I have a small sewing cabinet that belonged to my grandmother. The little bit of research I have done on the cabinet indicates that it was probably made in the 1930s or 40s. Still in the cabinet are cards of needles and the spools of silk thread that my grandmother used. I don’t know if she did embroidery, but I suspect she did since my mother, her daughter, did quite a lot of embroidery. Women of that era often taught their daughters these types of needle arts. Along with embroidery, my mother’s other favored needle art was crochet. Most evenings after the dinner dishes were dried and put away, my mother would sit and crochet while watching television. She made lovely throws that were in high demand at craft fairs.
In keeping with the tradition of mothers teaching their daughters these traditional crafts, my mother tried to teach me how to crochet. That did not work out too well. For one thing, I am a lefty; she was a righty. We could not bridge that gap.
However, I think it was more that I lacked the patience and focus for this type of work. One had to pay attention and count, making the same movements over and over. It was as much of a meditation as a traditional craft.
In my foolish inability to learn these crafts, I have broken a tradition of hundreds, if not thousands of years. And that bothers me.
ljg (c) 2017