Rag Rugs...a family craft handed down. Down to me. Yes, this will be a special rug.
If I hang my papaw's old work pants on the clothesline, just like my grammer did fifty years ago in Georgia, will they soak up the day's sun? Enough sun so that when they are carefully cut into strips and stitched round and round and round, they brighten even the most simple of rooms? If I sit on the edge of the rug just like she did, moving slowly around its perimeter as she stitched, will I hear the laughter that she did when papaw realized that his work pants were no longer on the line, but now in the rug?
If I use the crochet hook that my papaw made for his mama, my great-grandmother, for each and every stitch, will I feel how tired and worn her hands must have felt at the end of the day. But be able to add one more round tonight anyway?
If I make my rug exactly the same way my grammer's mother did, will my rug warm my family's feet in the winter as hers warmed my grammer's and my mother's?
If I add a round or two of my Daddy's wrangler jeans, will the rug smell like the wild Texas honeysuckle on the prairie that he walked through last? The denim is worn and stained, but lots of wear still left in the weave...yes, lots of wear still left.
If I add strips of old linens from Aunt Grace's kitchen, too stained and worn to be tablecloths or dishtowels anymore, will I think of my last meal with her when I see it? And will I hear her sweet voice again telling about the time she went walking on the promenade with her beau?
I'll hook in some of my grandmother's cotton sheets in hopes that part of the rug ends up in front of the fireplace and one of my babes falls asleep there. With fingers crossed that he'll dream about her taking him down to the creek and spreading that same exact sheet out in front of us for a picnic, just like she did with me.
Yes this will be a special rug, a family craft handed down kind of rug.