cotton in white and ecru—but nowhere near enough patterns to account for this amount of material. It wasn’t until she asked if Betsy had a certain brand of scissors—Davos—which she didn’t, that Betsy decided to ask just what it was Char was stitching.
“Hardanger,” Char replied. Betsy had heard of Hardanger, but had never seen any. She asked Char to bring in a sample of her work. A week later she did, a spectacular table runner of her own design. Well over a yard in length, it was stitched on platinum-colored Cashel linen with threads matching in color—“Hardanger is usually stitched color on color,” said Char, meaning white on white, buff on buff, or some color on a matching color.
The piece was composed of three geometric motifs made up of tiny squares filled with very fine, lace-like designs. These were interrupted by star-like satin-stitch motifs, and the whole surrounded by a border pattern made of more of the little squares in geometric patterns that identify Hardanger.
“I know it looks complicated,” said Char, “but it isn’t. It’s made up of squares surrounded by five simple stitches on a side. The centers can be left alone, or snipped out entirely, or you can snip the weave threads and leave the warp threads so they look like little stripes, or you can wrap the threads into shapes called ‘bars.’”
Yes, well, Betsy thought, bending to discover that what appeared to be tiny beads attached to some of the bars were, in fact, a loop of thread. She touched one gently. “Those are called picots,” said Char, which she pronounced pea-koze .
Delicate rows of triple cable stitch flowed along the outer edge, just inside the buttonhole binding. Every stitch was as flawless as its sister, yet there was an indefinable feel and look to the pattern that said a human hand had done this, not a machine.
Running her fingers over the luxuriously textured squares, Betsy, feeling more than a little overwhelmed, said, “How long does it take to learn to do all this?”
Char shook her head. “Not long. If you can count to five, you can make a Hardanger kloster block. After you learn that, the rest is just patience.”
And Betsy, who at this stage of learning needlework should have known better, believed her. “Would you be willing to teach me? No, let’s do this right: Would you be willing to teach a class here at Crewel World?”
Char’s hazel eyes darkened with pleasure. “All right.”
So here she was, carrying a basket filled with beginner kits: fabric squares, fibers, needles, and a sheet of instructional text. “Is everyone coming?” she asked as Betsy let her into the shop.
“I suppose so. At least, no one’s called to cancel.” Four people in addition to Betsy had signed up. Betsy needed five in order to break even—she didn’t count herself—so this was a bit disappointing.
Char went to the library table in the middle of the room. She put her materials on it, and stood with her back to Betsy for a moment. “Betsy, can I ask you something?” she said without turning around.
“Sure,” said Betsy, but before Char could continue, there was a knock at the door.
It was the first of the other students; the rest followed in quick succession. They were Shelly Donohue, retired librarian Bershada Reynolds, and regular customers Ivy Jackson and Doris Valentine. After they were seated, Char asked each one to introduce herself to the others and tell what kinds of needlework she already knew how to do. Bershada was explaining that she’d done counted cross-stitch for “twenty years, at least,” when there was a knock on the door.
Betsy went to open it, and found Godwin standing there looking near tears. “What’s wrong, Goddy?” she asked in a low voice.
“I had another fight with John and it was my turn to go for a cooling-off walk, but I don’t feel like walking. I remembered we have a class in Hardanger starting tonight and thought maybe I could try it.”
“You’re
“Hardanger,” Char replied. Betsy had heard of Hardanger, but had never seen any. She asked Char to bring in a sample of her work. A week later she did, a spectacular table runner of her own design. Well over a yard in length, it was stitched on platinum-colored Cashel linen with threads matching in color—“Hardanger is usually stitched color on color,” said Char, meaning white on white, buff on buff, or some color on a matching color.
The piece was composed of three geometric motifs made up of tiny squares filled with very fine, lace-like designs. These were interrupted by star-like satin-stitch motifs, and the whole surrounded by a border pattern made of more of the little squares in geometric patterns that identify Hardanger.
“I know it looks complicated,” said Char, “but it isn’t. It’s made up of squares surrounded by five simple stitches on a side. The centers can be left alone, or snipped out entirely, or you can snip the weave threads and leave the warp threads so they look like little stripes, or you can wrap the threads into shapes called ‘bars.’”
Yes, well, Betsy thought, bending to discover that what appeared to be tiny beads attached to some of the bars were, in fact, a loop of thread. She touched one gently. “Those are called picots,” said Char, which she pronounced pea-koze .
Delicate rows of triple cable stitch flowed along the outer edge, just inside the buttonhole binding. Every stitch was as flawless as its sister, yet there was an indefinable feel and look to the pattern that said a human hand had done this, not a machine.
Running her fingers over the luxuriously textured squares, Betsy, feeling more than a little overwhelmed, said, “How long does it take to learn to do all this?”
Char shook her head. “Not long. If you can count to five, you can make a Hardanger kloster block. After you learn that, the rest is just patience.”
And Betsy, who at this stage of learning needlework should have known better, believed her. “Would you be willing to teach me? No, let’s do this right: Would you be willing to teach a class here at Crewel World?”
Char’s hazel eyes darkened with pleasure. “All right.”
So here she was, carrying a basket filled with beginner kits: fabric squares, fibers, needles, and a sheet of instructional text. “Is everyone coming?” she asked as Betsy let her into the shop.
“I suppose so. At least, no one’s called to cancel.” Four people in addition to Betsy had signed up. Betsy needed five in order to break even—she didn’t count herself—so this was a bit disappointing.
Char went to the library table in the middle of the room. She put her materials on it, and stood with her back to Betsy for a moment. “Betsy, can I ask you something?” she said without turning around.
“Sure,” said Betsy, but before Char could continue, there was a knock at the door.
It was the first of the other students; the rest followed in quick succession. They were Shelly Donohue, retired librarian Bershada Reynolds, and regular customers Ivy Jackson and Doris Valentine. After they were seated, Char asked each one to introduce herself to the others and tell what kinds of needlework she already knew how to do. Bershada was explaining that she’d done counted cross-stitch for “twenty years, at least,” when there was a knock on the door.
Betsy went to open it, and found Godwin standing there looking near tears. “What’s wrong, Goddy?” she asked in a low voice.
“I had another fight with John and it was my turn to go for a cooling-off walk, but I don’t feel like walking. I remembered we have a class in Hardanger starting tonight and thought maybe I could try it.”
“You’re
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