As I walked some wide aisles and squeezed through others, I spotted a stool with a needlepoint cushion of flowers and curlicues. Lovely, I thought, spending a few minutes with it and then moving on. Not far away, I saw a burgundy armchair with a needlepoint back and seat. A trend?

The cushion on this stool showed some wear but the design was still impressive.

Then I began to wonder if there were other such chairs and stools, and started searching for them inside the auction house and on the pavement outside the building. I looked around inside and found this:

A burgundy chair with floral back and seat designs.

I looked outside and found this stool:

A needlepoint stool.

Once I got hooked, I began to earnestly look for furniture with needlepoint cushions when I visited this auction house and others. I continued to comb the aisles at each and found this:

This chair's cushions held a man's image, not just the customary flowers.

And this:

A cute squat needlepoint footstool.

It was like “Give away my needlepoint furniture” season. Either owners had wearied of the pieces and wanted a new look for their homes or families were unloading them as part of estate clean-outs. All the cushions appeared to be manufactured, and not done by hand.

At auction, I sometimes buy sewing items – sewing kits, buttons, thimbles, old needle packs – and I used to sew, but I never got into needlepoint or crocheting or knitting or other needlework. And I had never considered furniture with needlepoint cushions. I could imagine myself living with a chair or footstool, though, just because of their warm colors and flower designs that harken to the outdoors.

A needlepoint stool.

At the auction houses, I saw so many needlepoint pieces in such a short period of time that I began to wonder when this type of furniture was prevalent. So, I went searching on the web.

I found that the craft of needlepoint itself goes back to the ancient Egyptians, according to wikipedia and other sites that repeated the same history. Upholstered needlepoint furniture apparently became popular in the 17th century. Retailers on the web were selling needlepoint-cushioned armchairs and footstools that they described as Victorian and French. They dated some of the pieces to the mid-1800s and early 1900s. Another site mentioned needlepoint and tapestry among the styles of fabric used in colonial times.

An article on the Metropolitan Museum of Art site noted that needlework furniture seats rarely survived the ages. It showed pictures of several pieces in its collection, including an 18th-century easy chair and chair back, both of which were very detailed and beautiful.

The article surmised that the embroidered pieces may have been made by teenage girls of marriage age or wealthy married women. During the 18th century, some of the embroidered items for household use were professionally made, according to the article.

At top, two chairs with needlepoint backs and at bottom. the seat of a chair.

Related posts:

1. A standout set of silver chairs
2. Native American girl in needlepoint
3. A floral needlepoint purse

That was then, this is now. As we celebrate Women’s History Month – you can read my other blog posts about women here - I’ve selected blog posts about some tools of “women’s work.” Since women’s lives were once so strictly defined, a lot of those items tend to show up often at auction.

Here are some of them:

Big mama’s old black wash pot

I watched as two hefty men hauled the big black pot between them and sat it squat on the muddy ground in back of the auction house. As soon as I saw it, a very familiar childhood vision sprang into my head. It looked just like the old round-bellied cast iron pot that my grandmother heated up to clean her white clothes dizzyingly white.

The wringer machine was a lovely yellow color.

Wringer washing machine leads to black female inventor

The man made the statement in jest, but it was oh-so-true. “This was when women had it tough,” he said to the two other people with him. He was walking towards a lovely yellow vintage wringer washing machine that from a distance looked like it had not been used often. He touched the wringer, seemingly amazed and enamored with this wash-day anachronism. “Can you believe that,” he said. “I’ll be darned.” I learned that an African American woman named Ellen F. Eglin invented a successful clothes wringer in the 1880s.

The General bread-making machine ready for auction.

Antique bread maker leads to black inventor

The metal pot with the army green patina looked like a thicker version of an Asian wok there on the auction table. I slid off the lid and saw a jumble of heavy metal parts inside.On the lid were some deeply embossed words that led off with this inscription: “The ‘General’ Seamless Bread Maker.” It was the strangest-looking bread maker I had seen. I found out that an African American man named Joseph Lee revolutionized bread-making in the 1890s by inventing a machine that made bread crumbs.

Recalling mom’s egg beater & flour sifter

“Carmen, remember these,” a woman called out to her friend as she stopped at a flea-market table this weekend. She picked up a red-handle egg beater and started twirling the little knob, setting the wheel and whisks a-turning. The memories just poured from her face – a smile, a gleam in her eyes. She was remembering her mother or grandmother – or herself as a helper – beating eggs and other ingredients using a tool just like this.

Licking and gluing S&H Green Stamps

I came across some books of S&H Green Stamps recently while combing through a box lot from an auction. They were inside an old Eckerd’s drugstore paper bag, the word “Stamps” neatly written across the bottom. The book instantly brought back memories of licking and gluing, licking and gluing, licking and gluing. I don’t remember what my family bought with the stamps, but I do remember that part of it.

Did you ever meet a Fuller Brush Man?

The Fuller Brush Man never came knocking at our door. I’m very familiar with the image of this ubiquitous salesman with his briefcase full of brushes. But I never met one. He apparently walked door to door in suburban neighborhoods – so, that’s why we never saw him – in his neat suit and warm smile. Selling utilitarian brushes to help housewives make their work easier. I grew up in a rural area and he would’ve worn out his shoes trying to visit our houses.

Royal Crown Hair Dressing was used in the straightening process.

Ritual of the straightening comb

The image is amazingly clear: A little girl sits on the floor or a stool between her mother’s legs, her head a mass of unruly hair. Her mother sits behind her in a chair, close enough to the stove to reach the tool that will tame her child’s natural hair but not too close to burn either of them. Lying on an open gas flame on the stove was a tool of mass destruction – the straightening comb, or hot comb.

When being a wife was far from funny

The paper sign stood out like the proverbial sore thumb there on a middle rack at the auction house. Once, I’m sure, it was a hoot, but it felt like an anachronism now. Its calculations showed the worth of a woman way back when – there was no date on the sign but its appearance looked vintage and its notations dated. The calculations were presented in a “hee-hee-it’s-all-a-joke” kind of way, but its undercurrent sentiments were all too obvious.

Mason fruit jars and canning

Several summers ago at the World’s Longest Yard Sale, I came across a Ball Mason fruit jar with what looked like blackberries that had been canned years ago and forgotten. A man was selling them on the side of the road. That’s the neat thing about this yard sale: People set up in any clear spot they can find and sell just about anything. The fruit jars were like many that show up at auction all the time, because once – and still now – women canned much of their food.

Kitchen appliances in plastic

Years ago, when I parked appliances on my countertop – and very seldom used them – I’d buy those colorful fabric covers to keep them cozy. Since appliances don’t get cold and shiver, I suppose I also used them to add color to my kitchen. I have no appliances on my counter these days, and so the cozies are gone. Because they were covered, I had a hard time figuring out what was under them. That apparently was not an issue for the woman who used the clear plastic covers I came across recently among some 1950s-era kitchen items at auction.

Privy to slop jars, chamber pots and the past

“Maybe they cleaned it,” I said to the buyer slightly to the front of me as she hugged the slop jar/chamber pot she’d just gotten at auction. “They” were the previous owners who had once used this slop jar, hidden it under the bed for that midnight rush to the toilet. It was a lovely pot, ceramic or maybe porcelain, with what resembled a Staffordshire pattern but without a lid. “I doubt it,” she replied in good humor. The slop jar was one of about a half-dozen in an auction of items by a couple who had engaged in 50 years of collecting.

Page from the North American newspaper in Philadelphia, Sunday, Feb. 23, 1919.

Where were black women?

I was separating out some knitting, crocheting and embroidery items I had picked up at a local auction a couple weeks ago. The person who owned these items also left two newspaper pages with articles about women’s clothing, embroidery patterns for a scarf and lamp-shade design, along with an article on tatting lace. Whenever I see women in these early newspapers, it makes me wonder about black women like my grandmother who was in her early 20s at the time and raising a family. They were completely left out.

Vintage sewing machines at auction

I never took home economics or sewing classes in high school. I took typing classes. I jokingly told my friends that I’d hire someone to come in and do my housework and sewing. I was in college before I developed an interest in sewing. Well, not exactly developed. I was forced to learn after a friend messed around and failed to make an outfit for me that I desperately wanted. So, I taught myself on a Singer and made some of my own clothes for years afterward.

Related posts:

1. The joy of being a woman
2. Treasures in your home
3. A woman’s 1940s nursing photos

As they mature, they realize that they weren’t the first. People have been loving and living for eons, and will continue to do so when we’re all gone. I’m always reminded that the act of loving is timeless when I see symbols of it on the auction table. They come in all forms, from letters to photos to figurines to images on pottery.

On this Valentine’s Day, I’ve assembled some items that show how people have demonstrated their love over time.

Love letters from a man working in Newport News, VA, to his girlfriend in Richmond.

Love letters

Decades ago, writing a letter was the natural way to keep in touch, and a love letter to your sweetie was among them. At auction last year, I came upon a trove of ephemera from a woman who knew the value of saving her history – although someone in the family apparently found it necessary to discard most of it. Among her papers were letters dated 1919 and 1920 from a man who appeared to be her boyfriend. They were both from Richmond, VA, and he had gone to Newport News, VA, to work in the shipyards, leaving her behind. These letters were far from sentimental; their relationship seemed a little shaky.

My local newspaper published a story of a woman who self-published her parents’ love letters written from 1934 to 1938. As part of the Mural Arts Program in Philadelphia, an artist painted a “Love Letter” on the roofs of 50 buildings along a trolley route in the city. One guy even put together a book of other people’s love letters.

A Western Union greetings telegram.

Valentine greetings

Tucked in a box of cards I bought once were some Valentine cards and a Western Union greetings telegram. One of the cards had black cats on it, which seemed odd, and the others had children, which seemed to be pretty commonplace. The most intriguing was the telegram, which was apparently popular in the 1930s. People paid 35 cents for their own words or 25 cents for a choice of messages offered by Western Union. In the 1960s, it was the Candygram, which allowed you to send chocolates (sold by the company) along with the sweetheart telegram.

This antiques and crafts dealers offered some suggestions for adding some historical texture to your Valentine gift: remove chocolates from the box and put them in a vintage candy dish, spell out a love note in old Scrabble or typewriter keys, fill a vintage teacup with your sweetie’s favorite tea or coffee, give vintage jewelry.

Vintage wedding photos from two different generations.

Wedding photos

The joy and promise in the faces of women in white lace and men in black tuxedos show through brilliantly in wedding photos regardless of the time. The photos are among the ultimate expressions of love, yet, they are tossed onto the auction tables like confetti. It seems that no one wants anyone else’s old wedding photos – unless you’re a collector who specializes in vintage wedding photos.

A stuffed doll with a heart.

A love-struck doll

This cute stuffed doll is a charmer. He is made of wool, has a Valentine in his right hand and what looked like red-lipstick kisses on his face and crazily disarrayed pupils in his eyes. When I searched Google for any others like him, it returned with links to sex dolls and inflatable dolls. This little handmade man is bedazzled by real love, and he has the face to prove it.

The cover of the 1940 Decca Records four-album set of songs from "Porgy and Bess."

Porgy and Bess

This is a love story with most of the loving on Porgy’s side. I bought the album for this theatrical opera a year or two ago and saw the re-conditioned musical a month ago. Two of its most famous tunes have the main characters professing their love: “I Love You, Porgy” and “Bess, You Is My Woman.”

Popeye Viewmaster reel.

Popeye and Olive Oyl Viewmaster reel

Viewmaster viewers and reels must have been as common as Kodak cameras at one time because they are ubiquitous at auction. This 1962 set is called “Popeye the Sailor Man,” and we all know the cartoon story of Popeye wooing Olive Oyl. In the first of three reels in the set, Popeye and Brutus compete for the love of Olive Oyl, who concocts a way to settle the dispute – and get her house painted.

Pin cushion and jewelry box with rose motif.

Heart-shaped pin cushion and jewelry box

I bought the lovely silver-plated pin cushion last year at an auction house I was visiting for the first time. I love sewing items, and this pin cushion appealed to me because of its heart shape. At another auction some months later, I came across the jewelry box and figured they’d make a great pair. They may not represent the human notion of love, but the heart image makes you feel warm and cuddly.

Related posts:

1. Love letters and other pages from a woman’s life
2. A meter to test your love
3. A bride only a mother could love

I always had a hard time finding slacks that fit perfectly at a price I was willing to pay.

Simplicity pattern poster sold at auction.

I taught myself to sew after a college friend failed to finish an outfit for me. Ever the self-reliant person, I decided to teach myself. I spent many hours in fabric shops and knew where every one of them was located in any city where I lived.

Sewing was time-consuming – finding a pattern, choosing the fabric, cutting out the pattern from the tissue-paper sheets, laying the pieces on the fabric, cutting out the fabric and finally sewing the garment. Despite the chore, the end result was a tailor-made piece of clothing that fit me. It was akin to creating a work of art.

So when I came across some advertising posters for Simplicity patterns recently at auction, they took me back to those sewing shops. These were the kind of posters that would be aligned on top of the metal file-cabinet cases stuffed with patterns, tempting you into buying the latest Simplicity or Vogue or Butterick or McCall.

Simplicity pattern posters sold at auction.

Vintage patterns and other sewing items come up at auction pretty often, but this was the first time I had seen the posters. No date was printed on them, but the clothes looked to be from the 1950s.

At auction, old patterns are snapped up pretty quickly by buyers, indicating that there’s still a steady market for them. As for me, I gave up sewing years ago; I just didn’t have the time or the inclination anymore. I even had to abandon one of the best fabrics shops I had ever come across. It had wonderful fabric – especially the wools – at remarkable prices. The place was more warehouse than shop, and that’s probably why the fabric cost so little.

Like most sewers, I had tons of fabric left over after I dropped out. Sewers always buy more than they need, thus the slogan “The One Who Dies With the Most Fabric Wins.” I finally got rid of all of it, along with the piles of patterns.

Simplicity pattern posters sold at auction.

Through my sewing, I was following in the footsteps of millions of women who had relied on patterns to clothe their families inexpensively. That culture of sewing dated back to the mid-19th century when Ellen Louise Curtis Demorest of New York made the first tissue-paper patterns.

By the 1860s, Demorest was copying French fashions, and promoting and selling them through her own magazines. Her patterns were also sold by sales agents, mostly women, in shops across the country. Demorest hired both African American and white women to make the patterns, with both working side by side and earning equal pay. She was an abolitionist and women’s right advocate who, according to one account, shushed people away who disagreed with her politics.

Unfortunately, she did not patent her invention, but Ebenezer Butterick did. In 1863, Butterick’s wife Ellen suggested that she needed a pattern to make an outfit for their infant son that was in his size. Butterick experimented and came up with his own tissue-paper pattern. First, they were exclusively for men and boy’s clothes, but three years later, he started making women’s dress patterns.

Simplicity pattern poster sold at auction.

These two pattern-makers were among a long list of such companies, including Simplicity, which got started in 1927, and McCall, founded in 1870 and whose patterns were marketed through a magazine that later took the name McCall’s.

I wasn’t around when the Simplicity posters came up for auction, and I wasn’t sure how they’d be used. Probably like they were in those fabric shops – as stand-up art placed strategically around the room.

The front and back of a Simplicity poster sold at auction.

Related posts:

1. A mystery sewing item
2. A slew of antique sewing boxes
3. Vintage sewing machines at auction

I had to get closer to see what was calling me. In one full case and part of another were some of the loveliest antique sewing boxes and other paraphernalia – more than I had seen in one lot at auction. This was obviously one person’s collection and she (I’m quite certain it was a woman) or someone else was giving it all up.

A collection of antique sewing boxes and spool holders made this auction very special.

I come across sewing items all the time – coarse threads long forgotten in old sewing boxes, needle packs, needle holders, Singer and other sewing machines with unfamiliar names. But such a large grouping of boxes was extraordinary.

The auctioneer mentioned that they had come from a Victorian home in Cape May, NJ. When the owner first sent him photos, he said, he was a bit indifferent. But when he saw the actual collection, he was very impressed.

And I understood why. Anyone who appreciates the art of sewing would love these old boxes. And I’m one of those folks. I used to sew a lot, but sewing takes time and I found other things to do with that time. I’ve picked up a few small vintage sewing items from time to time, though.

The auction included a variety of sewing boxes, as shown in this photo.

These items were in relatively good condition and intact. Dust had settled on the tops of several and on others, the wood looked to have absorbed the dust after too many years of not being polished. All they needed were a good cleaning and they’d be proud again.

Most were boxes with spool holders that still held thread wrapped around wooden spools, the way they used to be made. At least two trays contained needle holders of all shapes, sizes and materials. Most of the boxes had drawers, and each pull revealed small items tucked inside.

Pincushions were apparently a favorite of this collector, and there were plenty of them – as toppers on miniature shoes, sewing boxes and metal contraptions, one of which was attached to the edge of the glass on a shelf.

The "Lady's Companion" sewing kit - practical and nice.

Lying flat on one shelf was a small white leather sewing kit with the words “Lady’s Companion” imprinted in gold leaf on the side. Inside were tools tucked into deep pockets for that emergency sewing job away from home. It was adorable. On the Barnum Museum website, I found a red leather one with gold lettering that had belonged to P.T. Barnum’s daughter.

When the time came to sell the items, the auction staff laid them out on a table in front of about a dozen of us who had attached ourselves to the edge of the table like magnets. We fingered items we had touched many times before (at least I had because I had previewed them the day before. On auction day, the case was locked).

One woman standing next to me held up a black wooden item with a short handle and oval head. What’s this, she said. A darner, I told her. You put a sock over the round head, and “darn” or mend a hole. It is actually called a darning egg, and some are in the shape of an egg.

The needle holders came in all shapes, sizes and materials, including silver. The darning eggs are in the far back of the photo on the left.

Then she picked up a short deceptively simple-looking cylindrical case. What’s this? she asked again. I unscrewed it as I explained that it was a needle holder. Inside were several needles.

I was her once, before I started going to auctions. I had never seen a darning egg before, and knew nothing about needle holders and tatting shuttles, which were also in this collection. But because I am interested in sewing, I’ve learned about many of its tools after having stumbled across so many at auctions – and still do.

The woman bidded on a few small pieces, but she was outbidded on most of them. Another female bidder took home most of the items, which generally sold in the $50 to $100 range. The cheapest went for $7 and the highest for $160, an egg-shaped needle holder that the auctioneer said was either ivory or bone.

A look inside a sewing case with plush interior and bone tools.

The Lady’s Companion kit sold for $125. A very decorative one sold at another auction last year for $300. A couple were selling on eBay for less than $100.

I didn’t bid on anything because I thought the prices were too high. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the boxes, except allow them to collect dust like the other sewing items I have at home. I’m sure the buyers at the auction will sell them, because most of the folks there were dealers.

Many of the other items sold at auction also came from the Victorian home in New Jersey, including a lovely Black Forest German clock with a thermometer, glassware, loads of old tintype and studio photos, and vintage dolls. This family seemed to be cleaning house.

A metal thread holder with pincushion.

Related posts:

1. Needle packs: Too classy for sewing
2. A mystery sewing item
3. Simplicity posters & memories of sewing

Right, I thought, and I’m sure everyone else in the room questioned his veracity, too. No way he would be holding a 189-year-old knitting piece in his hand. But we all knew that there was always at least one person (well, maybe two or three) gullible enough to believe everything an auctioneer said.

This is the center vase of flowers on the tatting piece, along with the initials "S" and "B." The year 1822 had also been stitched into it.

He started the bidding high. Then dropped it low, low and lower until he got to $5. What the heck, I thought. For $5, I’d buy it just to see what the piece actually looked like. So, I took the bid and won it. Click on the photo above for a full view.

This fabric looked to be silk. It was in a cherry frame that was in good condition, but the backing had been removed. Everything was separated – the frame, the tatting, the glass, which was dusty, dirty and affixed with a paper label with the year 1822 written on it. The tatting design had been attached to cardboard with packing tape around the edges. On the back were the words “Tatting 1822″ written in pencil.

I had never heard of tatting until I started going to auctions some years ago and began looking at items other than artwork. I used to sew a lot, making many of my own clothes and enjoying it. I have also taken quilting lessons, where I made a few potholders and started a quilt but never finished.

But I had never been a knitter or a crocheter or a needlepointer. So, when I came across some tatting shuttles in a box lot once, I didn’t know what they were. They were shaped like an oval but rectangular, with two sides attached to each other by a narrow bridge. The ends were pointed. Some were metal, some were bone, but they apparently come in a variety of materials. They were no more than 2 to 3 inches long.

Two tatting shuttles.

I Googled to find out more about them and eBayed to see what they were worth. I even blogged about the ones I had found, asking the question of how they were used.

The word tatting, according to one expert, did not appear until the 19th century but the craft of knotting threads went back even farther.

The craft seemed to be more associated with lace for edging but can also be used to make doilies and other items. It apparently flourished during the early part of the 20th century but its popularity then diminished. Another site described it as an old craft of making lace and other decorations, and said it was easy to learn. It doesn’t look so easy on this video, which showed that it does requires patience. Here’s a gallery of tatting designs.

The shuttles themselves are highly collectible. Here are some lovely ones. Here are some collectors, their designs and their shuttles.

Tatting normally consisted of a series of knots and loops, but the piece I got at auction looked more like a series of thin straight threads crossing each other and forming the outlines of squares.

Two of the three places the year 1822 was noted on the tatting piece.

I kept finding tatting shuttles selling alone at auctions or among sewing items in a box lot. But I had never seen an actual sewn design, until this one came up at auction. When I got the piece home, I looked at it very carefully. It had been applied to a pink satin fabric and then sewn onto the cardboard in a basic stitch that I recognized (and had used before). The tatting showed signs of fading around the edges and some brown age spots.

The design was symmetrical: a row of three vases of flowers, two identical ones on either side of a larger vase. At the top was stitched “18″ in the left corner and “22″ in the right corner. In between them were what looked like the initials “S” and “B.”

Maybe the piece was done in 1822 and by S.B. Now, I was intrigued, because I always want to know more about the people who held or used or made the items I find at auction.

Who was S.B. and why did she make this particular piece? I may never know, but it looks like the auctioneer may have been right.

The cardboard backing of the tatting piece.

Related posts:

1. Tatting shuttles
2. Where were black women?
3. A slew of antique sewing boxes

More than a dozen hooks were lying atop one another on a blue Willow plate on the auction table. Two tables down were more of them, along with some manicure tools.

Button hooks sold at auction.

I’d seen them often at auction before, and always thought they had something to do with sewing. They always had nice bone or celluloid handles attached to long metal prongs with a hook at the end.

It was with utter surprise that I learned their real name and real use: button hooks for pulling buttons through button holes.

They were used extensively during the latter part of the Victorian period when men and women wore over-the-ankle shoes and boots that buttoned up the side. If you’ve seen any old pictures of shoes from that time, you’ll remember that they were tight at the ankle. So, you can imagine the chore of trying to button them.

I looked past the rusted metal prongs on the button hooks at auction and focused on the handles. Several were cream-colored bone, two had the words “French ivory” and “ivory” engraved on them, but my research showed that they were actually the synthetic plastic celluloid. Another had light and dark brown tones, another was green and brown celluloid (with a matching nail tool), another was mother of pearl. Two metal ones advertised shoe stores in Philadelphia.

These were vintage button hooks but there was no way to tell how old they were.

Manicure items were part of the button-hook lots sold at auction.

The lots included a large array of bone crochet hooks and a comb-like item I could not identify, a metal item that resembled scissors with a rooster in the middle, holes at the bottom for fingers and circular pieces at the top. The open piece at the top looked like it could have been a magnifying glass (the glass was missing) and the solid piece could’ve been its cover. The lot also included nail tools and several letter openers.

For me, the prize was the button hooks. I cleaned them, and decided to try one out. First, I had to find a blouse with buttons because who wears blouses anymore. I slid the button hook through the button hole and around a button (it didn’t slide around the button too easily so I maneuvered it with my hand) and pulled it through. No fumbling with the button. It was easy. Then I tried another, not so easy, a little fumbling, and then another, not so easy again. I guess it takes practice. 

Here’s how it was actually done, according to Christopher Proudlove in an article on the website of the Buttonhook Society:

In use, the prong was inserted through the buttonhole and the hook positioned around the shank of the button. A swift tug and a deft twist of the wrist and the button was pulled easily into place to do its duty.

I could not imagine trying to button shoes with it.

A shoe for which the button hooks were made. Photo by haracat3.

Button hooks were pretty common in the 1890s and were widely used until around 1915, according to the Buttonhook Society website, even though they go back at least a century or more earlier. Anyone who wore shoes, stiff boots, jackets, gloves and even corsets apparently used them. They came in all sizes and shapes, and were made of materials ranging from silver to abalone shell.

Some, called “trench art,” were made from metal picked up off battlefields during World War I. Many businesses used them for advertising, like the ones in the lot I bought that advertised Forster’s Boot and Shoes and Sharpless Bros. Shoes, which no longer exist.

The hooks could be as long as a foot or more to prevent a person from having to bend over to fasten boots or as small as a little finger to be carried in a purse, according to the website.

As people traveled more, the hooks were included in manicure, shaving, dresser and traveling sets, according to the Buttonhook Society site. A dresser set could consist of a “manicure knife, shoe horn, letter opener, cuticle knife, scissors, small bottles, and other items set in a specially fitted case.”

Maybe that’s why my auction lots contained several manicure, nail tools and letter openers. They were likely part of dresser sets.

Letter openers and more were among the lot of button hooks sold at auction.

Button hooks are apparently collectible, don’t cost a lot of money and are easy to store. As Proudlove  rightly noted, “you could spend a lifetime collecting button hooks and fit them all in a suitcase.”

Unsurprisingly, I found an association of button hook collectors, the Buttonhook Society based in England, that offered tons of information on collecting, fakes, how to display your collection, early articles on button hooks (including one on how to clean rust: cover with oil or grease, let set for a few days, rub with ammonia). It also included photos from its exhibition of amazingly beautiful hooks, not the sort I come across at auctions. There is also a display from the Bedford Museum in England. Here are more nice photos, including one that shows how they were used.

It seemed that the lot of button hooks I got for $5 each at auction are among the more common ones. None are silver and none have fancy handles. But learning about them, though, was a fascinating expedition.

Related posts:

1. Vintage buttons
2. A costume-jewelry necklace hidden away
3. Vintage motorcycle helmets

I assumed she was Native American by the look of her clothes with the little red trimmed-in-white designs that gave the impression of tiny beads. The needlepoint seemed different – for me at least, since I do not know needlepoint – because it looked like it was raised above the background, not flat against it. As I looked closer, I realized that I was mistaken.

The colorations on her face were variations of light and dark brown, seeming to reflect light against her skin. She looked so real. I went back to the needlepoint several times to examine it closely. And each time, I was convinced more and more that I’d love to have it hanging on my wall at home. I turned to the back and saw that the paper protecting it – which looked to be vintage – had torn. Inside, the framer had used cardboard against the piece, which is a no-no. You should never use cardboard in framing, so I”ll have it reframed.

The piece was not large. It only measured 8 ½” x 9″ in the frame, which was in good shape. The image itself was 3 ½” x 2″.

This needlepoint got me to thinking about whether Native American designs were common. In Googling, I found that several companies produce them, mostly of chiefs, men, women, buffaloes, wolves, dream catchers, along with ones with messages.

One of the things I found that was most intriguing was needlepoint and petit point jewelry made by the Zunis, a Pueblo tribe that lives in western New Mexico. According to one website, the Zunis are considered the premier jewelry makers of all the  tribes. Their needlepoint stones have pointed ends that are set in straight or curved lines, according to the website, and the petit point stones are shaped like tear drops. Another website said petit points were round, and needlepoint were needle-shaped. (The pieces above are petit points from the Zuni Connection website.)

In some cases, the two terms were used interchangeably. Whatever, they are just gorgeous (click here to see pieces by contemporary Zuni jewelry makers). Just like my little girl, which I got for $5. Fortunately, there were no other bidders. (The necklace below is a needlepoint from the Zuni Connection website.)

Related posts:

1. A floral needlepoint purse
2. Needlepoint samplers – a girl’s work
3. Native American root club

I see some of those crocheted and  needlepoint pieces – not sure if they’re from a dowry but merely from loving hands – at auctions from time to time. Last weekend, I saw some from an actual dowry, bequeathed to a niece by a woman now in her 70s and living in New York. I was at the home of a friend’s friend, and the woman shared her aunt’s handiwork.

The aunt started making the linens at the age of 16 when she was a girl in Vila Cha in northern Portugal, and made them until she was about 21. She moved to the United States in1965 at the age of 28, shipping much of her dowry pieces and bringing over the rest with her.

“You had to have a dowry so when it came time, you had everything you needed,” the niece told us.  ”… That’s what everyone in their town did. They were getting their stuff together.”

Practically everything was embroidered, “even dishrags,” the niece said.

Her aunt also made pieces for other people in the town. The aunt learned the skill of crocheting and needleworking from her mother and aunts, but was self-taught in creating her own designs.

“They lived on a farm (and worked in the fields during the day),” the niece said. “They’d come home and put on the kerosene light and talk and needlepoint.”

The niece has two trunks of her aunt’s linens and her aunt has more at her own home. The niece is putting together a hope chest of the linens for her own teenage daughter. That got me to wondering if teens were interested in vintage linens and hope chests these days. Her daughter very much wants them, the niece said. A smart young woman, because these pieces were stunning. (I wrote a blog post earlier this year about how young girls used to make samplers as a rite of passage.)

In her dining room, the niece carefully pulled out round crocheted doilies, tablecloths and a twin-bed sheet with pink edges from a stack in the closet. We were awed by the artistry, the fine stitching and the patterns on what would be considered everyday items. One of them was something new to me: a round bowl-shaped white linen piece with decorated pockets and narrow crocheted trim around the edges. It was used to hold hot dinner rolls.

I don’t know her aunt, but I couldn’t help marveling at her talent. A lot of time, effort and love went into those pieces. It took her 40 hours to make the small ones, her niece said, and 60 hours for the larger ones.

These were ooh-and aah pieces (and more oohs and aahs all over again) as the niece took them one after the other from the closet and unfolded them on the dining room table. She uses them on occasion, bringing them out for special dinners and placing them beneath plates to give place settings a pop.

She also showed us the first piece of embroidery her aunt had made for her, when she was a baby. She’s not sure exactly how it was used, but it was a small piece with a Portuguese blessing on the front and a pocket on the back. She also has a linen piece with the initial “M” for Maria, her given name.

Her aunt doesn’t do much stitch-work now, the niece said, because of her failing eyesight. She and her husband had no children, so this niece became the beneficiary of her largesse. This is a very lucky niece. (Click on each photo below rather than viewing through PicLens.)

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[View with PicLens]

Related posts:

1. Needlepoint samplers – a girl’s work
2. Native American girl in needlepoint
3. A floral needlepoint purse

I bought the lot, and she got her Acme supermarket needle pack.

It was one of the plainer ones I’d seen, with the company’s name emblazoned on both sides of the folded cover and a simple line drawing of a woman with a shopping cart buying groceries. It had been made in Germany.

Many of the packs – or needle books, as they are also called – are usually more colorful and decorative. For me, the highlight of the packs are their lovely lithographs, such as the USS Iowa on the Army and Navy Needle Book, or the pilgrims and Native Americans at Plymouth. Most still have all of their needles in them, indicating that the owners were collecting rather than using them. Even today, people are drawn to the strong illustrations, including the writer of the blog Seesaw, where you can see examples in her collection. 

 
Today, I’m blogging about old sewing items, in particular needles packs. Yesterday, I wrote about needle cases, used to store needles and other items. You don’t find these works of art on needle packaging in fabric stores these days. Now, they’re very utilitarian.

Some of the classier old ones were used by companies to market their products to sewers. The packs were either giveaways or could be purchased. 

Several of mine are from the Colonial Life Insurance Co., including one of a little girl with her doll and the title “A Stitch in Time.” Inside, the company urged you to contact them for a policy on retirement, family protection, educational funds, mortgage redemption and business insurance. “Like all good needles,” the pack intoned on the back cover, “the Colonial policies have fine points.”

You’ll find many packs with women on the covers (since they were from another era, you won’t likely find any black women). Needles of several sizes were encased inside, many times on colored foil. I also have plain packs with needles only, all made in England, with names like Brabant’s, Milward and Susan Bates.

I found by Googling that in the 19^th century, the center of needle manufacturing was a town called Redditch, England. Today, there’s a museum there, Forge Mill Needle Museum, that recounts the area’s needle-making and fishing-tackle industries.

Related posts:

1. Needle cases: Hiding in plain sight
2. A slew of antique sewing boxes
3. A mystery sewing item