I am crocheting a rag rug using some of Robbie's old summer shirts. We don't need a rug and I don't know where it will find a home when it is complete. But this is an important process that strengthens my links to this special friend of my soul.
I find the process of deconstructing the shirts and re-forming them into a useful creation brings me close to him. Each garment evokes memories of particular summer moments.
The green plaid with the cedar stain on it brings back the hot, blue sky that was the overseer of his efforts as he created our wonderful English garden and surrounded it with a high cedar panel fence to keep the deer away from the flowers. I can see him working in quiet contentment as our yellow dog lies in the shade of the ash tree looking on. The two of them hypnotized by the swishing rhythm of the brush.
The blue McKnight tartan shirt brings back a fall day when we are gathering the dead or pruned branches from the acreage and burning them is the fire pit in the hollow under the willow tree. It is twilight and his shirt echoes the warm velvet blues of the sky. Yellow-0range flame reflects on his face and hands. He is like a creature born in this glen, strong, still and at one with his surroundings.
As I work the ragged strips of cloth the images continue. I am happy in these moments. It is like a moment of co-creation - what was, what is and what will be. All from the making of a simple rug. Each stitch has meaning and a peculiar beauty.
My maternal grandmother made such rugs for the floor of her log home in the tiny northern village of Clute, Ontario. This was the home my grandparents built to live out the recession. Her rag rugs were a necessity for providing warmth to wood plank floor laid on hard-packed soil. I am blessed that I have no such need but still I am driven to recreate useful things from weary cloth.
The process is woman's work, a manifestation of our love for others and the simple beautiful humble treasures of our life.
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