Threads - A Stitch In Time

 

My paternal grandmother was a professional tailoress. She objected to being referred to as a dressmaker as she made clothes for everyone. Most of my childhood clothes were made by her and also, a beautiful, pink satin eiderdown for my first ‘big girl’ bed. It was beautiful and I wish I still had it. My mum and I had summer dresses in matching fabric. My dad and granddad always had smart trousers. It is sad that Nanna Hetty passed away when I was only eight years old, but from being about four or five, she’d taught me a few skills. I could thread a needle, sew a neat running stitch and sew buttons on to a piece of spare fabric. These small things sowed the seed for my future sewing abilities. At secondary school, I excelled in needlework. Over the years I’ve made clothes for myself and my daughter and made items of soft furnishings. As my eyesight worsened, it became a difficult task and these days I just sew buttons back on, mend things and sew name labels on school uniforms. From Nanna Hetty’s background, I learnt about a different type of thread than anything she had on her bobbins. It was family and the invisible thread that fastens us together, which I came to appreciate more when I started to research my family tree.

When our maternal aunt died, my sister and I, as next of kin, were tasked with dealing with everything. Amongst her belongings was a large envelope with my name on. It wasn’t private, it was open and over-filled, containing old family papers, certificates and important letters, directed to me because of my interest in family history.  Eventually, I got round to going through the contents, being very careful with delicate items. Most was self-explanatory but there was the running thread of a surname that was unfamiliar to me. Clearly, this name belonged in the family, somewhere. I needed to discover more and solve the mystery. Looking into my ancestry gave me the answers.

This year marks twenty years since I began to search online, piecing my family tree together. I have followed my paternal line to Southern Cemetery in Manchester, where upon finding a clerical error in their data input, I was able to help them to correct it and find the grave I wanted. I knew that my Nanna Hetty was orphaned as a baby as she’d told me, but I don’t know if she knew anything about her parents, in particular that her father was employed as a tailor’s assistant. That thread was definitely in her bloodline. The unfamiliar name in my maternal family turned out to be my great-grandmother’s maiden name. I’m grateful to Cheshire Births, Marriages and Deaths website for that discovery, long before I started on Ancestry.co.uk. My family tree, even now, is a work in progress. Now and again I pick up a known thread, which is often more than one person and see where it leads. These are the threads of life in my family, which will weave on into future generations.

I found this poem,

 

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford   1914 – 1993

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Flour - Fred, the Flour Dredger

I hated Cookery at school. Nothing ever worked out for me. The shortcake made that morning, of which I was so proud, arrived home as a mass of crumbs in my tin. I came last in my Third Year exam because I’d forgotten my very necessary egg. On another occasion I was ridiculed by the horrid Domestic Science teacher for my choice of crumble – banana. It was the only fruit available to me and at least I’d made an effort.  It worked and tasted fine with custard. Looking back, I don’t think she, or any of my teachers, was aware that my mother was terminally ill and I was looking after myself and the family when my grandmother couldn’t be there. Perhaps, she might have been more kind to me had she known. When the ‘O’ Level options were announced, she geared me towards needlework, not that I needed any help with my choice.  If I learnt anything about cookery at school, it was the importance of a flour dredger. It was the one thing I was going to have when I had my own kitchen.  Many years passed before that happened and a flour dredger wasn’t included.

From somewhere along the years I’ve mastered enough cookery skills to feed myself properly when I lived alone and raise my family on a well-balanced diet and some home-baked treats,  Christmas cake, birthday cake, biscuits, flapjack and bread. There’s usually something tempting by the bread bin.

As Covid 19 hit, a national shortage of all important things happened overnight. It wasn’t just toilet rolls and domestic cleaning items with the basic food stuffs, flour became impossible to find.  I was in Dumfries & Galloway as lockdown commenced and found an abundance of various flours in Kirkcudbright’s Co-op. I bought one packet of bread flour and one packet of plain flour to bring home. We came back into self-isolation, relying on shopping deliveries or family members picking things up for us. I told everyone to look for flour and buy me any sort, also baking powder, which had vanished from stock lists everywhere. Flapjack became the usual home bake as porridge oats and syrup were still easily available. I even blitzed some oats to make a flour suitable for melt-in-the-mouth oaty cookies. They were so successful, that I’d like to believe the nasty Domestic Science ma’am would have a tiny word of praise.  She will be quite old by now, possibly shaking her flour dredger in the next world.

I have lots of flour now, of all types, even some organic rye flour, ideal for making almond shortcake, according to the blurb on the packet. I had to try out the recipe and it is delicious, as my disappearing waistline can confirm.

Ah, flour dredger, a Fred one from Homepride. I’ll put it on my birthday list.

My poem,  Flour Shortage

And on the Home Baking aisle, shelves are bare,

Devoid of flour that's usu'lly there.

No bread flour, no self-raising, no plain,

Not even that fancy rye or whole grain.

The entire selection is out of stock

Because too many people ran amok

Filling their trolleys with endless supplies

Of bread and milk and beans and frozen pies.

And flour.

I brought some home from Scotland, back in March.

Some plain and some wholemeal flour, low starch.

I bake a lot and I like my own bread

Otherwise, Hovis is perfect, instead.

I use up my flour then need some more,

I'm shopping on-line like never before.

No rice, no pasta, no cheese? Human greed

Means there's no provision for what I need,

No flour.

Pamela Winning 2020

Thanks for reading, keep baking and keep safe, Pam x

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Hexagons - The Patchwork Quilt

I loved needlework lessons at school. It was something I excelled in and the highlight of my week. All through secondary school I was joint top of the class with another girl who, like me, had a mother and two grandmothers, all knitters and stitchers, teaching their skills to our generation.  My Nanna Hetty used to give me a scrap of fabric and a handful of buttons to sew on. I would set them out in a pattern. It kept me busy for hours and I was very accomplished by the age of seven or eight. I also learnt to respect the sharpness of a sewing needle. No harm done.

At school, besides the curriculum stuff of making a cookery apron, a netball skirt and a pin cushion, our teacher introduced us to smocking and classic patchwork. The smocking was part of the baby dresses we made from calico and gingham. The patchwork was a bit more involved.  First we had to make hexagon shaped templates from squared paper. The six sides had to be exactly the same, so lots of careful measuring. Next, pieces of fabric were neatly folded over the hexagon side, taking care to keep the correct shape before pinning or tacking.  Each piece had to fit perfectly with another. I was very proud of mine, which became a beautiful patchwork cushion cover, later included in my exam collection.  I was equally proud of a patchwork gypsy skirt that I made for myself in the mid-seventies.

When I was told the gender of our first grandchild, I set about making a patchwork cot quilt. These days, plastic and metal templates are readily available to buy in all shapes and sizes, much easier to draw round and cut out. I chose the classic hexagon set and an assortment of suitable fabrics. Preparing the pieces was easy but hand stitching them together was more challenging for my poor eyesight. My first grandson is now three. He has a two year old cousin, a one year old brother and a sister on the way. My patchwork quilt remains unfinished, (my photo), but I will manage it, eventually, with the help of a hands-free magnifying glass.

I can relate so much to my chosen poem. It’s given me an idea for another needlework project.

 

Repairing the Heirloom
By Deborah Browning

The pattern was "spider web" -
Scraps of fabric forming hexagons,
Their paisleys, dots and plaids
Repeated until the shapes stopped,
Some incomplete, at the edge,
And over the whole a web, quilted,
Seven stitches to the inch drawing each corner
To the center.

In the patchwork I recognized pieces
Of my grandmother's gingham apron,
The apron itself cut from the skirt
Of a faded dress. Her family's clothes,
The work of her hands, for years
Were conserved. Winters passed to the scrape
Of scissors trimming those rectangles.

I trimmed a scrap of fabric from my old sundress,
Appliqued it over the threadbare original,
Bright red against worn calico.
I laid on the design by drawing needle
Across fabric, quilting the impression
That would disappear like the needle's imprints
In my fingers. My stitches met hers
And I knotted the thread of this net
That would catch another generation of small hands,
Clenching in sleep and letting go.





Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Beacons of Hope

I absolutely love lighthouses ! When I walk the back entrance to the North Euston Hotel in Fleetwood I always have to stop and admire the paintings on the walls of lighthouses in America .

Closer to home I enjoyed a climb up the Lower Lighthouse in Fleetwood during the heritage weekend in September. When  I lived in Buckie on fine, clear nights we could make out a faint flashing beacon away to the north west...so no more ado than map out...It was the lighthouse at Tarbet Ness. So naturally this meant a trip to see it.

I think it stems back to when my Grandmother and I climbed to the top of Girdleness lighthouse at Aberdeen. Of course the views were stupendous ( and that's a good reason to love lighthouses ), but the strength of the structure fascinated me. I am always enthralled to think that men lived in wee huts on remote rocks in the Atlantic in an effort to construct a lighthouse ! Then the lighthouse keepers , must have been a special breed of men to spend months isolated from family and friends with little to no communication...and sometimes ( due to adverse weather conditions) not being relieved from their duties at the scheduled time. Such myths and legends surround lighthouses...the disappearance of the two men from a lonely outpost...lights being altered to confuse shipping .....brrrrr...

The smallest lighthouse overlooks the Firth of Forth , below the Forth rail bridge. It's light hasn't shown for many a year but it has been lovingly restored.

I visited a lighthouse museum in Fraserburgh and was amazed by the lenses used, so that a small oil lamp light can be magnified hundreds of times..fascinating! Why I even saw my own image transported across the room by the strange affect of the various lenses.

In my hobby of needlework I've twice done an embroidery of La Corbiere lighthouse ( one for a friend from Jersey and one for myself) . I've also done a few applique/ quilted pictures of lighthouses.

They are indeed a lasting feat of engineering, and although no longer manned there is a romanticism attached to living in or close by one, so that holidaying in a lighthouse is a popular break.

I noticed when I visited Mull of Galloway lighthouse that the fog horns are no longer required as seemingly nautical technology has progressed so far that a ship can navigate in bad visibility . It seems that some of our lighthouses may also face demise . I do hope not though as for sailors and land lubbers alike they are Beacons of Hope.

My poem this week was written in July 2014 after a workshop at the North Euston Hotel. In my notebook it is written within the beam of a lighthouse...however I'm not clever enough to replicate that on my lap top. I will however try and type it as though the words are captured within a beam..Read down each column..

     Sailor                     
                                       Take
     Beware                                             For
                                       Heed                                         Follow
    Treacherous                                      Optimum                                    Light
                                       Align                                        Guiding
    Shore                                                Safety
                                       Lights   
    Ahead

       
      How did I do ?

    Thanks for reading, Kath

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Family Patterns

It’s good to have a break from the usual work pattern and enjoy the extra day off that a Bank Holiday Monday brings. An extra hour in bed is a welcome rest. It’s nice to relax and make the most of some uninterrupted thinking time to ponder options. Stress kills, someone reminded me recently. I didn’t need reminding. I’d been winding myself into a tightly coiled spring for a long time. Something had to give, and it did. My ‘work-life balance’ fell short of balance and weighed heavily towards the misery that work had become. A pattern had formed. Each week was spent waiting for the weekend, then the weekend was spent dreading the following week. The long winter and a lack of daylight made my feelings worse. Now spring is here, I wake up to the sun filtering through the bedroom window blinds. I can think clearly about making changes in the future, look forward to an addition in the family and gain some mental strength from my background. 

I was brought up in a close, resourceful family where the women were homemakers. From an early age I was taught sewing and knitting by my mother and both grandmothers. I’ve usually got a project on the go and an idea of what will be next.  It’s currently the non-stop manufacture of baby clothes. The other night, my pregnant daughter sent me a Facebook message asking if I would knit something. She included a photo of a child’s jacket with teddy-bear ears on the hood. It was knitted in something soft and fluffy.  My collection of patterns dates back decades but I had nothing like that. The ones I’ve inherited are priced in ‘old money’ and instantly recognised as my childhood clothing. I tried to have a ruthless sort-out once, but I couldn’t bear to part with any of them. With some guesswork and the benefit of my own experience, I found a pattern and the fluffy wool online, and ordered it straight away. I can’t wait to make it for my grandchild. 

My daughter hasn’t followed the family pattern of needlework experts, despite my best efforts. We spent many hours, side by side on the sofa as I patiently taught her to knit. We were aiming for a small blanket of assorted coloured squares. I rescued her dropped stitches and decreased the additional stitches she managed to include until a reasonable square was produced, but the blanket never materialised. Her talents are in other areas. She can make a great cake, for one thing and she’s far more interested in developing culinary skills than I ever was. Her DNA leads her towards practical skills and anything creative is a world away from needlework, but she carries the pattern of the family in her upbringing, all the same. 

There are big changes ahead which will include improvements to my work-life balance. I would love to return to being the homemaker I used to be when the children were young and when the time is right, I will. For now, re-evaluating my current situation will be a step in the right direction.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam.

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