I have a crazy thing for rag rugs. An obsessive, crazy, colorful thing for vintage rag rugs.
This particular rug belonged to my grandmother. Eventually it was my mother's rug, and then it became mine.
A while back, I took it out to study it. I paced around it. I recalled how it was in my grandmother's kitchen, then my mother's hallway. I wanted it to be a part of my life too.
After a few too many tries, I finally figured out the pattern (turkey tracks!) and wove embroidery thread into the damaged parts, closing the gaps and bringing the rug back to a usable state.
It wasn't easy. My fingers were sore from pushing the needle through the weft. And my eyes....I thought I would go blind from trying to follow the pattern. Mr Sage told me to take a break! so I worked on it when he was asleep or at work. (Ok, secret's out.)
But in the process of weaving and repairing and reweaving, I gained a healthy respect for the people who, so long, ago, saved every worn out piece of clothing, ripped and tacked the fabric together, and wove those strips into a rug.
Imagine how long it took to save enough fabric. Imagine cutting and sewing and weaving. Imagine beating it to get the dirt and dust out and then washing that rug in a tub with a washboard!
And all I did was repair it, in my own humble way.
I have become the rug conservationist and custodian. That kind of responsibility scares me.