I cannot paint a picture great
Nor pen a classic book.
My hands are made for simpler art,
I dye, and cut and hook.

I thank our Father for the gifts,
To beauty seek and mind to will.
From meagre stores and simple tools
The use of hands and skills.

One gently warming thought have I,
As love’s sweet labour ends.
My little gift may softer make
The footfalls of my friends.

by Thea Day

I am the family wardrobe, best and worst
Of all generations, from the first;

Pa’s Sunday go to meeting coat,
And the woollen muffler he wore at this throat;

Grandma’s shawl that came from Fayal;
Ma’s wedding gown, three times turned and once let down,Which once was plum, but now turned brown;

Pa’s red flannels, that made him itch;

Pants and shirts, petticoats and skirts;

From one another, but I can’t tell which.

Tread carefully, because you see, if you scuff me.
You scratch the bark of the family tree.

Anon
Reprinted from “Old Time Tools and Toys of Needlework” by Gertrude Whiting, 1928

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Do you remember t’owd rag rug
We made for Christmas every year
How it were allus custom
To have a new hearth rug lying there
Two yards long by one yard wide
Wi’a deep plain border, wi’colours inside.

A diamond we like at our house
And me Mum were fond o’red
So there wa’ allus a red diamond
In every rug we med
Harding were stretched o’re a wooden frame
And us all around seemed like some sort o’game.

But I was stalled afore we began
So it was allus left to me Mam, Dad and Gran
There was prodders of steel and some made of wood
Wi’a sharp smooth point, or it weren’t any good
To make that two yard by one yard owd rag rug.

Cutting up clippings needed skill
Wi’a blunt pair of scissors an old cloth coat
We’d a cardboard box to fill.
Don’t cut em too long nor too short
Don’t cut em too fat nor too thin
Just right size, sither like this wi’both ends tapered in.

We had to shout at Gran when she got to the stage
Wi’clip crazy scissors she’d go on rampage
Nowt were safe from her clipping she just couldn’t stop
Till she filled in Harding that we fetched her from Co-op

Then to shake it every day you’d lug it out and back
It nearly pulled yer arms out, if you hadn’t got the knack
Up in’t air muck’ed fly, then straight back down
Right in your eye
That two yards were like two miles,
I’m sure it weighed a ton.

I tell you straight,
That shaking rugs were not my idea o’fun
But I can still see those hands prodding away
How long ago was yesterday?

Wall to wall carpet now covers the floor
Those hands are at rest now they’ll prod no more
And at tears I keep back, and memories that tug
I’ll never forget them, no t’old Rag Rug.

Anon
Supplied by Patricia Smith

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