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Midwest Weaver Carries Family's 150-Year-Old Basketry Tradition

by frankie felegy

A hand holding a woven basket above snow and branches.
Photo Credit: Matthew Pevear
"Every region has their style of basket, if it's willow or not. And every region uses the resource that was available to them. Because like in my case with the willow, Mennonites tended to immigrate towards farmland or prairie. And so willow was basically the only wood to speak of," Viki Graber says.

In her Indiana backyard, Viki Graber grows over 15 willow species—their beauty and utility continuing a craft passed down from her great-grandfather.

A person with light skin and short white hair holds two baskets and stands in the snow.
Photo Credit: Matthew Pevear
“I really value the tradition. I mean, it’s a part of my family tradition and there are a lot of willow basket weavers and basket weavers in the world generally, but not a whole lot with the tradition that I have,” says the fourth-generation willow weaver.

As a kid growing up in Freeman, South Dakota, Viki Graber remembers the yearly willow harvest. 

She’d help source (and get permission to cut) in wild willow patches. They’d bury the bundles in the snow over the winter and come springtime, her family would dig through the snowbanks to find them. So began the process of sorting and weaving baskets. 

Graber says she doesn’t get much snow nowadays at her home in Goshen, Indiana. But she took the rest of the practice with her. 

“It’s part of my family tradition,” the fourth-generation basket weaver says.

Indeed: Over 150 years ago, her great-grandfather Jacob Graber immigrated to the Dakota territories. He settled on a farm in Freeman, a hub for folks in the Mennonite community, and began making baskets for egg gathering and working on the land. Back then, it was about practicality. 

“When great-grandpa did it, if you needed a container, you made it. So it was completely utilitarian, functional baskets. He didn’t have to worry about pretty colors or patterns or anything. It just had to do what it was supposed to do,” Graber says. 

Her great-grandfather passed his weaving knowledge to his grandson, Graber’s late father LeRoy Graber—a master in the art. In 2009, LeRoy won the country’s highest folk artist honor through the National Endowment for the Arts.  

“He’s a legend. I gotta live up to it,” Graber says.  

And she is: One of Graber’s baskets is on display at the Smithsonian’s Renwick Gallery. It sits right next to a basket crafted by her dad. And now, she’s introducing artful elements to her works, which can take anywhere from seven to thirty hours to create.

“Making a basket that has some purpose, is functional, is deeply ingrained in me. I never knew my great-grandfather, so that’s the only connection I have to him. And so that’s kind of special. And I even have a couple of his tools. I feel like they hold energy that is my connection to him,” Graber says. “And because there’s really no ‘need’ to weave baskets anymore, it went from utilitarian functional to more like an art form.” 

Now entering into retirement, she’s got more time to experiment beyond typical Mennonite baskets, she says—the Graber flavor, if you will. 

Woven basked with the artist's name and year printed on the bottom.
Photo Credit: Matthew Pevear
Graber’s baskets are part of a 150-year-long tradition of basket making in her family. Some of them have been exhibited by national institutions, including the Smithsonian.
Colorful willow branches in piles.
Photo Credit: Viki Graber
Harvested willow varies in color from year to year and willow to willow based on growing conditions, species, and location.
Two people with light skin standing near a table where one cuts an in-progress basket.
Photo Credit: Viki Graber
Viki Graber is passing the tradition to family member and apprentice Susan Harder (and maybe Harder’s daughter, too—but she’s only five years old now).
An intricate, decorative basket on a ground of leaves.
Photo Credit: Viki Graber
A Polish bread basket woven using willow by Viki Graber, who says: “Weaving baskets gets my creativity really flowing.”
Woven baskets on a table in a home.
Photo Credit: Matthew Pevear
Graber says that no two basket are the same when they’re created in this way; making each one in her family’s century-long legacy all distinct works of art.
A person with light skin tone and short gray hair weaving a tall basket and smiling.
Photo Credit: Viki Graber
“When I’m demonstrating, I constantly get (asked), ‘What is this basket for? What can I use this for?’ And my answer is usually: Baskets usually start to collect things on their own,” Viki Graber says.
A woven basket sitting in the snow.
Photo Credit: Matthew Pevear
“You learn from history and you learn to appreciate modern conveniences when you think about . . . If you want a container now, you can go get something metal or plastic and buy it and there it is. But if you had to spend several hours collecting the materials and designing it and weaving, I think it gives you a new appreciation for how easy things are now,” Viki Graber says.

Roots of the Art

About 15 willow species grow in Graber’s yard, all producing different colors. There’s an art to cutting, sorting, drying, and soaking the branches prior to forming them. Some species require longer soaking to create that pliability; all species are cut down every year to help them regrow. After the gathering and preparing comes the creating.

“Taking something that grew in my yard and is basically a stick and then (weaving) it into something that people want to use or think is really pretty is amazing to me,” says Graber, who is teaching a cousin the art.

And every willow is unique. Colors vary by species, yes, but also soil mineral content, sunshine, and water.

“You almost cannot make the same basket twice,” Graber says. And that’s the beauty of it. Each is one of a kind—crafted with culture, creativity, and care.