hardship and the rise of cheap factory-made goods shrank the basket market. By the 1980s, fewer than 10 fluent basketmakers remained in some communities. Their tools—ash pounders, awls, dye pots—gathered dust. Sweetgrass meadows went unharvested.
Yet the tradition didn’t vanish. It retreated. Hid. Waited.
III. The Revival: Baskets as Resistance
In 1993, a group of Wabanaki artists and cultural leaders gathered to discuss what was left—and what could be saved. That meeting led to the formation of the Maine Indian Basketmakers Alliance (MIBA), a nonprofit dedicated to the preservation and promotion of traditional basketry.
It was not just about art. It was about language, land access, and generational healing.
With support from elders, anthropologists, and tribal councils, MIBA began hosting workshops, exhibitions, and apprenticeships. They taught not just technique, but sourcing: how to find the right ash, how to harvest sweetgrass without harming the meadow, how to use traditional dyes made from bark, rust, or berries.
The movement grew.
Young artists like Gabriel Frey (Passamaquoddy) and Sarah Sockbeson (Penobscot) began pushing the form into contemporary art spaces—melding tradition with innovation, museum shows with market fairs. Their baskets were intricate, political, sculptural.
Frey’s pack baskets have been acquired by the Smithsonian. Sockbeson’s spiraling, multicolored works have traveled to Paris and Toronto.
But they both learned from grandmothers. From the smell of ash boiled in kettles and sweetgrass drying in garages.
IV. The Sacred Tree and Its Crisis
Brown ash, also called black ash, is the soul of Wabanaki basketry. Unlike most trees, its growth rings can be pounded and separated into thin ribbons without tearing. This makes it uniquely pliable for weaving.
But the tree is now under siege.
The emerald ash borer (Agrilus planipennis), a beetle native to Asia, has decimated ash populations across the Midwest and is rapidly advancing through New England. In 2022, the first confirmed infestation was found near Jackman, Maine. Experts fear that within 15 years, brown ash could be functionally extinct in much of the state.
For Wabanaki basketmakers, the threat is not abstract.
“This is like watching your own voice get sick,” says MIBA Executive Director Jennifer Neptune. “Ash is not just material. It’s ancestor.”
In response, MIBA and tribal leaders have partnered with scientists to identify resistant trees, collect seeds, and create a Wabanaki Ash Seed Bank—a living archive for future forests. Some harvesters now travel hundreds of miles to find healthy stands. Others are planting groves for their grandchildren.
This is not just environmental conservation. It is cultural survival.
V. How a Basket Begins
I visit the Penobscot Nation Cultural Center in Indian Island, where a youth workshop is underway. On folding tables lie piles of split ash, bundles of sweetgrass, and a few lopsided baskets still finding their shape.
“Start with the base,” says the instructor. “That’s your direction. That’s your anchor.”
The children are quiet at first, then giggle as their pieces twist and loosen. One boy pulls too hard and splits his strand.
“That’s okay,” says the teacher. “Ash teaches you to go gentle.”
The lesson is not just mechanical. It’s metaphorical. It’s patience, structure, flow, flexibility.
In that moment, I realize basketry is not about containment. It’s about continuity.
VI. The Markets and the Makers
Each July, the Native American Festival and Basketmakers Market takes place in Bar Harbor, hosted by the Abbe Museum. It’s part powwow, part art fair, part family reunion.
Under canvas tents, dozens of weavers sit behind long tables, their wares stacked high: berry baskets, utility baskets, miniature ones the size of walnuts. The smell of sweetgrass hangs heavy.
Customers—both Native and non-Native—ask questions, handle carefully, and purchase with reverence. Each basket is tagged with the maker’s name, tribal affiliation, and often, a story.
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“This one’s for blueberries,” a woman says. “Design came from my auntie’s dream.”
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“This was my dad’s pattern. I made it in his memory.”
Behind the transaction lies a renewed relationship: between maker and buyer, past and present, survival and celebration.
VII. Passing the Weave
The future of Wabanaki basketry rests, as it always has, in the hands of teachers and apprentices.
Programs like the Maine Traditional Arts Apprenticeship Initiative, run through the Maine Arts Commission, have paired dozens of young weavers with elders. Some live together for weeks at a time. Some work over summers. Some meet once a month for years.
The result is more than technical skill—it’s a social contract. One built on listening, repetition, and the slow, sacred work of remembering.
VIII. More Than Baskets
To an outsider, a Wabanaki basket might look like an object.
But to those who carry the knowledge, each basket is:
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A song—of rain on ash leaves, of fire-heated kettles
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A memory—of grandmothers with stiff hands and quiet jokes
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A map—of where to harvest, when to gather, how to wait
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A prayer—not spoken, but shaped
In this way, basketry is not static. It is kinetic. It is ongoing. It moves through generations like breath through a reed.
Conclusion: The Basket as Ceremony
Before I leave Indian Island, Theresa shows me a basket she made years ago, now faded and stained from use.
“It’s ugly now,” she laughs.
Then she runs her fingers along its rim.
“But it still holds. That’s the point.”
Baskets, like people, are meant to be used, carried, filled, and handed down. Their beauty is not in perfection. It’s in endurance.
In Maine, in Wabanaki country, they continue to carry what matters.
References
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Neptune, Jennifer. Interview with author. Indian Island, ME. March 2025.
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Gabriel Frey, “Contemporary Passamaquoddy Basketry.” Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian. https://americanindian.si.edu
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Maine Indian Basketmakers Alliance. “Mission and History.” https://www.mainedigenousbasketmakers.org
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U.S. Forest Service. “Emerald Ash Borer in Maine.” https://www.fs.usda.gov
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Abbe Museum. “Native American Festival and Basketmakers Market.” https://www.abbemuseum.org
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Leavitt, Robert M., and Francis, David A. The Language of Basket Making: Wabanaki Cultural Expression. Gaspereau Press, 2008.
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University of Maine Cooperative Extension. “Black Ash Tree Identification and Use.” https://extension.umaine.edu
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Sockbeson, Sarah. Personal artist statement. https://www.sarahsockbeson.com
