It was early September. Summer had just slipped away, and campus life was settling back into rhythm. Sunlight filtered through the ginkgo leaves by the edge of the school field, the breeze making the path rustle gently beneath them.
That very first autumn, I met tufting — and him. Sitting in an old, small, humble craft room, I never imagined tufting would become a life-long companion — or that he would, too.
There were only seven people in the class. I was the only girl, decked out in trendy sneakers and ready to breeze through this tufting course just to snag some easy credits. Honestly, I didn’t expect to care much about tufting—or anyone in that room.
He was already there. Wearing a gray hoodie with sleeves rolled up, he sat quietly in the corner, his movements precise and practiced. The tufting gun he held was sleek and compact — a Clawlab — its metal body cool to the touch, humming softly with every pull. Watching him work, it was clear he was an expert; every stitch confident, every motion smooth.
My first attempt was a disaster. I was all over the place — too fast, too jerky. Yarn snarled, needles jammed. I felt frustrated and clumsy. But honestly, thanks to the teacher, that Clawlab gun was forgiving: its safety features and adjustable speed dial made it easier for me to learn, letting me slow down and find a rhythm that worked.
He, the hoodie guy, never said much — mostly just watched from the sidelines. But when I really struggled, he’d quietly step in, adjust the tension on my frame, or show me how to steady my hand. That small, compact gun in his hands wasn’t just a tool — it was his way of communicating.
As the weeks passed, I noticed something else: he wasn’t just skilled with the gun; he was awkward around people. Not because he was unfriendly, but because he didn’t know how to open up. At first, I thought he was cold, distant. But as we spent more time together — both fumbling and refining with the Clawlab gun — he started to let me in.
One afternoon, in a rush to finish, I pushed the gun’s speed way too high. The needle snapped, and I nearly ruined my whole piece. I was ready to quit.
But he came over, this time actually speaking: “Slow down. The Clawlab’s speed control is there for a reason. You don’t have to rush.” He swapped out my needle, retensioned my frame, and showed me a better wrist motion to keep the gun steady.
That moment changed everything.
He was still quiet, but from then on, he shared more — ideas, color choices, tips. And I stopped seeing tufting as just another chore. That Clawlab gun, with its smooth adjustments and safety design, gave me confidence. And he? He started to talk, in his own way.
By the end of the semester, I finally completed my work — our work. When people asked who made it, I smiled and said, “We made it together.”
We never put a label on it back then, but now, years later, he’s sitting right beside me, playing with our kids.
Tufting became more than craft from that moment on. It was a language between us, a way to trust, a way to grow. And that small, smart machine — our Clawlab tufting gun — was the bridge that brought us closer.
