An unexpected gift from beyond.

When my late grandmother was moving out of her house and into a seniors' apartment complex several years ago, one of the pieces of furniture I was given was a large handmade yellow and green cabinet with storage compartments.
My grandmother did a lot of cross stitch and other embroidery work, and the cabinet was full of spools and bobbins and skeins of floss and thread. My youngest sister had the cabinet first, but since she had no place (or real use) for it, it was given to me. (Both my sister and I were taught to cross stitch by Grammy, so it was logical.)

Well, I stopped stitching a few years ago, mainly because I love to do miniature samplers for dollhouses but my need for glasses is getting in the way. So I put most of the embroidery materials in one section of the cabinet and began storing my scrapbooking materials in the then-empty drawers. I love having everything within easy reach, and the door in the middle was perfect for storing my Sizzix die-cutter.

About a year and a half ago, I sold my Sizzix because I wasn't using it a whole lot at the time, and I hadn't been in that middle cupboard since. A few minutes ago, however, I decided to tuck my lavender reed oil diffuser in there because Hubby has a headache. I knew the smell would bother him, and I could rest assured that it wouldn't spill in there.

When I opened up the door, my jaw just about hit the floor.

Hanging in a slot on the inside of the door was a rug hook. Or, to be more exact, my grandmother's well-used authentic vintage bent-shaft-and-handle, tapered, rug hook. I was stunned.

I took it out and held it in my hand and stared at it as if it had come from outer space. (I didn't even register what now looks to me to be a well-used proddy tool beside it.)

I don't remember ever having seen either tool before. I didn't even know my grandmother had been a rughooker.

From my limited knowledge of the history of the art (and it is limited), I'm pretty sure that rughooking was more of a North American thing than a European one, and my grandmother (and her handiwork heritage) came from Denmark. Whether or not she picked it up here, I don't know, but Dad never mentioned it, and I don't remember ever having seen hooked rugs in her house. Tons of needlepoint pictures, yes, but not a single hooked piece.

Grandmothers come in all different kinds, and ours wasn't the stereotypical warm, fuzzy, touchy-feely kind of relationship. Some people have that skill set, and some don't, and I certainly don't fault my grandmother for that. (She could play the piano, and I can't, so we're even. *grin*) But because she was my only grandmother (I never knew my maternal grandmother as she died before I was born), the warm, fuzzy, touchy-feely side of me always kind of felt something was missing.

If you read this blog at all, you know that I'm pretty much a sensitive, sentimental person, and that the value I place in a material thing is not what it would cost to buy, but in its history.

I can't fully put into words how I felt when my hand closed around the handle of that hook. But I can tell you that, for just a moment, I felt like a little girl holding her grandmother's hand.