REMAINING THREADFUL

thread

Thread.

Think about it.

(Thounds like Thylvester the Cat…

Thuffering Thuccotash).

We thread our way through the crowd.

Which can be like threading a needle.

Except that’s harder.

Or maybe things have been hanging by a thread.

And we wait.

And wonder.

Or the thread snaps.

All of a sudden, we break it off.

It’s over.

Related emails get lumped together as a thread.

A theme threads its way throughout a novel.

Those who think about thread probably sew.

I don’t.

But I admire those who do.

If you want thread, try Mason Hometown Variety.

Or the Community Thrift Store.

Birds use bits of thread to make nests.

And we use it to make everything else.

Or so it seems.

The saga unwinds like…well, an endless spool of thread.

Apparently thread’s been around since the first garments were made for warmth and protection.

Hey, nice threads you got on there.

Early sewing thread consisted of thin strips of animal hide that were used to stitch together larger pieces of hide and fur.

Now that’s my kind of sewing.

Later civilizations brought refinements in clothing (and aren’t we glad).

This included spinning and dyeing of thread.

The Egyptians made thread from plant fibers.

And used wool and hair from domestic animals to spin.

(I knew Buster could be put to good use.)

They (and the Phoenicians) used berries and plant matter to make colorful, long-lasting dyes.

Which, of course, the Native Americans did as well.

After that, the Chinese and Japanese discovered the beauty of silk fibers spun as thread.

And proceeded to transform them into cloth, aka silk.

Then came the Industrial Revolution.

BANG.

Production of thread shifted from cottages to factories with high-speed machines.

Just like so many other things taken from the hands of their maker.

It seems like we’ve been going faster and faster ever since.

Producing and consuming.

Hurry hurry hurry.

So much to do in the assembly-line of life.

Goin’ and a-blowin’.

Comin’ and goin’.

We may have worn the rug threadbare.

That’s Mason.

Renee Walker is a poet and writer on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster.  

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