Homebodies - Coloured threads
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- Published on Tuesday, September 18, 2018
By Rita Friesen
Neepawa Banner & Press
CBC is my constant travel companion. The noise in the car is either favourite CD’s- The Space Between Us, John O Donahue ( he could recite the alphabet and I would be enthralled with his accent!), I am a Sparrow, Alana Levandoski (captured my heart with a song that echoed my heart), or Celtic music, any Celtic music, or CBC.
An hour of travel was melted away by an interview with an artist that interviewed individuals in a garment factory in which her mother had once worked. It was voice-overs and interviews, captivating. The artist’s mother had passed down an embroidery basket. My mind flitted to my mother’s embroidery basket. It was a smallish wicker basket with a lid. The edges were trimmed with coloured ribbon. The entire basket was smoke stained, for it survived the fire that engulfed the home of my childhood.
My mother embroidered pictures, detailed colourful wall hangings. Some of these now grace the walls of my sisters homes. One set was of beautiful birds, and they rested in ornate Victorian frames. One on each side of the window. Some of my mother’s handwork decorated pillow tops, tea towels, table clothes and pillowcases. As I matured I could see that she needed beauty and colour. And she created what she could out of what she had on hand. That embroidery basket was tidy, organised and compact. It had every colour imaginable and what a delight when variegated floss was introduced. When I found the Sunday apron that her grandmother had created I understood even better the urges of genetics.
I have such a basket as well. Mine is a bit larger, no lid, and certainly not organized. It is a tangled mix of colours. Children and grandchildren have found the thread and needles they wanted to create with. I have embroidered as well. A hope chest set of tea towels – never been used!- pictures of little bears busy at daily tasks- and a set of pictures that I worked on when my first two children were babes. They must be a bit okay, for when my niece visited this summer she wondered if they were her grandma’s handwork. One is a picture of a peacock in front of a wrought iron gate, and the other of the garden around a thatched roof cottage. These two have always hung in my hallway, high on the second level at the acreage, and now just outside my bedroom door. I am amazed that I had the patience to embroider pictures; the time was how I spent the late evenings after the household was quiet.
I am always amazed at how words can trigger memories. It is seldom that I reflect on all the creative handwork my mother mastered. She could sew, embroider, knit – countless Mary Maxim sweaters for the family and the neighbourhood- crochet, applique, and make the patterns for what she wanted. She made any of the Christmas decorations for the home and the tree, and anything else she could think of! I saw the threads that run through generations.
