When I was a young teenager my mother gave me an embroidery kit to teach me how to stitch. It was a piece of white linen with an Irish blessing stamped on it in blue ink and shamrocks strewn all around the edges. I soon discovered that the rhythmic act of stitching was very soothing, almost like meditation, and I was hooked. I’ve been a stitcher ever since.
My finished work looked very much like this one, although mine was all in green thread. I gave it to my Irish father, who proudly hung it above his bar, where it remained for many years. Every St. Patrick’s Day, after he’d had a few, he read it aloud, often with tears in his eyes. The Irish are a sentimental lot.
