A Life Well Stitched

The breeze gently lifts the pink sheers across the sewing table.  Shadows dance across the yellowed pink rose papered walls.  The machine whirs as the needle moves rhythmically up and down.  My grandmother gently pushes and pulls the fabric as the thread intersects to form a solid piece.  She makes no sound.  She moves little.  She tugs at my hands, heaves herself over a few inches on the bed and let's me drive the machine.  I am nervous but excited that I get to sew.  We are making doll clothes yet I am more enthralled with learning to sew than with the finished product.  My grandmother's large hands seem so soft and pliable.  She begins to pump the trestle and the needle slowly moves up and down.  I have sewn my first stitch.

My mother was a seamstress as well.  She fashioned and sewed most of our church and special occasion clothing, but as  I grew into high school age, I wanted her to make my every day clothes as well. I know my mother must have taught me how to lay a pattern and cut the garment pieces, and she must have taught me how to make the intricate turns and cuts necessary for clothing, but I do not remember those lessons like the one with my grandmother.  My grandmother did not make clothes any more, but she continued to mend clothing and make pillow cases she had embroidered even though she could not see well.  My mother's sewing was from necessity.  We rarely bought our clothing when I was young, and thank goodness for Sears, Roebuck &Co, or we may never have had purchased clothing.  Indeed it was a luxury to drive into town, try on clothing and purchase it all in the same day.

My mother would spend hours in fabric stores.  We did not see the need, but I have a great appreciation for all of the different fabrics most of which cannot be purchased today.  First we would sit at the pattern book tables and ohh and ahh over the new styles.  Mother would select a pattern and then begin the arduous task of selecting fabric.  Usually, my mother would purchase the same fabric for the three of us because  more of the same fabric you purchased, the bigger discount was received.  We were often complimented on our attire, so I knew that our mother was clever and creative with our clothing, but I was tired of dressing just like my sisters.  I bravely asked one day if could have a different pattern than my sister's.  I knew it would be somewhat of a sacrifice financially because my mother could use the same pattern for all three of us.  Buying an extra pattern could mean the difference between stylish buttons or just plain ones on a dress.  She listened to my explanation, let me show her the pattern and then never said another  word one way or another.  Within the week, she was ready for us to try on our new dresses, and mine was different.  I remember feeling proud and appreciative that my mother had listened.  From that point on, my dresses were different in some way than my sisters.  My mother may have purchased different fabric or different buttons or lace, and sometimes she would make it a different pattern.  I wanted my mother to make all of my dresses especially my banquet and prom gowns. I did not want to look like anyone else.  I miss that uniqueness today.

I continue to sew but I do not make my own clothes.  First, it is less costly to purchase clothing today.  Plus, it is very difficult to find the quality fabrics my mother used, and when I factor in the time, I have decided it is not worth it.  I do create and stitch most of my own drapes and decorative pillows, and I made all of the nursery decor for my daughter's room, but I do not spend the hours my mother and my grandmother did.  Sewing is not relaxing for me.  Watching my grandmother sew was soothing, and I believe she and my mother sewed to escape the harshness of their lives.  Sewing was their therapy.

I have very few things left that my mother and grandmother made for me.  I have kept a quilt my grandmother made out of old sewing scraps from clothes my mother had made.  I lay it out on a bed sometimes and touch the squares trying to remember a moment where I wore the dress.  I also kept my wedding dress that my mother designed and sewed for me.  I will keep it for my grandchildren who I hope will want to play dress up with it, and then I can share the beautiful stories of my mother.
The threads of the quilt and the gown tie us together forever.

The hum of the machine begins to dissipate.  The evening sun slowly fades and my grandmother moves the sewing table back into its place.  Old wood floors creak beneath her as she makes her way to the kitchen.  I look at the machine, lightly touch the wheel as I walk by, and follow her into the next room.