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The Story of a Rug: Bottom Star Big Dipper
February 12, 1998 is a
day that will live in infamy—at least in my family. That
was the day my husband, Clint, was diagnosed with
terminal cancer of the liver. Our doctor left little
doubt about the finality, predicting the end in four to
six months, perhaps as few as two months. My husband
walked out of the doctor’s office on that sunny
afternoon and swung into action in his usual calm and
organized manner. He contacted our local Hospice
organization, consulted with a grief counselor, and
called his boss at the Vermont Department of Motor
Vehicles to begin the process of separating from his
job. He organized our legal and financial affairs and
researched all the possibilities for future state and
federal entitlements. I, too, was caught up in the
initial surge of action. I called the school guidance
counselors, teachers, my extended family, and even a
personal therapist for myself.
During the first weeks, we tackled the tasks
of organizing our life with great energy, love, support, and even a strange
peace, but as the weeks wore on and the tasks were completed, we sagged into
a kind of stupor. All the members of my family stopped doing what they
usually do. Clint stopped reading and collecting books. The phone stopped
ringing for our teenagers and I stopped hooking.
We reached one of our lowest moments one
Sunday afternoon about six weeks after the diagnosis. We were standing in
the kitchen, hugging, when I finally broke down and sobbed, “what am I going
to do without you?” Quietly he said, “don’t worry, I’ll always be with you.
I’ll be on the bottom star of the Big Dipper.” I clung to him, repeating,
“Bottom star, Big Dipper, Bottom star, Big Dipper. I’ll never remember
that.” Throughout the day, I kept repeating it like a mantra and later, I
went to bed still worrying that I would forget Clint’s words. Sometime in
the night I realized that I needed some kind of a touchstone to remind me.
Then I dreamed of a rug. I woke up thinking, “I am a rug hooker. That is
what I do.” My touchstone was clear.
The length of the words together would
determine the size of my new rug. On a large piece of paper I placed the
letters and started to sketch the beginnings of a picture. I worked at the
dining room table, drawing the details of our house, the mountains, and the
constellation. As the time passed, each one of my daughters wandered through
the room and watched as I drew. My oldest daughter helped straighten the
perspective of the house. With ruler and pencil, she added her suggestions.
Next, my middle daughter explained that the Big Dipper is only visible
during the winter months, so the mountains should be snow-covered. We
discussed how that might look and decided that the green leafy things in the
corner of the rug wouldn’t be appropriate, even if this is Vermont with all
its peculiar weather. At just that moment my youngest daughter happened to
pass by. She chimed in that evergreens were green all the time, so why not
make them pine trees. My picture – our picture – was coming together. Some
days later, when I was about to transfer the picture to the backing, Clint
stood contemplating the design. “I think there needs to be a moon.” So I
added a moon.
As the picture progressed through printing,
color planning, dyeing and hooking, it became apparent that we were all
starting to move again in our normal patterns. Clint read and again searched
for books to add to his antiquarian book collection. Our teenagers were,
again, constantly on the phone, and I was hooking. There is comfort in the
routines of life.
Clint and I spent the summer and early fall
mostly outside on the porch. The weather was glorious and the birds sang.
Clint read and slept, and I kept hooking. We talked, planned, dreamed,
remembered… and started to say goodbye. I finished the rug in September.
Clint died October 15, 1998.
It is no surprise
that this rug became the vehicle it did. Women have used hooked rugs to
express their feelings for over a century. Marriages, births, places and
favorite pets were commemorated in hooked rugs. Coffin rugs were a part of
funeral services in the 1800’s. Women hooked their thoughts about religion,
politics, and even family members. “Bottom Star Big Dipper” is a memorial to
Clint and an incredible family journey filled with deep sadness and great
joy of life.
Bottom Star Big Dipper by
Stephanie Ashworth-Krauss, 1998 |
