Textile Tales: Send Someone the Mitten

This morning, the Old Sturbridge Village weekly newsletter contained a quirky article involving, of all things, mitten symbolism. Rather than paraphrase, I’m posting it verbatim.

Slang and figures of speech change over time and from place to place. The phrase “sending someone the mitten” meant to break up with them or to reject a proposal. The Old Sturbridge Village Museum Collection contains an assortment of mittens, including the unique, miniature mitten shown below. As you can see, it measures only 1 ½ inches long! According to the donor, this mitten was sent by Admah Edgecombe of Bethel, ME to her fiancé, Charles Poole of Woburn, MA to break off their engagement. Despite this, they later married in 1857 and had three children. Whether or not this story is true, the mitten demonstrates incredible knitting technique, especially in the thumb gusset construction.

I’ve been knitting and felting many pairs of mittens this winter. What have you been working on?

Who is the Patron Saint of Knitters?

Someone on one of the forums I haunt asked this question. Being extremely interested both in knitting and in religious history, it was necessary to immediately start a search. Some say that the patron saint is Fiacre. It seems he was the patron of cap makers, and when knitted caps were “invented”, Fiacre got the nod by default. An early guild for knitters was organized in Paris in 1527 was named The Guild of St. Fiacre. So who was this person with the strange name?

It is said that Fiachra, or Fiacre, traveled to France from Ireland, in search of a quiet place in which to withdraw from society and devote his life to God. The bishop of Meaux granted him a plot of land on which he built a hermitage with a garden and a hospice for travellers, which over time grew into the village of Saint-Fiacre in Seine-et-Marne. Fiacre was reknowned for his healing powers, both spiritual and physical, but women were never allowed into the hermitage, possibly because one uppity female said he practiced witchcraft. Those who attempted to transgress usually suffered consequences, as in the case of a lady who was instantly struck mad. I wonder how Fiacre would feel today about being the patron saint of a craft performed by so many women!

In addition to knitting, Fiacre is also patron of cab drivers and gardeners. French cabs are called fiacres because the first coach-for-hire enterprise in 17th century Paris was near a house named for him. Fiacre’s relics are still housed and visited in the cathedral at Meaux. I first heard this saint’s name at a local herb garden, Caprilands, which up until a few years ago, was internationally known. I even have a tiny statue of Fiacre in my own herb garden.

One of many miracle stories in Fiacre’s CV is that of a man whose genitals were sorely afflicted (I bet!) and, by making a wax model of his painful organ, which by custom would have been burned at the altar, was cured. Now there’s a picture! Did I mention that Fiacre is also the patron saint of STD’s? No lie!

Wool Dyeing: Copper Penny Blue

This dye substance is not a plant, but it would have been available in one form or other to many colonial home dyers. Known as “Copper Penny Blue”, this is a dye that does not need a separate mordant or even heat. The recipe is simple but it does take from 2-4 weeks for the process to complete itself. Fill a gallon jar to about three inches from the top with non-sudsing ammonia and put in: either 2 cups of pennies, OR a length of copper pipe OR a coil of copper wire. Screw the lid on tightly. Let this mixture sit for a week and watch it become a beautiful blue. At this point remove the copper , with rubber gloves, and put in the pre-wetted fleece to soak; varying the time gives different color effects. Some sources say it is also possible to do this with white vinegar instead of ammonia, but others say vinegar doesn’t work as well. Some recipes say to add a few teaspoons of salt to fix the color.

I’ve used this method several times with different results. One was a pale aqua, and the others various shades of icy green. I think it might be more reliable to use wire or pipe as the amount of copper in pennies these days is so small. Dyeing times, once the dye is made, have ranged from 1 day to 3 weeks of soaking the wool fiber. If you leave the jar in the sun it speeds the process somewhat. I would NOT try heating the mixture on a stove or fire, however.

My results have always been close to this.

Post revised 8/28/20

Making an 18th Century Hussif (Sewing Kit)

A Housewife, or Hussif, is nothing more than an 18th century sewing kit. Women used them at home, and soldiers used them when serving in the military. A few years back, I made one for myself, and use it mostly at re-enactments and museum programs. It’s a very handy thing to carry, and a very easy thing to make. All you need is some appropriate cloth, and simple directions. Here’s how I make mine.

Materials

Several 1/2 yard lengths of period appropriate cloth, in various patterns. I like checks. Alternatively, you can use a single color, if you prefer.

2 yards of seam binding or bias tape, or you can make your own.

Matching thread and sewing needles.

Plastic cover from a 15 ounce margarine container.

Instructions:

Cut the following:

A. Plain color lining piece – I generally use muslin. Cut to 4″ x 11″.

B. Backing piece: fabric of your choice. Cut to  4″ X 11″.

C and D:  For pockets: Cut two  3 1/2″ x 4″ pieces;

E. Cut one  4″ x 5″ pocket piece

F. Round the tops of the lining and backing, tracing the arc with the margarine lid. If desired, cut a liner piece for the curved top.

Assembling

1. Using a neat slip stitch, hem 1 long side of pieces C and D. The hem should be narrow – approximately 1/8″ folded twice.

2. Hem 1 short side of piece E similarly.

3. Lay the lining (A) right side up with the rounded edge to the top. Place piece E, also right side up, so that its cut edges are even with the rectangular end of the lining. This will become the lowest pocket. Bast E in position, leaving hemmed edge free.

4. Place piece C, right side up, on the lining with its hem touching the hem of piece E. Carefully fold      under 1/4″ of the other end of C. Baste C in place, and carefully slip stitch the folded over side to the lining

5. Place D, right side up, on the lining with its hem toward the rectangular end, and approximately 3″ away from the hemmed end of C. Carefully fold under 1/4 ” of the other end of D. Baste D in place, then slip stitch the folded under edge to the lining.

6. Place the lining/pocket over the cover piece (B), matching up the edges. Baste together. Trim away any excess material from the edges.

7. The binding tape is sewn around the edges, beginning at the center of the rectangular end. You can sew through all the layers at once with small running stitches, or slip stitch each side separately. Be sure to miter the corners, and overlap neatly at the bottom.

8. Attach a length of binding tape or ribbon on the exterior to serve as a tie to hold the folded case closed. One third should lie on top of the case, and 2/3 away from the case.

This case can be folded in a variety of ways, depending on how full it is. You can also roll it. Fill it with needles, threads, pins, and any other small objects that you need for sewing. Show off your beautiful new “hussif”!

Happy Independence Day

Textiles in Fiction: The Gown, by Jennifer Robson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This novel piqued my interest following the  two recent royal weddings in England, which must have required prodigious feats of planning and organizing. Queen Elizabeth II’s own wedding took place seven decades ago, when she was still a princess and her country was grappling with the myriad deprivations caused by WWII. Discovering that the story was told from the points of view of the embroiderers of the wedding dress clinched the deal, and I raced through this fascinating book, enthralled by the details of the experiences of the ordinary women who created this most important gown. The narrative unfolds in two far apart years and places, London during 1947 and Toronto in 2016.

Norman Hartnell functioned as couturier to the royal family during the 40’s and 50’s, and he and his army of seamstresses and embroiderers would create Elizabeth’s top secret wedding dress, with much stress and drama along the way. One of these skilled embroiderers was a real life French refugee named Miriam Dassin, who later in the century would become world renowned as a talented textile artist. Miriam, who features prominently in the book’s historical narrative, will also play a role in the 2016 segments. The second is the fictional Ann Hughes, who takes her in as flatmate. Through their eyes, the reader experiences the making of one of the world’s iconic textile creations, the struggles of commoners during this prolonged era of deprivation, and the contrast between their lives and those of the aristocrats that cross their paths.

The modern narrative focuses upon a bequest made to Heather Mackenzie by her grandmother, a parcel of exquisite embroidered and beaded flowers. Her Nan had emigrated to Toronto from London in 1947, but since she had never mentioned embroidery to Heather, what was the purpose of the bequest? Her attempts to solve this mystery lead her to England and France, where she will serendipitously encounter Miriam Dassin, who had worked alongside Heather’s grandmother at Hartnell for a brief time.

Friendship, family, romance,  struggle, betrayal, and glamour all coexist in the pages of The Gown, which is well worth reading by those with an interest in textiles, history, WWII, and the endless ways in which humans can make lemonade when life hands them a lemon.

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Textile Terms: On Tenterhooks

It’s been so long since anyone has seen either a tenter, or the hooks on one, that the word and the idea behind it are now quite mysterious, but at one time, the phrase on tenterhooks would have evoked an image that was immediately understandable.
Tenter hooks were L-shaped staples, much like a bent nail, placed at regular intervals on a rectangular wooden tenter frame. When cloth emerged wet from the fulling process it was stretched out on these hooks, preventing it from shrinking as it dried – hence the phrase ‘being on tenterhooks’.

• 

  What may be the last remaining 18th century tenter frames in the world, at Otterburn Mill, Northamptonshire, England.

It comes from one of the processes of making woolen cloth. After it had been woven, the cloth still contained oil and dirt from the fleece.  It needed to be fulled and blocked, much like handknitters treat their finished garments today. After  fulling, the cloth was stretched taut on frames, or  tenters, and the tenter hooks were the metal hooks used to attach the cloth to the frame. At one time, it would have been common in manufacturing areas to see fields full of these frames (older English maps sometimes marked an area as a tenter-field). So it was not a huge leap of the imagination to think of somebody on tenterhooks as being in an state of anxious suspense, stretched like the cloth on the tenter. The tenters have gone, but the meaning has survived.

 

Tenter comes from the Latin tendere, to stretch, via a French intermediate. The word has been in the language since the fourteenth century, andon tenters soon after became a phrase meaning painful anxiety. According to the folks at historicjamestown.org, where this photo appears, the figurative use of tenterhooks to describe someone’s suffering or suspense goes back centuries. For example, in 1601 Robert Chester wrote in Love’s Martyr or Rosalin’s Complaint: “Rack on the tenter-hooks of foule disgrace.”)

(information from World Wide Words, Exeter City Council Time Trails, and Historic Jamestowne)

 

Fiber Arts: How to Wear an 18th Century Pocket

Reblogged from that most excellent site, History Myths Debunked.

 

 

History Myths Debunked

Thanks to Rose Linden for submitting this myth–and yes, it is a myth.

I found an MA thesis written in 1994 by Yolanda VandeKrol of the University of Delaware entitled “The Cultural Context of Women’s Pockets” that treats this topic thoroughly. According to Ms. VandeKrol, pockets were common from the end of the 17th century until around 1800, when the neoclassical dress styles (high waists and clingy lines) made wearing interior pockets impossible. Dresses with hoops or bustles more easily accommodated pockets. By the early 1800s, pockets had been replaced by drawstring bags called reticules.

Pockets were defined in 1688 as “little bags set on the inside with a hole or slit on the outside, by which any small thing may be carried about.” They were “not visible for reasons of orderliness, privacy, and crime,” says VandeKrol. “Women did not deliberately display their pockets,” but sometimes they were briefly visible…

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Dyeing and Those Blue Sugar Loaf Wrappers

This interesting article was posted a few months back and is of relevance to all fiber artists.

History Myths Debunked

A sweet story, but experts in historic crafts say that no actual instances of this practice are known in America’s colonial era. Apart from lack of evidence, it is illogical. Refined sugar was an expensive, imported luxury—think caviar—that only the wealthiest could afford. Not the sort who are scrimping and recycling their wrapping paper or dying their own fabric. (If the family budget couldn’t stretch to include sugar, what did folks back then use for sweeteners? Maple sugar, honey, molasses, or muscovado sugar. Or nothing.)

But lo and behold, several household management books published in the mid-nineteenth century do mention this practice. In one of them, The American Frugal Housewife (1835), author Lydia Childs tells how to make various cheap dyes, including “a fine purple slate color” by boiling sugar wrapping paper in vinegar with alum and boiling it in an iron kettle. In another, Eliza Leslie’s Lady’s Frugal House-Book; a…

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World’s Oldest Woven Garment

The v-neck linen garment pictured above is a bit threadbare, but after all, it’s about 6,000 years old.  Excavated by Egyptologist Flinders Petrie in 1913 from a First Dynasty tomb at Tarkhan, an Egyptian cemetery located 50km south of Cairo, the dress was consigned to storage  with various other textiles until 1977, when the bundle was sent to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London for conservation work.

Now on display at the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology at University College London, the dress was made from three pieces of woven linen, with a natural pale gray stripe, and knife-pleated sleeves and bodice. Wear patterns in the cloth suggest that it was worn in life, not made as a grave  garment. Because the hem is missing, the original length of the dress is unknown, but its overall size suggests that it was worn by a slender teen or woman.

Interestingly,  the style of the Tarkhan dress  differs very little from styles of today. Perhaps someone will make a copy!