The three women I knew best:My mother, her mother, and her sister, my Auntie V, were all good with needlework. My mother sewed things like curtains, pillows and bed clothes (she sewed clothes, too, but she didn’t really like to). My grandmother crocheted and embroidered. Auntie V could do it all… and she did it all very well.

 

My favourite clothes as a child were all pieces designed and made by my Auntie V. She knitted sweaters,hats, mittens and scarves for me as well. Nothing she made ever itched, and it was all pretty.

 

I wanted to be good at some kind of needlecraft, too. My mother said I was too young to learn how to use the sewing machine. I couldn’t crochet (all I managed to make was one big, ugly knot!), and when it came to knitting, I was all thumbs (Later in life, I learned a little; I can knit a simple scarf, but that’s about it). I tried my hand at embroidery, and it stuck. With an old instruction book and some practice,I did all right.

 

I wanted to embroider everything. And I did: Jeans, shirts, jackets, canvas bags, curtains, and pillowcases… Nothing made of fabric was safe.

 

A few months after I had embroidered pretty much everything I owned, my Auntie V and her husband, Uncle C, had a big cookout at their house in Redding Ridge (also known as “Out In the Country”). It was sort of a family reunion, with tons of people and lots of food. I went into the house, looking for the little bathroom on the first floor (I often got lost inside their house; it seemed like a big maze to me.).Walking down the hall, I encountered a framed piece on a wall. I thought it was a painting (Auntie V did a lot of painting in those days; I remember thinking that this was “a new one”),

 

Then I got closer to it and saw the stitches.

 

The piece itself was nothing unusual: a vase of flowers. It was the variety of stitches, and the perfection of each flower that held me there.

 

I pushed a footstool up against the wall and climbed on top of it to get a better view.

 

There was no glass over it. I smiled. Inspected my hands: clean and dry. With one clean, dry finger, I began tracing the flowers. Different colours. Different yarns. Some were silky and soft; others were thicker, rougher, and coarse. “Ooh… pretty,” I whispered to the framed fabric.

 

“What are you doing?” Auntie V’s voice broke the spell. Startled, I nearly flew off of the footstool. She caught me, laughing.

 

I hopped down from the footstool. “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“I just wanted to see it up close.”

 

Auntie V looked at what I was looking at. She laughed. “That thing? I did that years ago!”

 

“You made this?” My eyes went wide.

 

She nodded. “This is one of my first samplers.” She paused and thought. “I made this long before you were even born.“

 

“It’s so pretty,” I gushed.“The stitching is so neat!”

 

My aunt smiled. “You really think so?”

 

“Yes!” I wasn’t done gushing: “It even feels good!”

 

“Well, thank you, Vanessa. I’m glad you like it.”

 

After I used the bathroom (Auntie V helped me find it, on the other side of the house… I really was lost!), we headed back to the party. I stopped in front of the vase of flowers again.

 

“Do you think I could ever embroider like that?”

 

“From what your mother tells me, you already do!”

 

I smiled and blushed. “Nah…but I’m going to keep trying. It’s fun!”

 

Over the years, I spent many weekends in that house. During each visit, I would find some time to admire the vase of flowers. Sometimes I would trace over the stitches with a finger. Other times, I would just smile at the perfect blooms. A couple of years after Uncle C passed away, Auntie V sold the big house out in the country. She moved around a bit and I never saw The Sampler.

 

About 8 years ago (It will be eight years in May), Ken and I got married. My Auntie V had moved to Tennessee a few years before (where she still resides, close to her two sons and her grandchildren and her great grandchildren), and was unable to make it to the wedding. We received a large, nearly flat package from her, a day or two after the event.

 

“Oh, my…” I said under my breath, my fingers immediately reaching out to trace those perfect stitches.

 

Ken thought something was wrong, because I started crying. He rushed to my side and peered into the box.“What is it?”

 

“It’s The Sampler,” I breathed. When he looked puzzled, I added, “My Aunt made this long ago. Before I was even born.”

 

I am still trying to be that good: Neat, fancy stitches in beautiful colours, varying textures. I keep trying. It’s fun!