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I was introduced to embroidery when I was seven-years-old. Learning to sew bright patterns on flour-sack dish towels was considered a prerequisite for womanhood. It was also expected that I would work on towels, pillowcases and even quilts from that time forward, until I married, because this was how a well-trained girl built her trousseau.
I eagerly made the dish towels. I loved the bright colors and cheerful designs that were stamped on the corner. I loved sewing the running stitch and the “lazy daisies” that made up most of the patterns. I tolerated button-hole stitching and cross-stitching because it was hard to get the stitches perfectly even. But, the French Knots... well, those blasted French Knots tied me up into balls of spit and hair every time I had to sew them into a pattern.
When you make a French Knot, you have to tightly hold the thread out to one side of the project with one hand while using the needle (held in the other hand) to create the base of the knot by tightly winding the embroidery thread around the tip of the needle three times. Then, you stick the needle through the middle of the wound-up embroidery floss and into the fabric. You must then carefully and firmly pull the rest of the floss on the needle down through the opening. If all goes well, you have a neat little knot sitting on top. If it does not go so well, you have a loose clump that might be considered a knot � unless you are the fussy type that thinks knots shouldn’t have thread sticking randomly out the side of them like a rampaged bird’s nest. If the French Knot creation goes poorly, the knot is wound so tight and small that when the person doing the work moves onto the next stitch, the entire knot ends up on the back-side of the project.
As I learned the embroidery trade, I tried not to let those French Knots upset me too much. When I messed up, I picked them out and tried again. Well, that is what I usually did. But, when I was about eight-years-old, I ran into a situation with the knots that threatened my ability to become a professional embroidery artist: I turned the floss into chewing gum.
During the period of time surrounding the date of the gum incident, we lived in a little town right below a canyon. In that canyon runs a beautiful creek. In that beautiful, swift mountain creek swim gorgeous rainbow trout. Because my brothers were consumed by the idea that they should personally extract all of the trout from that creek, we spent a great deal of time in the canyon waiting for them to get skunked by the trout’s unwillingness to jump onto their hooks. While we waited for the eventual surrender of this idea, my mother and I sat in our Ford and embroidered.
When I was eight, I had moved past dish towels (the territory of the beginner) and onto pillowcases. One day, my mother decided that I should embroider something with silk embroidery floss. It was lovely � all shimmery in the basket. There were two shades of blue, a purple, and some green. The pattern was nice, too. It had a lot of Lazy Daisies on it and, since I loved them, I was happy... until I noticed that the pattern also had a lot of French Knots.
Man.
I bravely began to work on the challenge the next time we were in the canyon. I gingerly pulled apart the floss into threads. The silkiness prevented them from staying together like regular floss does and so it was harder to thread the needle. I also discovered that the knot at the end of the thread (one always has to begin with a knot that holds that first stitch in the fabric) pulled through the pillowcase top. I had to retie the knot repeatedly until I created one thick enough to begin.
I managed to get a semi-decent running stitch going and soon had the stems sewn. I moved onto the Lazy Daisies and quickly dispensed with them. But then, all that was left were those darn French Knots.
I began to work on the first one. I twirled and twirled the silk floss around my needle, but it was so slippery that my eight-year-old fingers couldn’t control it. Being a child of logic, I decided to use the great healer of trouble and wild hair: spit.
Since spit is located in mouths, it was only logical that I move the floss to its vicinity so that the maximum amount of spit would find its way onto the embroidery floss.
I swished it around my mouth for a bit. Then, I chewed on it a bit, reasoning that chewed up things have the ability to cling to things better than smooth things.
It was a good plan, I thought.
As I was considering how brilliant I was, my mother looked over at me and asked, “What’s in your mouth?”
“Em-(chew, chew)-broid-(chew)-er-y floss. See?” I spit it out and held it to her face to examine.
Mom held up the ruined floss, trying not to look upset. “You’re not supposed to chew it,” she said, stating the obvious.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I couldn’t get the French Knots to work.”
Confusion filled her face for a brief moment. After she recovered, she said, “Here, why don’t we swap? You can work on this towel and I’ll take over the pillowcase.”
Relieved, I nodded at her. Towel duty didn’t seem so bad after all.
- Ro
This is from an embroidered table runner that my Aunt Kathleen made when she was young. Her French Knots are nice.
Muse: To be absorbed in one's thoughts; engage in meditation. Not intended to solve the world's problems, another person's problems, or to cover topics completely. One does not have to agree with musings to enjoy them, just as one does not have to be the same as someone else to appreciate who they are.
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