Rags to Rugs: Guardians of a collective memory

And it happened now and again that some unknown genius of the hills had torn a beauty–haunted soul to shreds and pieced it together once more on coarse burlap with bright–hued fragments of discarded clothing. When she had done the work, she had no other name for it than 'hooked–mat'. But it was, and is, a thousand things besides.

Reprinted from "A Memory of Grandmother's Mats" by Gertrude DeWager in Antiques, June 1925

   Griffon lay on his rug in the heat of the wood stove. His muscles flinched, paws twitched, and he barked under his breath in dreamy pursuit of a squirrel. The October wind rapped relentlessly at the windowpanes with the presence of a ghostly visitor.

   The furthest corners of the kitchen were consumed by shadow beyond the glow of an antique porcelain lamp where, like a spotlit stage, Catherine rocked by the fire. As she hummed strands of a childhood tune, her hands worked over and through the burlap surface with the agility of experience. The sound of her mother’s mellifluous voice haunted her, and Catherine remembered how, in the evenings, they would sit together by the hearth hooking rags into feed sack backings, ripping strips from worn out clothes and blankets, marking out patterns. She had passed her knowledge and skill to Catherine who’d hooked her first rug by the age of six.

   It was October 28, 1885. A few golden leaves still clung with steadfast resilience to the birch trees lining the eastern edge of the Bouchet property. Winter would come early this year according to the Farmer’s Almanac. Catherine–Marie Bouchet, the wife of a Deep Cove cod fisherman and mother of three, put final touches on her first rug of the winter knowing that there would be dozens more before spring. Every evening and spare hour from now on would be spent on this task – just one in a ceaseless schedule of chores that depended on the participation of every family member — and not just to replace her own worn and soiled floor covers. The Saturday farmer’s market would resume with the arrival of spring and a healthy desire for hand–hooked rugs in the nearby towns could raise a decent income for the local women, especially those who’d lost their husbands to the sea.

   In front of the wood stove, Griffon stretched his stiff limbs, and the old rug stretched with him. But a brittle snap of the fire sent the dog scrambling for refuge leaving the rug discarded at the foot of the stove like moss on a tree stump. Tomorrow or the next day, Catherine would carry it out to the back step or barn and, with a new rug for the parlor hearth almost complete, the old one could be moved to the kitchen.

It’s difficult to say exactly when or how the making of hooked rugs began in Canada. There are several opinions on the origins of this handicraft but most seem to agree that it began in North America in the mid–19th century, brought by immigrants from Britain who made “brodded rugs” — a close relative but far less elaborate in decoration. Eastern Canada has a rich heritage of rug hooking, particularly Quebec and the Maritime Provinces – in New Maryland near Fredericton, New Brunswick, Abigail Smith made the oldest known hooked rug in Canada in 1860.

Necessity is the mother of invention —

Many Canadian households of the early 18th and 19th centuries were rural and frequently isolated. Often, they were immigrant homesteaders and pioneers with few material possessions and even fewer resources. Homemakers had to be frugal and found ways to reuse out–grown and worn–out items – nothing went to waste. “No matter how meager or seemingly inadequate the materials available, or how laborious the process, women in every age and every part of the world have always found a way to fashion beautiful things with their hands and a great degree of skill and artistry.” (The Mountain Handicrafts, Antonia J. Stemple, 1929)

Rugs (or mats as they were called in Nova Scotia) began as bed covers, but soon made their way to the dreary, oilcloth–covered floors where they provided colour and warmth to their surroundings. Homemade oilcloth or floorcloth was used until well into the 20th century in rural areas as a means of sealing the floors from the penetration of moisture. It was a cheap alternative to wood and, later, linoleum.

By the 1860s, hooking rugs had become a popular pastime for women of all ages. Even some men – often sailors — were known to have practiced this art form to pass the lonely hours at sea. At that time, rugs were most commonly hooked on burlap (which had become widely available in North America a decade earlier) but a closer look at the variety of materials used reveals the resourcefulness of rural homemakers. The earliest rugs were backed with potato or grain sacks, which were made of canvas and widely available, durable, and easy to handle. Gunnysacks (initially imported from India to England) were another common backing by the middle of the 19th century, and women with looms sometimes wove a backing of cotton or linen. A rug hooked on linen – the most durable foundation — can last a hundred years if well made. Unfortunately, most people regarded hooked rugs as strictly utilitarian and, as a result, very few remain in good condition today.

Due to the size restriction imposed by burlap and feed sack backings, several sections had to be sewn together to make a rug large enough to cover an entire room. These rugs tended to receive a lot of wear and couldn’t be easily cleaned, so they were handed down as they became increasingly soiled, making the journey from bedroom to hallway or parlor, then kitchen, eventually landing on the porch or barn floor.

   The previous night’s fog had lifted and a midmorning sun shone harshly bleeding colour from the landscape. Without warning, a sudden shift in air current delivered a biting wind, promptly extinguishing the tepid warmth of the suns rays. Beyond a simple fence, the Bouchet property descended gradually to the road. The rocky shoreline and open ocean, cloaked in whitecaps, lay as bleak and raw as a dead tree branch in winter.

   Marie–Rose squinted with one eye shut, stealing skyward glances to judge her aim, and stretched her arms above her head to reach the clothesline. It was her job to hang freshly dyed rags to dry — the wind would do the job quickly her mother had said. So, Marie–Rose struggled with the impairing sun.

   Inside the house, Marie–Rose’s older sister, Patrice, was in the kitchen helping their mother and great aunt Elsie with the dying. Catherine’s mother had taught her all about the mysteries of natural dying, but Aunt Elsie took charge because it was a task that belonged to the eldest woman. They worked side–by–side, preparing ingredients, mixing recipes, and steeping rags in large enameled pots used for this purpose.

   Two ten–gallon dye–pots sat on the stove. In one, the juice of pressed goldenrod pedals was steaming in water the colour of egg–yolk. Onionskin and waxwood could also be used for yellow, but this year they’d remembered to collect the gilded flowers when they bloomed. In the other pot, Aunt Elsie used a wooden spoon to stir exotic red soup of madder and vinegar. On the table, a bread bowl of dried sumac blossoms from last June would become brown and there was a cake of indigo for blue – everyone’s favourite.

   Patrice sat at the large oak table sorting the dusty contents of the ragbag into piles: wool, cotton, others, those to be dyed, and those to be left as they were. Her brother sat beside her. At seven, Sam was the youngest member of the family but worked with gentle certainty, tearing the rags into quarter–inch strips where his sister had marked the material with a snip of her scissors.

   Outside, the landscape appeared muted and abstract behind steam–soaked windowpanes.

The process of natural dying was well known to rural homemakers, and they continued to make many of their own dyes even though chemists, by the mid–1800s, had begun producing synthetic substitutes, which promised consistent, even, fade–resistant colour. Usually older women were the ones with the most experience, turning roots, berries, and leaves into what were often quite vibrant natural colours. The skilled dyer, using basic colour theory, was able to produce a variety of colours and shades by steeping material in more than one dye, even if she found it difficult to duplicate them at a later date.

In general, hooking was an activity that occupied the long, bleak winter and, perhaps for this reason, colourful rugs frequently prevailed. The maker’s environment influenced the imagery used in rug designs, which varied according to geographic location or culture. Women on the frontier hooked images of farm life, whereas nautical themes were a favourite among coastal dwellers. In rural Quebec, rug patterns comprised a vast repertoire of old French motifs. Family pets unknowingly posed for posterity, as did barnyard animals, and local wildlife. A scrap of wallpaper, a print on a dress, or a china pattern could provide inspiration for hooked rug designs. Floral motifs were a favourite everywhere.

   The kettle hissed impatiently. In well–orchestrated haste, Marie–Rose, Patrice, and their mother readied the kitchen. They were behind schedule. Aunt Elsie pulled two rhubarb pies from the oven, trailing their aroma. Tea cups, saucers, and dainty napkins with crocheted corners were placed on the table. Silverware. Sugar. Freshly churned cream. The small kitchen windows of the two–story saltbox house glowed with activity. Overhead, a brooding sky threatened snow.

   Every third Sunday, the women of St. Peter’s congregation gathered for a hooking bee. It was an event of sorts and something they all looked forward to — a chance for the women to catch up on news and share stories over tea. It was the only social outlet some of the more isolated housewives had. The ladies arrived in ones and twos, a hooking frame in one hand a basket in the other.

   Sam spied the goings–on from behind the open door to the kitchen. Peering through the gap where hinges joined door to frame, he could see everything except a portion to the right side of the room, which was blocked by Mrs. Shay’s generous hind–quarters. The table had been pushed against the far wall and the women sat in a circle, each resting a wooden hooking–frame in her lap and working strips of coloured rag into the taut, framed surface of the backing. It made him think of hunting for worms and prodding the damp ground after a rain.

   Gossip was being passed back and forth like playing cards. Catherine sat in profile to the left of the doorway, her head turned to one side, face hidden. But, over the gaggle of voices, Sam could pick out his mother’s, instructing Marie–Rose on the finer points of hooking. “Insert the hook from above, between the warp and woof of the burlap…draw the rag up from below, so as to form loops of uniform height…”

   At the end of the table, his older sister Patrice had laid out a fresh backing and was in the process of transferring a design onto its surface with charcoal. In true spy fashion, Sam inched along the periphery of the room unnoticed, towards his sister. Patrice made room for him at the table’s edge and, placing the charcoal in his hand and his hand in hers, they traced the remainder together. In the center of the composition, they outlined a fine likeness of Griffon.

Until the turn of the century, the vast majority of women designed their own patterns, transferring them to the rug backing with chalk or charcoal, and later, with oil crayon. The quality and complexity of the pattern varied according to the artistic skill of the designer, and the drawing may not have been 'correct' but, in many cases, the effect was playful and pleasingly unconventional. Today, these rugs are known as 'primitives' and can be identified by their simple design, absence of shading, an indifference to the scale of objects in relation to one another, and a tendency to place the most treasured object in the composition at the center.

Of course, many complex, well–drafted floral–sprays and scrolling boarders also resulted from skilled hands, but it’s easy to see the difference between rugs hooked before the beginning of the 20th century, and those hooked after. With the arrival of printed canvases, first produced around 1870 and sold for about $1.00 or less, patterns lost their originality. By 1900, hooked rug patterns had become readily available and this enabled less creative women to hook a rug without having to first design then transfer a pattern. Modifying or combining patterns was also common and allowed more room for creativity and originality.

In addition to printed patterns, 'superior' chemical dyes and pre–dyed woolen yarns had become available in a multitude of colours and shades. These new products coincided with the gradual development of rug hooking as a cottage industry in many areas. Perhaps the best known of these cottage industries still exists in Cheticamp, Nova Scotia on the southeastern shore of Cape Breton Island.

By 1932, Cheticamp had established a booming cottage industry. The distinctive rugs –– world famous for their quality of craftsmanship, intricate designs, and variegated use of colour –– were being shipped and sold across Nova Scotia and exhibited as far away as New York, where they were sold through a gallery established specifically for that purpose. The rugs could also be special ordered and were paid for by the square foot. During the Great Depression, rug making was a steady source of income for the community of Cheticamp.

Popular women’s magazines aimed at urban homemakers had also begun promoting rag rugs as a quaint addition to the home or cottage – a touch of 'rural simplicity' and whimsy. One author writes, “…such rugs are also attractive in the breakfast nook.” (Lois Palmer, The Importance of Floors, 1929) Hooked rugs were in vogue and making them had become a popular pastime with women at all levels of society. They’d come a long way from their rural, utilitarian roots to become a collector’s item, hobby–craft, and decorative trend in urban homes.
There is much legend and romance in the history of hooked rugs.

For many years, the woolen uniforms of soldiers returned home from war were transformed into hooked items. Likewise, the clothing of a deceased relative might have been used. This gave special significance to the hooked work, and in such a case, it became a treasured belonging rather than a utilitarian object. But more often, out grown or unserviceable clothing, blankets, and other household items comprised the scraps used to hook rugs, giving them new life — but for reasons of economy rather than romantic nostalgia. Yet, even the most rudimentary, utilitarian rugs vividly reflected the resourcefulness and adaptability of their makers, telling their story in no uncertain terms. Herein lies the intrinsic value of these objects to contemporary makers and collectors of hooked rugs.

Rug designs based on everyday events or nature represented personal memories, paid tribute to loved ones, and commemorated special events and fellow citizens. The Museum of Canadian Civilization writes, “In this way, hooked rugs served as one of the guardians of collective memory”. (Hooked on Rugs exhibition, 1998) In no uncertain terms, they are a physical and pictorial embodiment of the life history of their makers.

   It had been a busy winter inside the house, while outside lay bleak and frozen and asleep. But now the landscape was verdant and youthful, having awakened from a six–month slumber. Trees and bushes were erupting in a delicate lace of chartreuse, mint, and apple green. Dew glistened like gems on fresh blades of grass. The air was enchanted and ripe with the tonic of spring.

   As the morning sun heated the damp earth, the dew evaporated from the land like an invisible steam, releasing the rich scent of mineral–satiated dirt, plump earthworms, honey–sweet blossoms, fresh sap, and saltwater. It was enough to make you drunk. It made Sam thirsty. The world was alive.

   Sam could see people beginning to gather in the center of town as his procession made its way up the road. In his arms he carried a large basket full of canned preserves. In front of him, the women were laden with a winter’s worth of handiwork. Marie–Rose and Patrice toted bundles of needle work, lace, and knitted items they’d made and, leading the way, Aunt Elsie and Catherine walked astride carrying two dozen hand–hooked rugs of the finest quality. A busy winter, indeed.

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Amanda York is a ceramist with an avid interest in craft history. She’s also a craft collector. Coming from a family that lived and breathed art and craft, Amanda studied painting and clay at the Nova Scotia College of Art & Design. She is widely traveled, having spent time in Mexico, England, and Japan where she studied ceramics and pursued interests in craft. She is one of a growing number of people in North America developing a new branch of study, Craft History. She currently resides in Calgary.

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