The underKNITTING

Textiles have been a great love for me, for as long as I can remember. When I was a teenager I would walk to the corner of Route 9 and Aldrich Rd. in Howell to take the bus to vintage stores in the West Village—even then I had an eye, less so for fashion than for the beauty of things from many different times and places—with many different stories. My wedding dress was salvaged from a garbage heap and is a collection of Irish, Belgian and French lace from the 1900s. 

My grandma Ag’s style influenced me tremendously—in ways I have only started to understand. One of my favorite song lines is from Nico’s Chelsea Girl: do I really understand the underknitting? It wasn’t only how my grandma dressed but also the objects in her home. I asked a few of my cousins who knew that house on Ransom Ave. in Sea Cliff what they remember. Here’s what my cousin Bridget said—these memories would have been from before she was five years old:

“I remember the honeysuckles that lined the driveway, playing in the apple trees (the smell of them and the humming of the bees), the collection of Russian nesting dolls, the black and white checkered floor in the bathroom upstairs, sitting at Grandma Ag’s vanity in her room brushing my hair, her apron.”

I also remember Grandma Ag’s apron—it was orange and purple paisley and a bit psychedelic. I knew that I wanted one just like it. Grandma died when I was 8. For a few years, I was old enough to spend several days or even a week alone with her at a time in the summers. One of my favorite things was folding her linens, all the special napkins and tablecloths. It only dawned on me recently—at almost 50, how much my own hodge-podge collection of textiles goes back to that time, and also all the Ukrainian embroidery from my grandmother Safko’s house. (As it turns out, some of those Ukrainian items came to me after many years; my cousin saved them for me because she said I was the one in the family who most liked them and I’m not sure anyone else really wanted them.) Surely, I was taking it all in at that age—the textures, colors and patterns.

On my visits to Grandma Ag’s house I would bring crafts to do—just as my daughter does now when she goes to her grandma’s house. Latch hook rugs—which were very popular in the 70s and 80s—were a favorite for me especially Care Bears. I recently re-taught myself how to do this—it’s like riding a bike. Grandma Ag also taught me to crochet. I took crochet and knitting up again about 35 years later (and made my son a yellow scarf so that he could be the Little Prince one year for Halloween when he was about 6). The teacher told me that the way I was crocheting looked like a British style from the World War II era. I wasn’t conscious of it but realized that grandma must have learned it from her mom Sylvia whom I’m told also crocheted and came from a family of seamstresses in England who likely did contract work for Queen Victoria.

A few years ago I took a class in embroidering Victorian Valentines. The tradition was to write and embroider secret messages then sew them up as a seal. A Valentine I started for my husband took on a life of its own after my mom, brother and aunt all died in the same year. It became another sort of Valentine—a map of love, loss and healing that isn’t quite yet finished. My daughter was the one who made me realize its value, telling me it was an heirloom. So I decided to start keeping a box of heirlooms, thanks to her.

I recall my grandma Ag embroidering towels for the other grandkids before she died; I had thought my mom misplaced mine somehow, I don’t have it. I’m sure it was a white towel with pink edging and my name sewn in pink. But none of my cousins, aunts or uncles have or remember these gifts. Did I dream it? Or perhaps more likely my grandma started the work and told me about it but wasn’t able to finish.

This summer I started going to a sewing lounge in Sea Cliff with my daughter every week—it’s a chat and sew. For me it’s a crucial touchpoint during the week that brings me back to myself and my history. (I do not believe that my lifelong love of textiles starts or ends with me. In fact, I come from a long line of ladies who have crocheted, knitted and sewed for some form of livelihood. In this lounge—called the stitch-uation room—I crocheted a scarf for my daughter and a mohair headband that’s a bit loo long but still dreamy. My next project is a loopy sweater that looks like a rug. I will try to keep these things and put them in the heirloom box—maybe someone will want them in a hundred years and wonder about the great great grandma who made them like I wonder about my great great grandma. What will you make, and keep or give away—and for whom?