This is a story about a latch hook rug that my dad made back in the early seventies. When an injury kept him home from work and unable to putter around the house fixing things, like he always did on his days off. I can’t remember if it was the time he broke his leg or “slipped a disc”, as they used to say back then. They, being my parents. I was just a kid, too busy running in and out of the house with friends to pay attention to what my parents were doing. Although I remember him being in pain and cranky and bored enough sitting in his recliner day after day to complain about needing something to do.
One day a very large rug hooking kit arrived by mail and all of a sudden my dad was sitting with the stiff, patterned canvas folded in his lap, pushing a latch hook through square holes, row after row with bits of coordinating wool that came wrapped like a big sushi roll. Sometimes he watched TV while doing it. Most times he listened to music and would ask me when I came inside to put on another record for him so he wouldn’t have to struggle up and disturb the creative process. It didn’t seem weird to me that he was making a rug while listening to Johnny Cash or Kristofferson or Dolly. It seemed weirder that he wasn’t moving much at all and seemed almost content about it. The further he got into the colourful pattern, the more interesting I found it. Sometimes I sat on the floor and passed him the next strand to add. The meticulous process reminded me of paint-by-numbers crossed with crochet. A work friend of his stopped by for a visit and the man teased Dad about being a “happy hooker”. They chuckled over that, and so did I, even though I had no clue what was funny about it. I was just happy he was happier.
Eventually, he was well enough to return to work. The bulky, oval rug remained rolled up by his recliner chair and if he had a spare moment he’d add some rows. It could’ve taken him months to finish or years. All I know is that he persisted and once it was done it became a permanent fixture on the living room floor of every home my parents had, even if the room was already carpeted. And there were many, many homes. I’ve recently calculated that we moved ten times by the time I left home on my own. Fortunately, only one house was far enough away to force me to switch elementary schools and make new friends. The rest of the time we moved within the same area until I graduated high school. My retired parents continued to move nearer to me and further away for years to come. I suppose they were in search of somewhere better than they were. It used to frustrate me, their inability to stay comfortably in one place for long. As an adult, I came to accept the fact they were who they were. As imperfect as we all are. Humans trying to figure things out and not always getting it right.
My dad’s last move was closer to me and without my mom, who passed away five years before he did. He didn’t have many possessions by then. Constant downsizing to smaller places had significantly lightened the load to only essentials and some prized possessions, like that seventies rug he made so he wouldn’t go stir-crazy. I was surprised to discover he left the rug to me in his will. Shortly after he died, me and my family moved from the suburbs to the country, and I put the rug directly into storage. Honestly, it wasn’t my taste at the time. Too seventies in colour. Too old-fashioned in style. Too painful a reminder of parents I missed very much.
I’ve been decluttering closets since the start of this new year. It’s been a gloomy and rainy winter and there’s been days when I’ve had to force myself to get chores done. I’m one of those people who regularly stuffs things away–out of sight, out of mind. Until I get fed up with the chaos and start pulling things out to ditch or donate. I always think about my parents when I get into a spring-cleaning state of mind, and how they didn’t hold onto things that weren’t useful and kept only the family heirlooms they weren’t ready to part with yet. I have some of those knickknacks now–a gravy boat I still use when I make roasts for family dinners, and two silly antique clocks that don’t work, but remind me of my childhood in a cozy, nostalgic way. And that rug, sitting rolled up in storage. I learned two weeks ago that it’s only gotten dustier and mustier with age, and has unravelled in spots on the underside, where Dad carefully glued thick backing tape down, and probably did several more times over the years.
My husband offered to take it to the dry cleaning-slash-alterations business he frequents to get his work gear repaired. The miracle worker who owns the business told him she couldn’t guarantee that a thorough cleaning wouldn’t damage it further, so he called me to see what I wanted to do. I decided it was better to try to save it instead of leaving it rolled up and forgotten as I’ve done for over twenty years. The woman agreed, telling my husband the rug is a timeless work of art that should be appreciated and used. I thought the same thing when I unrolled it the other day. It’s charmingly retro. Special. Made by hardworking hands that refused to stay idle during a painful and depressing time.
I’m happy to report it cleaned up better than I hoped for and the backing is successfully repaired. For now, it sits on the floor in my office. Reminding me to keep writing and creating, even on days that feel gloomy. Especially then. I played some Kristofferson as I tried out different spots for the rug. Smiled at the funny, yet sad lyrics about putting on your cleanest dirty shirt to meet the day, then picked up a basket of knitting to add a few more rows.
A Roaring Good Yarn 