Each week as I write, I sit at a little round table in the kitchen area right next to Mom’s recliner. Often she is sleeping or talking to people she sees in the room who are invisible to me. Today she’s discussing a dress one of the visions is wearing – what color is it, what material is it made of – and I have become invisible to her.
Mom loved to sew. Bless her heart, she tried to teach me, but I was far more intent on climbing trees, reading books, and chasing boys. Dad recently came across a box of small scraps and I could name almost every outfit she’d made me with those different materials. I’ve been researching Pinterest ideas for how to repurpose those pieces since the dresses and pantsuits she made me are long gone.
I can still see her set up in what we call the “blue room” upstairs. She would have her machine humming long before I could drag out of bed on non-school days. Since it was only a few feet down the hall from my bedroom, I would likely wake up because of the whir of the machine. I can still hear the clicks and clacks from the foot being raised and lowered onto the material and smell the oiled machine as it warmed.
The windows of that room face northeast and the light would be streaming in through the blue ruffled curtains. I would lie down on the blue shag carpet and complain about being awake too early and Mom would mutter back at me, her lips holding a bit of thread or a needle. I remember watching the dust fairies in the light streaming in through the windows and the sudden clouds of dust if Mom tore a piece of fabric.
At some point in middle school, I decided to make a skirt for a 4-H event. Mom was thrilled at the prospect and went with me in search of all the material and notions I would need. I found a gorgeous velvet. It was a deep forest green and must have cost a pretty penny, but I don’t remember any arguments as we bought the yards and yards of material to make a circle skirt. Yes, you read that correctly; a circle skirt with a ruffle hem.
I fought that material faithfully until I had a sort-of skirt. The sewing machine struggled mightily to get through the thick fabric. Mom and I upgraded the elastic waist three different times using wider, stronger elastic each time. The skirt was so heavy it wouldn’t stay up. I can feel the luxurious fabric as it slid down to my ankles each time I tried it on. I believe we finally put a belt on top of the waist so it would stay up. The thick folds of material at the top of the skirt made me feel so puffy too. I think I wore it for the event and then never again.
Mom did salvage some of the material into a straight skirt, but I couldn’t wear it either because it only reminded me of my epic fail. I only attempted one other sewing project – a duvet cover made from sheets early in my marriage. Since it was only two straight seams, I managed to make it work with a lot of help from my mother-in-law. I am not a seamstress.
Mom did manage to teach me how to darn socks and do a pretty decent running stitch. I’m best with a simple tack since my straight stitch is never straight. I did try to teach Julia, my youngest daughter, how to thread a needle and tie off threads, but it was a bit like the blind leading the blind.
Looking back in my mind’s eye at Mom in her sewing room, I know I never appreciated how precious that time was. I truly had an idyllic childhood and youth, but I was always straining for more adventure, more excitement. I wish I had simply been more content. Perhaps that is just the way of youth. I am grateful now to sit quietly beside this precious woman, to watch her sleep, and to remember.
