THE SURPRISE IN THE BOX ON THE SHELF

“Do you have any blue needlepoint yarn,” my friend Kathy texted several months ago. “I just might,” I replied. And I knew the only place that yarn could be was in a 3’x2’ wooden box I hadn’t opened in 40 years. 

Four decades ago, I lived in Ridgewood, New Jersey, a contented housewife and mother of two, an active volunteer at their schools, a member of paddle and tennis teams and an avid needlepointer who took classes with four pals every Wednesday morning at a stitchery shop in nearby Saddle River. But during one bitter winter 40 years ago, the facade of that blissful marriage dissolved and my life imploded. After a divorce, I moved to a vacation condo that “we” — now fortunate “me” — owned in Kennebunkport, Maine. (Divorce did have its perks.)

Left behind were aging parents who lived half an hour away, dear friends and supportive neighbors, and a spacious Dutch Colonial home I adored. But suburban life — with my wine-sipping book club, theater outings to NYC and dinner parties with other couples — was over.

To the furnished condo in Maine, I brought several treasured pieces of family furniture, a Darwinist cat aptly named Spike, plus trappings of my various hobbies — tennis racquets, cartons of books I couldn’t part with, and a 3’x2’ wooden box stuffed with needlepoint yarns. The box had originally been filled with tangy cheeses, spiced nuts and gourmet crackers, a Dean & DeLuca Christmas gift sent by friends years ago.

After unpacking and assessing my new divorcee status, I realized that needlepointing no longer gave me joy. It was a vestige of happier times and I simply had no interest. So I stashed the box in the guest room closet, and basically forgot about it. 

Five years later, after remarriage to Mr. Wonderful, I placed that still-unopened box on a closet shelf in our new home at Kennebunk Beach where we lived for nearly 20 years. Three years ago when we downsized and relocated to a townhouse in the Wells woods, the box started gathering dust on a shelf in my walk-in closet … until Kathy texted. 

I brought the box to the kitchen island and unhooked the latch. There atop a vibrant rainbow of tangled yarns was an unfinished needlepoint belt. The red, yellow and green criss-cross pattern atop a blue background featured the initials “CBT.” Whoa, I thought, eyeballing a project I started 40 years ago for my son, Christopher B. Tamis, then a student at Brooks School.

In my text back to Kathy, I assured her I had plenty of blue yarn and to come on over, “but I might need your help." A closer inspection of the belt had me seriously question whether I could finish those last two inches. Despite having made more than 20 belts and countless pillows years ago, I couldn’t even begin to remember the basketweave stitch.

After Kathy arrived, she tutored me for 10 minutes, then said, “Val, you can do this.” When she left, I struggled for days. I’m a different person than I was four decades ago. Today, my fingers are paralytically gnarled with arthritis. They’ve got the dexterity of an ox. Even wearing 2.50 cheaters, my faltering eyesight could barely locate the correct mesh hole to pull the yarn through.

When done, I took the belt to Grace Robinson’s needlepoint and yarn shop in Falmouth, Maine, which then sent it off to a finisher. A month later a small package arrived at my front door containing the belt. The blue leather backing gave it a professional look, like a belt I might purchase at an upscale men’s store. But would the 32-inch belt originally made for an athletic teenager fit my 54-year-old son? Of course it didn’t!

So it’s currently being resized and re-leathered. No big rush. Hey, it’s been 40 years in the making so a few more months won’t hurt. But I’m now itching to start looking into all those cardboard boxes stacked on shelves in my basement that have sat unopened and untouched since the moving van pulled out of the driveway. Heaven only knows what I’ll find.