Sewing 101

“How does the camel cross the desert?” I posed this question to my children until they were sick of it. “One step at a time,” they’d reluctantly chant in the most bored tones they could muster. “And what does this teach us?” Picture them rolling their eyes. “If we’re patient and do our chores the way you want, we can have ice cream.” No. Wait! What? My intention was to teach them something far more profound, but come to think of it, they were right. They were also right when I’d say “We have to finish the jigsaw puzzle before we can see the whole picture.” Then one of them would hold up the box cover, point to the picture, set the lid down, and walk off shaking their head with the sad awareness that Mother was several cards shy of a full deck. (I was trying to speak metaphorically but I picked the wrong metaphor.) What I was attempting to do was to teach them skills I had never wanted to learn myself: patience, perseverance, and building blocks. The problem with those traits is that they took so much time and were so boring. Ugh! Yet the fact remains that some things have to be learned step-by-step no matter how frustrating that may be. There’s just no way around it. Perhaps in the future we’ll plug our brains directly into Hal and upload knowledge in nanoseconds. Until that happens, it’s a camel walk through the desert. Do yo remember the books that said everything you needed to learn about life you learned in kindergarten? Well, the same can be said about sewing. It’s true of all the arts and sciences, but sewing was my personal trainer. It didn’t come easy, folks. Sewing dragged me kicking and screaming all the way to the alter of patience and perseverance and it took about sixty years before I finally said, “I do.” It all started when I asked my father if I could have a sewing machine so I didn’t have to hand stitch my skirts anymore. He brought home a sewing machine I didn’t know how to use and there were no sewing teachers for 10-year olds within walking distance. Nonetheless, I managed to churn out most of my family’s clothing one way or another, without having a real notion about what I was doing, for the next twenty-odd years. Perhaps seventy percent of what I produced was used; the rest was thrown in trash cans in fits of frustration. The main problem, aside from the fact that I had no patience following instructions and I lacked the understanding of what made things fit right, was that my goal was to finish as fast as possible. The solution would have been to slow down, study each word, make trial attempts with cheap cloth, read books about what proper fit meant, and not set any deadlines. None of that interested me. Then came the era of Stretch and Sew knits. I took classes. I still didn’t know what I was doing but things came out better because the fabric was so forgiving, so I faked my way into running a modest alterations business.

I am not being coyly modest here. During my tenure as a rush-and-ready pretend seamstress, I made enough money to buy my first husband a small portable radio. I’d previously earned more as an ironing lady. Nevertheless, when I ran away from home, I took my sewing machine with me. During my second marriage, I continued to sew without a clue. Much of the time I was successful; I have no idea why. Seriously, I had a rep as an expert and it was all smoke and mirrors. No one knew about the mangled messes smuggled into the recycle bin in the dead of night. I’d get an idea and push forward on faith. “Faith Alone” may work for religion, but it gets sketchy results with ballgowns and business suits. Eventually, everyone left home and I decided I was done with sewing. No one believed I could do, it but I shoved the machine in a cupboard and called it quits forever. In time, I started going to reenactment dances. These are events where people try to look the way they did at Waterloo before the Battle or Windsor before WWI. Desiring the proper attire, I ordered a Victorian outfit online. It didn’t fit. That meant taking up a hem, so I dragged out my old machine and made some alterations. It still didn’t fit but I wore it anyway. Then I discovered the Art Deco Society. I happened to be scanning my mother’s photos, so I knew exactly what a 1920’s dress should look like: a shapeless sack. Ma said her father sewed old gunny sacks together to make her clothes. If he could do it, so could I. If you look on Amazon, you can find a series of books reprinted from 1920’s originals titled, “The One Hour Dress.” It looked easy enough, so I ordered a copy and did my best to follow the archaic instructions. My One Hour Dress took me only fifteen hours to complete. I actually wore it in a fashion contest. Of course I didn’t win, nor did I get an honorable mention. The two ladies who received honorable mentions were also wearing One Hour Dresses, except theirs didn’t look like gunny sacks. This led me to reconsider my approach to sewing, which in fact led me to reconsider my approach to life. I was retired. I had time. I needed lessons. Divine Mercy led me to Morrison Jackson, the kind teacher who changed my life. Why was I there? To learn how to make costumes fit. How do we do that? We learn to make patterns that fit right. What does that take? It takes steps, many, many steps, just like the camel. Had I known ahead of time the changes that were in store for me, I’m not sure I would have signed up. Now, understanding what my teacher taught me, I’m a student for life. In summation, Sewing 101 is indeed an allegory for life. It has given me the following six-point Guide to Better Living: 1. Take all the steps. There’s a reason for each one. 2. Allow triple time. You’ll need to rip out seams at least once. 3. Strive for perfection, yet also forgive your imperfections, and proceed. 4. Put down the scissors when you get tired. 5. If you want something fast and easy, use paper plates. 6. Above all, remember to turn off the iron whenever you leave the room.