Chips Off The Block Read online

  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.

  I’ve stitched a variety of images

  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