It’s a lost art
like writing letters
or baking bread for daily consumption.
I started stitching
in England
all by accident.
Mum was graduating from university
and I wanted to send her
something special.
She stitched various little birds –
she painted them too,
in watercolours.
But a cross stitching kit
was easier to send through the post.
One such store
was prominent in my
wanderings along the High Street,
just down the hill
from my favourite tea shop.
I spent far more time at Bettys café,
but over the years
that needlepoint store
became like a second home.
The initial introduction had nothing to do with me
or the three children tagging along.
But something about the kits and colours,
especially the colours,
seduced and intoxicated.
All four of us were enchanted
by soft, satiny DMC threads and
old-fashioned samplers that screamed England
where nothing ever changes.
It was fairly early in our
UK sojourn,
as I chose a kit
or two –
I don’t recall, although
the subject was birds.
I also purchased
three small kits
one for each child,
all clamoring at me to show them
how to stitch.
I don’t remember if the clerk smiled,
perhaps she’d previously seen
how Americans living in Britain
were called to forgotten pastimes
as if castles and abbeys
were still in use,
as if the New World
was still concealed,
or just to when
the sun rose and set upon
the British Empire.
Suddenly, threads and needles were my life.
The children’s enthusiasm waned,
although my eldest still has her
scattered projects
that will probably remain unfinished.
But there in Yorkshire,
where I learned to savor tea and the BBC
I began travelling a path forged by
intricate crosses
carefully laid into
Aida cloth.
I stepped into a timeless, magical world
steeped in endless hues
and countless images
which sprang to life
via delicate cotton string,
usually two strands,
sometimes three.
The needles have accumulated,
those large and child-friendly
to DMC 28
which I can no longer thread
due to dodgy eyesight.
But needles, while necessary,
are just the figurative tip of the iceberg.
I have more thread than…
more than I could ever possibly snip into a myriad of lengths
for a plethora of projects.
Blues (which are my favourites), pinks, and greens
yellows, oranges, browns, and purples
in all conceivable shades –
each separate DMC colour rests in a
small plastic bag
hung on a round metal ring.
Rings are sorted
according to lot numbers –
100s, 200s, 300s… you get the picture.
Or maybe you don’t –
an entire canvas tote bag
is stuffed with much smaller
clear plastic sacks
each harboring one or several packages of floss.
I have just about every standard hue,
plus special variegated tones
and a host of subtle linen shades
which are stiff
and difficult with which to work.
Needless to say, I possess all the thread
I could ever use.
Floss and needles galore,
but they would be redundant
without the cloth upon which to flesh out
various little birds.
Fowl are Mum’s forte –
I prefer samplers
either from an established pattern
or my vivid imagination.
from tractors, deer, and fishing accoutrements for Dad
to a panda and dolphins for my two youngest kids.
The eldest daughter received a sampler
done in a flower motif
bordered by small multicoloured butterflies,
a piece I worked out myself,
with just a little assistance from
a big book of designs.
I’ve stitched English cottages and Jesus Christ,
teapots and Mackintosh roses and best friends gazing at the sea.
Recently I made a leap into linen,
previously only employed
for small bookmarks.
That eldest daughter moved house,
earning herself and the new husband
a sampler celebrating
the best beverage in the entire world
(tea).
I hadn’t stitched in several years,
accessories gathered in bags and a
large wicker basket
stuck in the corner of the lounge,
near a big coal bucket
we brought back with us to America.
Like souvenirs, all that stuff crowded the hearth of a
fake fireplace
like ghosts of
eleven years’ worth of
rain, bangers and mash,
and Yorkshire puddings.
Of tea and scones and double cream,
granary bread and the most delicious
strawberries and carrots I have ever eaten.
All those remnants unable to be transported across the ocean
sat amidst threads and needles or
swirled inside the empty coal bucket
waiting for California’s shine to wear off
this native of the Golden State.
Writing takes up plenty of my time
but it’s not the only distraction.
Clearing a space on my worktable,
I hauled all those unframed tapestries,
the bag of floss, needles, and British cross stitching magazines,
making an inventory.
Did I actually bring all this back,
was I truly that much of a stitcher?
Perhaps I’d forgotten
all the days and nights
as rain poured down windowpanes,
as the AGA constantly radiated heat
into an otherwise cold kitchen,
as the BBC aired various programmes
sans commercial interruptions.
But at one point,
not all that long ago,
this was my lifeblood
in cotton colours
and Aida cloth.
Before the writing blossomed.
I was telling stories in stitches
placed as succinctly as language.
Tapestries conveyed tales of their own,
for where kits were purchased
to how I chose unrelated designs
to form a greater whole.
But a few things have changed,
in addition to using the more temperamental linen.
My eyesight has indeed deteriorated;
I can’t hold a project as closely as before.
My arms stretch at a different angle, but
I’m not as young as I used to be.
I’m n
ot yet as old as Mum was
when completing uni,
what started all this cross stitching drama.
But no longer am I 31, 32, 33.
I’m transitioning from
my mid-forties
into my late-forties –
one of these days I’ll be the
gran sitting in the lounge,
fashioning various little birds.
It won’t occur in my beloved Great Britain.
But as it comes to pass
I hope to entice my grandchildren,
when eventually they arrive,
with a lost art.
I’ll teach them the wonder of actual correspondence,
we’ll bake many loaves of bread.
And when those tasks are finished
we’ll gather on the sofa
or at a table
strewn with small slips of
large-holed Aida cloth
and big needles
easy for little fingers to grasp.
Maybe they’ll have trouble threading their needles,
I probably will too.
But with each X made,
a picture will emerge,
another generation gripped by an ancient craft.
And as we stitch,
stories will unravel
about tea and rain
and of various little birds
forever flying on Great-Grandma’s walls
all the way from Yorkshire, England.
The Todd Lambert Special