In the Solitude
It felt like spring would never come. In the windy meadows outside of the Dundee Scotland, it was often gray, always windy, and regularly cold. But the short days of winter coupled with the complete lack of color over the rolling landscape, along with the solitude Glynis was living in were driving her mad. Her husband, Dougal, was a whaling man. Captain of his own vessel and leader of a small fleet of whalers, he would often be gone for months or even years at a time. Usually this was a time when the women of Dundee would gather to participate in group activities like canning, weaving, basket making; whatever excuse they could find to pass the time and the days, and to keep their eyes off the coastline where they would strain to see a pennant flying and the men returning home. But this year the entire Firth of Tay was being besieged by the Spanish Flu. In October of 1918 the city of Dundee had seen its first cases of the disease. It was assumed at first that it was just the regular yearly sickness, but the reality quickly became apparent. By the end of November 236 people of Dundee had succumbed to the disease. December brought 113 more deaths.
It had been in November that Glynis had decided to stay to her home and farm that luckily sat just outside the city. With her cattle, chickens, and gardens she had no real need to go into the city for supplies, but the isolation was wearing on her soul and the winter seemed never ending. Even on a busy farm there were only so many chores to do before things were, for the most part, finished. Glynis would normally find something else to occupy her hands during the never-ending evenings, but as the flu ravaged the city she had stayed away. That meant she had no real wool to knit, no embroider floss to use, no fabric to turn into clothing.
Eventually, in desperation for something to occupy her hands and mind, Glynis set to picking apart some old silk fabric from two gowns that had been her grandmothers. Picking them apart took a good deal of time alone, but once she had that done, she was left with long strands of blue, yellow, green, and red silk. Plenty to embroider to her hearts content. In the same old trunk, she had found some additional fabric scraps. The colors didn’t necessarily coordinate, but at that point she didn’t care.
Now, every day for Glynis went the same. She rose in the morning to attend her meager toilette, she fed the chickens and pigs, she did what little maintenance she was capable of on the buildings and grounds, then she went inside or prepare the one large meal she would eat each day. After her meal was eaten, around noon, she would spend the majority of the rest of the day at her needlework. She embroidered flowers into everything in sight: table runners that had once been plain linen were now emblazoned with bouquets; curtains that had been simple gingham were now festooned in flowers. The extent of her handiwork was endless. When she grew tired of embroidery, she began working the colored squares into quilts. First it was quilts in a multitude of traditional patterns, then pennants. Before her self imposed isolation was over in January of 1920 her home had been turned into a kaleidoscope of color, and Glynis had managed to retain her sanity.
When at last her Dougal returned to Dundee in March of 1920, with their bulks full of whale oil, blubber and bone, he found 590 of his friends and neighbors in fresh graves. But he found his Glynis alive and well, and found their home much changed from when he had departed it. “Oh my girl”, he said, “I canna believe I left ye to fend for yeself through all this pain and death.”
“Ah Dougal” she replied “Your whole life is pain and death. I canna expect to endure less than ye do for me”
It felt like spring would never come. In the windy meadows outside of the Dundee Scotland, it was often gray, always windy, and regularly cold. But the short days of winter coupled with the complete lack of color over the rolling landscape, along with the solitude Glynis was living in were driving her mad. Her husband, Dougal, was a whaling man. Captain of his own vessel and leader of a small fleet of whalers, he would often be gone for months or even years at a time. Usually this was a time when the women of Dundee would gather to participate in group activities like canning, weaving, basket making; whatever excuse they could find to pass the time and the days, and to keep their eyes off the coastline where they would strain to see a pennant flying and the men returning home. But this year the entire Firth of Tay was being besieged by the Spanish Flu. In October of 1918 the city of Dundee had seen its first cases of the disease. It was assumed at first that it was just the regular yearly sickness, but the reality quickly became apparent. By the end of November 236 people of Dundee had succumbed to the disease. December brought 113 more deaths.
It had been in November that Glynis had decided to stay to her home and farm that luckily sat just outside the city. With her cattle, chickens, and gardens she had no real need to go into the city for supplies, but the isolation was wearing on her soul and the winter seemed never ending. Even on a busy farm there were only so many chores to do before things were, for the most part, finished. Glynis would normally find something else to occupy her hands during the never-ending evenings, but as the flu ravaged the city she had stayed away. That meant she had no real wool to knit, no embroider floss to use, no fabric to turn into clothing.
Eventually, in desperation for something to occupy her hands and mind, Glynis set to picking apart some old silk fabric from two gowns that had been her grandmothers. Picking them apart took a good deal of time alone, but once she had that done, she was left with long strands of blue, yellow, green, and red silk. Plenty to embroider to her hearts content. In the same old trunk, she had found some additional fabric scraps. The colors didn’t necessarily coordinate, but at that point she didn’t care.
Now, every day for Glynis went the same. She rose in the morning to attend her meager toilette, she fed the chickens and pigs, she did what little maintenance she was capable of on the buildings and grounds, then she went inside or prepare the one large meal she would eat each day. After her meal was eaten, around noon, she would spend the majority of the rest of the day at her needlework. She embroidered flowers into everything in sight: table runners that had once been plain linen were now emblazoned with bouquets; curtains that had been simple gingham were now festooned in flowers. The extent of her handiwork was endless. When she grew tired of embroidery, she began working the colored squares into quilts. First it was quilts in a multitude of traditional patterns, then pennants. Before her self imposed isolation was over in January of 1920 her home had been turned into a kaleidoscope of color, and Glynis had managed to retain her sanity.
When at last her Dougal returned to Dundee in March of 1920, with their bulks full of whale oil, blubber and bone, he found 590 of his friends and neighbors in fresh graves. But he found his Glynis alive and well, and found their home much changed from when he had departed it. “Oh my girl”, he said, “I canna believe I left ye to fend for yeself through all this pain and death.”
“Ah Dougal” she replied “Your whole life is pain and death. I canna expect to endure less than ye do for me”
It felt like spring would never come. In the windy meadows outside of the Dundee Scotland, it was often gray, always windy, and regularly cold. But the short days of winter coupled with the complete lack of color over the rolling landscape, along with the solitude Glynis was living in were driving her mad. Her husband, Dougal, was a whaling man. Captain of his own vessel and leader of a small fleet of whalers, he would often be gone for months or even years at a time. Usually this was a time when the women of Dundee would gather to participate in group activities like canning, weaving, basket making; whatever excuse they could find to pass the time and the days, and to keep their eyes off the coastline where they would strain to see a pennant flying and the men returning home. But this year the entire Firth of Tay was being besieged by the Spanish Flu. In October of 1918 the city of Dundee had seen its first cases of the disease. It was assumed at first that it was just the regular yearly sickness, but the reality quickly became apparent. By the end of November 236 people of Dundee had succumbed to the disease. December brought 113 more deaths.
It had been in November that Glynis had decided to stay to her home and farm that luckily sat just outside the city. With her cattle, chickens, and gardens she had no real need to go into the city for supplies, but the isolation was wearing on her soul and the winter seemed never ending. Even on a busy farm there were only so many chores to do before things were, for the most part, finished. Glynis would normally find something else to occupy her hands during the never-ending evenings, but as the flu ravaged the city she had stayed away. That meant she had no real wool to knit, no embroider floss to use, no fabric to turn into clothing.
Eventually, in desperation for something to occupy her hands and mind, Glynis set to picking apart some old silk fabric from two gowns that had been her grandmothers. Picking them apart took a good deal of time alone, but once she had that done, she was left with long strands of blue, yellow, green, and red silk. Plenty to embroider to her hearts content. In the same old trunk, she had found some additional fabric scraps. The colors didn’t necessarily coordinate, but at that point she didn’t care.
Now, every day for Glynis went the same. She rose in the morning to attend her meager toilette, she fed the chickens and pigs, she did what little maintenance she was capable of on the buildings and grounds, then she went inside or prepare the one large meal she would eat each day. After her meal was eaten, around noon, she would spend the majority of the rest of the day at her needlework. She embroidered flowers into everything in sight: table runners that had once been plain linen were now emblazoned with bouquets; curtains that had been simple gingham were now festooned in flowers. The extent of her handiwork was endless. When she grew tired of embroidery, she began working the colored squares into quilts. First it was quilts in a multitude of traditional patterns, then pennants. Before her self imposed isolation was over in January of 1920 her home had been turned into a kaleidoscope of color, and Glynis had managed to retain her sanity.
When at last her Dougal returned to Dundee in March of 1920, with their bulks full of whale oil, blubber and bone, he found 590 of his friends and neighbors in fresh graves. But he found his Glynis alive and well, and found their home much changed from when he had departed it. “Oh my girl”, he said, “I canna believe I left ye to fend for yeself through all this pain and death.”
“Ah Dougal” she replied “Your whole life is pain and death. I canna expect to endure less than ye do for me”
This charming pull over is fashioned from a cotton table runner embroidered with bright cotton flowers and bobbin lace, and a hand pieced quilt top. 100% handmade by the artist. Tablecloth sourced in Arkansas
Measurement: Bust up to 38” Waist up to 38”
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a garment that is approximately 80 years old. It should be hand washed and laid flat to dry. Ironing on high with starch will preserve crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
No returns or exchanges due ot the one of a kind nature of the items