“Over two, under two, over two, under one,” said Betty Curry, who taught a basket-making workshop in Independence, Mo., last weekend. Step by step, she directed 25 women through the process of weaving two Gibson baskets.

Betty, whose maiden name is Gibson, lives in Salem, Mo. She is an eighth-generation maker of split oak baskets. Gibson baskets, fashioned since 1840, are commonly recognizable by their handle, a piece of white oak cut thicker in the center.

I’m not sure if owning four Gibson baskets qualifies me as a collector, but when interviewing Irene and Pete Tork last spring, I noticed a basket on the hearth and asked if it was a Gibson. It was, and Irene had made it at a workshop taught by Curry. So, when this one came up in Independence, Irene told me and we went together.

There are 27 families of Gibsons that make and sell baskets in southeast Missouri. In the past, some of the families have sold their baskets at Silver Dollar City, where I bought mine. Irene suggested taking my baskets to the workshop for Curry to brand the Gibson trademark on them.

Curry smiled as I approached carrying the familiar baskets, some 20 years old and aged to a smooth pecan patina.

Curry studied a basket and said, “That’s Earl’s my cousin Earl Gibson made that.” Another basket, she said, was made by another cousin. One gathers that at her family reunions, basket makers’ techniques must be nearly as recognizable as their faces.

Betty led the basket brigade like a drill sergeant, that is when she wasn’t stopping now and then to give a hug or tell a joke. To Curry, everyone is “Honey” and it’s not because she can’t remember your name she simply loves people.

We sit in a circle as she gives instructions. Take off your shoes, pick up the pack of ribs to your right. The ribs are thin strips of white oak, harvested in Missouri forests. The strips have been soaked in water to make them pliable. They are thicker than the strands used to weave around the basket sides.

We place our split oak ribs on a board on the floor, precisely as told. Now, pick up the ribs to your left, she said. The first strip goes at the front. We anchor it with our stocking feet, as told, then Betty tells us the pattern to make the herringbone weave. “Over two, under two, over two, under one,” she says. To a lady across the room Betty says, “Honey, you got your weave wrong.” Clearly, after 40 years of basket making she can spot a mistake from 20 feet away.

The strips in place, we nail a board at the top, the whole room jars with the sound of hammering. Then, only after Betty tells us to, we pick up our boards, turn them around, weave the last rib into place, and nail the other end down. We begin weaving the basket sides and by the end of the evening we have completed the bodies of two baskets that we will finish in the morning. When we leave, each of us will have two baskets in hand.

The class was a new experience for me and thanks to Betty Gibson and her family’s tradition one I hope to repeat.