Growing up in a compulsively creative home
One of my first creative memories was sewing three felt animals - a mouse, a sausage dog and a pony. I was astonished that a little paper pattern, a needle, some thread and felt, plus my own hands, could create these cute little creatures. I still have them. When I was about nine, my mother discovered that I could use a sewing machine without having been taught (I had simply watched her closely). From then on, I was making my own clothes, forging quite a distinctive personal style, which carried me through to university and beyond. At the time, I relied on the cheapest fabric remnants I could find in shops or scavenged from Mum’s stash. However, I longed for the day when I could wear clothes made by someone else. Something store-bought. Something with a label.
Then I began visiting friends’ homes, and I started to realise just how different my home was. Even when visiting close friends, I often felt bewildered and disconnected. (What do they do here? Where are all their creative things? The balls of wool, the fabrics, the sewing bits and bobs…? Do they just sit around doing nothing?). These visits quickly turned to terrible feelings of panic. I had to escape, to return to my own familiar space. Mum would more often than not collect me, in floods of tears. Yes, I was a terribly anxious child.
If you had visited me at my home, you might have felt overwhelmed, or perhaps overjoyed. Our old wooden house was full of creative clutter (with a caravan for the overflow and for holidays), where surfaces were full of curated art, precious objects, and materials, each with its own story. You might have wondered if you’d stepped into another dimension. There was always something to learn, something to make, something to do, and this was my normal. Looking back, our home was a living archive of creative possibilities, textiles and tools.
You would have seen bundles of hand-spun, hand-knitted, and hand-dyed wool, at least three well-used spinning wheels, knitting and crocheting tools, carding combs, ball-winding contraptions, scraps of leather, and curious leather-cutting apparatus. Bags of beads, corn husks, dried flowers, wires, threads lay around, plus an abundance of tools for various projects, some of which probably belonged in Dad’s shed. Mum made corn dolls and hand-spun garments - knitted or crocheted - to sell so her three daughters could have piano lessons. Dad, in turn, built her homemade papermaking frames, from which Mum made papers from all kinds of fibres, stitching them into beautiful books.
Shelves overflowed with books, files and records on every craft you could imagine. Delicately beaded and embroidered dolls came to life in her hands, as did tiny teddy bears - some knitted, some crafted from old fur coats. There were calligraphy pens, inks and fine papers from around the world. Mum had loved calligraphy as a young woman and retained her elegant handwriting all her life. Hand-dyed silk became a later passion (with workshops held with her crafty friends on the back lawn), while sewing machines and fabric remnants showed imaginative and practical textile work.
I truly treasure not only the imaginative skills I inherited, but the artistic connection that came from being raised in an completely unconventional, creatively rich home, and the heritage of creativity that has run through the generations of both sides of my family. Thank you, Mum and Dad (Valerie and Dennis Crompton)!
Would you like to bring a piece of my handmade joy into your life? Visit my Sara Meade Design shop to explore my range of watercolour prints, greeting cards, and felt ornaments. I’m also providing felt ornament DIY kits as fully supplied kits, along with PDF knitting patterns for bouncing babies and cosy toes. Watch out for 2026 Calendars coming soon!
Best wishes, Sara
