VINTAGE CROCHET

"Life is like a crochet project, sometimes you unravel and start over to create something beautiful.." -Unknown

This is my Vintage  Crochet wall quilt. It's created with my mother's crochet form the 1940's and 1950's, pieces she taught me to make when I was a teenager, costume jewelry that had lived in a drawer for fifty years. I had no idea what to do with all of  it. So about 5 or 6 years ago I created a wall quilt, and added  to it, periodically. It's a work in progress..... 

Some of the beaded pieces were gifts, handkerchiefs made of fine Lawn fabric edged with lace, old costume jewelry , from the same era,  dripping across the lace.

The main crochet doilies are from a tablecloth she and I worked on when I was in high school. It was never finished. I threw it into a shoebox, into storage, till 2019. The net ribbon is from her 1936 bridal bouquet. I found it in an old box, part of it rusted with age. I saved the main part to drape across the crochet with her kilt pin, Celtic cross and her seamstress tape measure she used in the 1950's. I've recycled as many vintage pieces ,as possible.

 

Nov 21, 1936 Nessie Shiels McConachie

In the early 1950's , my mother spent a few summer's teaching crochet to her nieces from Peachland, BC. This is an actual photo of them sitting outside the house making doilies for this Christmas Lace tablecloth. It took them a couple of summers.....

In perfect condition after all of these years. I use it as a drape over the banister.

"There is a certain magic in the rhythm of crochet..." 

                                                                  -Unknown

 

In the 70's I tried my hand at making a lace tablecloth, using a pattern from a 1951 (15 cent crochet book. ) I kind of gave up after a while, and for years, with all of our moves across country, I kept it in the sideboard, thinking someday I'd throw it out. But instead  turned it into the centre portion of the wall quilt. 

(Crocheting over tea in the back yard: My grandmother, Isabella Shiels, my mother, Nessie, and  their dog, in 1951.)

After 2019, I found more pieces I made with my mother....the white sapphire centrepiece, and added it to the quilt....it really isn't difficult to do lace crochet. it makes perfect sense as you do the rounds. Quite addictive.  Very peaceful.

"Crochet is not just a hobby, it's a passion..." - Unknown

(Nov 21st, 1936 Davy and Nessie McConachie . The simple wedding dress, veil, and  bouquet with net ribbon....)

1951 Favourites crochet book.........................taped, torn, retaped .....

"Each crochet project is an adventure waiting to unfold..." - Unknown

The centre of the piece is a soft, fine piece of lawn fabric that my mother edged, before teaching me to make the surrounding doilies......It was a hot July day, and we sat on the porch while she took her finest hook and created the edging, before we crocheted  lace.

"Crochet is a dance of yarn and hook; it brings joy with every turn...." 

- Unknown

15 Cent crochet books, found in another drawer, under tablecloths in the sideboard.....

My mother also did a lot of Tatting, something you don't see very often anymore. Her books were marked and dog eared from years of use.

In 1959, my mother sent away for a filet crochet pattern from the Vancouver Province newspaper. Free. Only 2 cents for postage from Toronto! Still in its original envelope. She kept it inside a mason jar with her my grandmother's hooks and tatting shell. It was never crocheted. Never used. 

One summer, I taught my daughters to crochet. Just like my mother and grandmother, we sat on the back porch with yarn and thread. There isn't a day goes by that one, or all three of us ,are crocheting with hooks shining away in the light of day and night....

My mother, Nessie, Grandmother and Grandfather, My dad, Davey, with an uncle and cousin. 1952. (photographs 2025 and vintage family photos)

THE OLD STOVE (Thanksgiving 1972)

When I was eleven, in 1972,  my mother's brother, Bill, spent the long winters with us. He drove his camper over 1700 kms, (about 16 hours), from Bethune, Saskatchewan, to Victoria , B.C. stopping at Hell’s Gate to get me a sweatshirt ( nowwe call them hoodies).  Thanksgiving weekend  he’d suddenly appear.  As soon as he arrived ,my mother put on his favourite record, “Sons of the Pioneer”, then  boil a pot of coffee on the old wood stove.  I can still see the embers  coaxing the pot to bubble.

My uncle had brought that very wood stove from the farm, years before, when my dad was still alive. The flames still cooked sizzled. Most days. The bottom was not stable and ashes fell here and there. It was a dinosaur. 

 Bill always showed up, second week in October.  My mother greeted him in the driveway, waving a dish towel at him, telling him not to drive into her old Dodge.  He’d yell at her to stop caterwauling. I can still see her standing with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot, while he backed into the driveway. 

 Once in the kitchen he’d drop a frozen goose on the table.  Years before he  went hunting with his friends and had tons of "stuff" in the farm freezer. My job was to take the frozen ball of goose over to our neighbour.  Every year they got a goose from Bill, for their thanksgiving dinner. They always sent back a tin of beef jerky. 

Over the next four months  Bill lived downstairs, where mum stoked the Franklin stove with dry wood she’d chopped herself. She was pretty independent and pretty good with that ax. She'd swing it around her head and it would crash down on  chunks of wood.

Bill   had an old suitcase full of James Bond books, a couple of pipes with tobacco, and  a bag of raw garlic. He used to spend afternoons downstairs, smoking cigars and chewing on raw garlic. By Christmas time, he had read all the books he brought. Then he’d walk downtown and buy more books from the local store. Thirty years later , they were still there, stacked in a box  downstairs, when the house sold. I gave some of them to the local away, kept the rest for years.

 His  pipe smoke, laced with garlic wafted thru our house. My mother scolded him . He would just chuckle.When  February rolled around, we’d find Bill standing out on our front steps after breakfast. He’d  watch the skies daily, until  one day, when it felt right, he’d  announce it was time for him to go home. To Bethune. Till next year. 

Those four months he was here,  my mother was a cooking machine. Full breakfasts of fresh scones ,slathered with warm butter, and honey, huge fatty rashers of bacon or sausages, with two or three over easy eggs, sprinkled liberally with  pepper. Some days there were hash browns charred in the iron skillet. The old stove loved to work its magic, and the fire roared and squealed with delight, as it kept the kitchen toasty warm. 

With “Sons of the Pioneer” playing in the background , my mother and my uncle  argued over politics, remembered old friends ,  and sang along, tunelessly with the record. Meanwhile, the old stove chugged along as much coffee and tea it could cough up.

That stove burned night and day in winter. Like her parents kept it,  on the farm, years before.

   Thanksgiving 1972,  my mother cooked a 30 pound turkey in  the old wood stove.She had trouble shoving it in and closing the old door. Mostly, cause it was so stuffed with apples and bread. Stirring the fire to greater heights,  boiled  cranberries were stirred with home made  apple sauce, mashed potatoes with turnips followed. Then buttered peas, carrots, creamed corn from a can, pumpkin pie made with evaporated milk, like my grandmother used to do. My thrifty, resourceful mother noted in her housekeeping book, the meal cost  30$. Pretty good. Since it had to last the entire week.

It was the last meal the old wood stove could handle. It  literally fell apart, after the  pie was wrenched from its bowels. Ancient oven door hinges crumbled. It fell silent. Ashes everywhere. The coffee pot fell silent.

Bill  bought us a new electric oven with burners. I can’t remember exactly when , but not long after. He  carted away the old stove to the dump. My mother was a little fearful of the new fangled stove, till Bill showed her how to  boil coffee on  the front burner. She missed chopping wood for the stove.  Over the next winters, when he came, Bill shingled the roof,  mended the old cabin out at Sooke, built  a fence, cut down dead trees and made beach chairs out of the wood.  He took me down to the ocean to see the waves pound on the rocks. He made sure things were taken care of, before spring.

After Christmas he’d  sit by the fire in the living room, reading James Bond, Dickens, the Almanac.  “Sons of the Pioneer” played every night. He was allowed to smoke his pipe and chew garlic upstairs by the New Year. When he left in February, we sent him home with a tape of “Sons of the Pioneer” for his truck.

 I saw Bill, for the last time, in 1988, on the  Bethune farm, in the autumn, when the sun was warm, and fields were golden. He fed us boiled beef dinner,  and apple pie he got at the corner store. We ate outside on the old porch, in the twilight of the prairies. Best meal ever. Best place ever. Peaceful. Wonderful.

He said he was sure glad we came by to stay for a few days. We almost didn’t stop on our cross Canada trip. Best thing we ever did.  He took us to the lake where we paddled a canoe, ate sandwiches on the shore, while he smoked his pipe on the rocks with the water lapping at his feet. We picked vegetables in the old slough. He cooked them on the old wood stove in the cabin. Coffee burbled in its pot over the fire ....

 A few years later, he passed away, leaving  part of the farm, and the slough , to Ducks Unlimited. It  returned to its natural state over the years. Just like he wanted.

He was a quiet , thoughtful man. He was there, when we needed him, without fanfare, after my father died . He was a Giant to those who knew him……..we buried his ashes amongst the poppies , on the  farm, with good friends near.

                                   

I hope the poppies are still growing wild there, in the wind, in the golden grass, all these years later. I hope the scattered ashes of the old stove, now silent, swept into the wind, remember him as well....
 

Photographs 2024

 

 

 

ON THOSE STEPS

"There's something about sitting alone in the dark that reminds you of how big the world really is..." 

-Kami Garcia

If those steps could talk.  Not forgotten. Just far away. Hopefully those steps will remember us……... 

I was told my grandmother liked to pick Roses of Sharon on hot August days. She’d toss them into canning jars filled with water, and my mother placed them around the old house. 

My grandmother was blind by this time, I heard. Totally blind. But she could feel the flowers. Trace their petals.

She liked to sit on the steps before sunset. They all stayed long after, into the night when fireflies twinkled.

My mother said the fireflies stopped coming years later.  But there was a year they danced for them .  

My mother  loved those late summer nights on the steps. When there would be a chill and she’d have to get blankets for everyone. And hot tea all round.

The year of the fireflies, was the year ivy dripped like an umbrella, over the windows. My father always meant to cut it down. He never did. Long after he died, years later, my mother finally had it cut down. We missed it.  Like the fireflies.

On those steps, they sat and talked of the day.   My Parents liked to pull the old radio to the open door, and crank it up to hear music.

They’d sit on the cement steps,  tapping their toes.  Talking about this and that. Or that and this. 

My grandfather, apparently, was fond of talking about the farm days.  My mother and grandmother discussed canning recipes. My father  smoked. Sometimes the dog sat next to him and he’d say “ Good dog. Good boy…”

If those steps could talk, they would have spoken of wise and wonderful things.  

Some nights, my parents  brought  out the rocking chair,  a small chair, and  blankets for my grandparents.

My grandmother loved to be bundled up , in the old red maple rocking chair, at the bottom of the stairs. My mother’s  dog cradled at her feet. She couldn’t see him, but she’d touch him and whisper “Good dog. Good boy….” 

My father sometimes read to her, sometimes with a flashlight,depending on how dark it got.   My grandfather sat near her, instead of on the steps. He’d hold her hand in his and smoke his pipe into the night. 

At one point, my father tried to fry an egg on the steps. It ended up being a gooey mess. Everyone laughed. The dog cleaned it up. “Good dog. Good boy…” my mother said to him.

I don’t think those steps realized  how important they were. To listen to stories. To hear  crickets sing with the fireflies. To be together.

My mother said, in later years, how they liked to just sit  in silence. They’d watch my  father try to catch fireflies.

Those days now gone. The steps belong to someone else. I hope in the expanse of their lifetime, they take the time ….. 

On those steps. Those lovely gentle  steps. Maybe the fireflies will return....  

Photographs 2022