During the first 20 years of my life, my sister Joan and I always shared a bedroom. And the same double bed. The fancy part of the room, was what was called in those days, a vanity dresser. It had a large round mirror at its center, and it looked a lot like the one shown here.

The dresser had a middle drawer and two drawers on each side. Joan’s were the two on the right, the contents always neat, tidy, organized; mine were the ones on the left often jammed shut because of the shambles within. I can’t remember what the purpose of the middle drawer was but it was probably supposed to be “shared” space to fight over.

During our childhood, my sister and I really had fighting down to an art form. It wasn’t till I turned 16 and Joan 18, that we discovered, to our astonishment, that we were best friends for life.

That big round mirror watched us all those years. It observed us. It eye-balled our joys, sorrows, surprises, arguments. It witnessed our missing teeth, mumps, red measles, sunburns, failures, conflicts, disappointments, and sometimes achievements. It viewed the preening and primping of our teenage clothes-frenzy years, and our endless hair brushing, curling, pin-curling, braiding, and coping nonetheless with too many very bad hair days. It watched us getting ready for our Confirmations, recitals, dates, proms, parties, graduations, engagements, and weddings.

That big old mirror grew to know us well, my sister and me, intimately, the good and the bad, warts and all. It saw us as we were. But, unlike a camera, it couldn’t document what it saw. Except once.

It happened the very last time I ever viewed myself in that faithful old silvered glass. On the day of my wedding in 1951.

The wedding was at Immaculate Conception Church in Cedar Rapids, and it was followed by a small reception at our house. Husband Gene and I were scheduled to leave by train for our honeymoon in Chicago and while the guests were still visiting, Joan and I and two of my bridesmaids – Louise and Ozzie – went upstairs to help me get out of the bridal gown (from Joan’s own wedding the previous year) and into the two-tone gray suit I’d wear for the trip (also, of course, a loan from my sister’s wardrobe.)

Almost ready to leave, I was combing my hair, and looking at myself in that old mirror – for the last time in my life – when someone – I think it was my Aunt Bill (yes, that’s what we called her) – took this photo.

It may not be obvious at first glance, but this was not an image of a thrilled young bride just leaving for what was to be her future life with her beloved young husband. I couldn’t say anything to anybody, but I was petrified with worry. And I didn’t want to leave our house.

It wasn’t the rain – though there was plenty of it. The day of our wedding was the day of one cloudburst after another in Cedar Rapids, and everybody who stepped outside was getting drenched – as Joan’s two-tone wool suit – and the hair I was so feverishly combing – also soon would be.

And it wasn’t because I was leaving the party behind, even one in my and my bridegroom’s honor. I have a passionate discomfort when at parties and always find a way to escape from them using an Irish Farewell (also known as a French Exit) where you sneak out without telling anybody.

Those weren’t the reason for my fear and tension, though. Cameras don’t always tell the true story of what they captured, but that old mirror knew what was going on.

It’s likely that all brides are torn with regret when they’re about to leave their family and the only home they’ve known and head for an unknown future. Especially, if they’re – shall we say – inexperienced with what brides and grooms do in bed on their wedding night. It was the one thing the nuns couldn’t prepare us for, and I was a nervous wreck, to put it mildly. I wanted to stay home, but I knew I couldn’t. The die was cast! I was now a married lady and I would be expected to, you know, “do it”.

As the years went on, the photo got tucked away with all the other memorabilia of the following 70 years of the happy life I shared with Gene and the big family we raised. I rarely ran across it and forgot about it till this year.

One day, one of my daughters presented me with an extraordinary gift, and as soon as I gazed on it, the memories of the scene in front of the mirror came flooding back. To explain it, I will have to begin by bragging about some of the exploits of my talented youngest daughter, Judy Taylor.

Judy has become what I think of as the Martha Stewart of rug hooking – especially a form of the craft known as Nantucket rug hooking.

Judy started her professional life as a super-talented professional actress and director, but after her marriage to her actor/director husband Gary, she settled down on his farm and discovered her interest in a more earthy lifestyle.

She literally shepherds a small flock of sheep and goats, harvests their wool, and spins it on her spinning wheel. And then she designs and produces the kinds of rugs that warmed the homes of the early settlers of our country. They are expensive, of course, but they are treasured by today’s Early American stylists and collectors. And she’s become an international authority on the history and application of the craft of rug hooking.

Judy and her work are frequently featured in craft magazines, and she is the author of many books (several of them are currently listed on amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/s?k=Judy+Taylor&ref=nb_sb_noss_2. And she produced an award-winning video on the art-form, and she also teaches the craft and maintains a website for those pursuing it at https://judytaylor2013.wordpress.com/2021/11/03/20-off-everything-at-little-house-rugs/

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Besides her spinning wheel, the main device Judy uses is a little rug hooking tool like this one. She said that when the pioneering colonists came to this country, they had to severely limit how much they could bring. Because the rug hook was so small, the women managed to smuggle it in – and once here – those rug hooks were put to use creating warmth, comfort and simple homespun beauty in their homes.

Judy doesn’t just hook rugs, though. She uses that little hook to create all kinds of treasures, including the wall hanging she presented to me that day. She had interpreted the photo of her mother in front of the mirror, and using the primitive art-form of Nantucket rug hooking, she managed to memorialize for me all the adolescent fears of my wedding day. She named the work “Her Past and Her Future”. Here’s an image of it.

Unlike the Mona Lisa, I know my image may never hang in the Louvre, but, hey! who knew it would ever be featured on such a fine textile by a world-class craftsman.

I can’t help wondering, though, about that funny old dresser with its big mirror. It’s probably been scrapped long ago – but if it hasn’t, I wonder if it still remembers my sister and me.