I saw one in the store one day – folded on the shelf amongst those made with polyesters, nylons, and other synthetic fabrics – some names I couldn’t pronounce. But this one, appearing to be cotton, caught my eye, so I unfurled it onto the cement floor of the aisle, stepped back, and stared at it. It began to speak to me – right then and there in the middle of that unseemly big-box department store. I’m sure no one else could hear, but I could. caught my eye, so I unfurled it onto the cement floor of the aisle, stepped back, and stared at it. It began to speak to me – right then and there in the middle of that unseemly big-box department store. I’m sure no one else could hear, but I could. I tossed it in the cart and bought that cotton rag rug that day and later went back to get a second – and a third – and a fourth . . .
A rag rug tells a story, and similar to its appearance, the story is woven and braided, knotted and tied together. And each story is different.
Before I ever owned a rag rug, I walked upon many such stories – in both of my Grandmothers’ homes and in my childhood home – the big yellow house. Always the rag rug lay upon the floor of the porch, but occasionally it continued into the farmhouse kitchen – or, in the case of the big yellow house, the stories continued even further.
Mama had a rag rug on the side porch, just inside the black screen door and others in the kitchen, backroom, and in the woodshed beyond that. It seems those that were newer or in better condition first lay on the kitchen floor, and as they wore or frayed were shuffled to the backroom or one of the porches, and finally to the woodshed, where they were tracked upon by snow-covered boots in the winter and work boots coated with mud and manure the rest of the year.
She shook the rag rugs often but washed them only occasionally. When she did, they were hung on the line and took most of the day to completely dry. Looking back, I know she had walked upon many of these stories in her childhood home on Bidwell Road, so it was natural that she created more stories through the rag rugs into her own home in the big yellow house.
The story in each rag rug varied, depending on whether it had been made by a neighbor woman or by someone unknown. But you could see the story in them all – no matter what part of the country they were derived from. Denim blue jeans were connected to red flannel shirts and bits of thin canvas jackets. Pieces of bedspreads and old coats were interwoven in every color known to man. The stories they told were of days gone by – both good and bad, happy and sad. Smooth fabrics and rough textures, echoing the highs and lows of life. And knots. Many knots, revealing all things that held a life together – the people, the faith, the determination, and the hopes and dreams. Textiles – old and worn – torn and battered – were reused in this floor piece, just large enough for a doorway or under a kitchen sink. They told stories of men working the fields from sunrise to dusk, of hunters combing the thickets, of woodcutters and autoworkers, and of all hand-me-downs – a multitude of hand-me-downs that had been worn to shreds but never discarded. They told stories of women, sitting alone on their country porches in the summer or at their kitchen tables in the winter, working until their hands nearly bled, but knowing and “reliving” the story of each fabric and of each color, as the work progressed, and always taking much pride in their completed product. The woman placed the finished good on one of her own floors, or perhaps gifted it to a new bride or to a neighbor, or possibly sent to market for income.
Those were the days of rag rugs sharing stories from nearby farms or villages. My home will never be without rag rugs and the stories they tell. I see them as connections to my past, remembering my Mama and my Grandma shaking them from their porch steps. It takes me back to a quiet time – a peaceful time. And when I look closely upon the vibrant colors and fabrics, my mind begins to imagine and my ears begin to hear. And I love the stories I discover.
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(From the Everything has a Story collection)