One of the first things I remember about being
sent off to kindergarten was the unpleasant discovery that not everyone
in this world is friendly, or even kind. It had never occurred to me that
some people wouldn’t like me, and possibly wouldn’t even give me the opportunity
to demonstrate that I was a likeable individual.
It didn’t take long for me to learn the combative
lingo of the schoolyard, phrases like:
"Dare ya!”
"Bet ya can’t…”
"Game’s closed!”
And, (in response to my angry: “But
that’s not FAIR,”) the ubiquitous and effective sneer: “SO?”
There’s not much to do, when you’re confronted by the
in-your-face nonchalance of “SO?” but I quickly catalogued it for
my own use the next time I needed a squelching response.
The very first time I tried it, however, my victim just
shrugged, and chanted:
“Sew buttons.
Sow seeds.
SO WHAT?”
Talk about one-upmanship!
So/sew/sow is one of those tiny little words (to,
too, and two come also to mind) that have even more meanings than spellings.
I have a problem with “so,” in that I tend to misuse it as a
superlative, forgetting that it needs a qualifying phrase, (“I’m SO happy!”
instead of “I’m SO happy that …” or “…so happy because…”).
I also have a problem with “sow”. The problem
is that I love to plant seeds. I love to see them growing. I absolutely
hate tending them once they’re a few inches above the ground. So every
spring, in a wild burst of enthusiasm, I sow a great many seeds, and every
July I bear the guilt of crop neglect. If only I could get over the need
to sow!
But the real bugbear of the trio is “sew.”
Sewing is something that I know how to do, because dear Mrs. Tenney taught
me. It’s beyond me how she ever managed to bear a class of smarty-pants
seventh grade girls, most of whom had their sights set anywhere but on
the mandatory sewing class.
But manage it she did, from the first lesson
in how to thread a needle (“Never sew with a thread longer than 18 inches,
girls!”), how to knot the thread, and when to sew with single thread (hems,
seams) or doubled thread (sewing on buttons, hooks, snaps). She patiently
took us through the simple stitches: the straight running stitch, the sturdier
two-runs-and-a-back stitch, the hemming stitch (“Hold your needle perpendicular
to the hem, girls!”), the buttonhole stitch (yes, we had to handmake a
buttonhole on our little swatches of muslin), the feather stitch. She was an elderly woman, and quite heavy, and her ankles were so swollen
that they actually hung down in puffs over her sensible, black, lace-up
shoes. She moved among us with a waddling, side-to-side motion that threatened
to topple the desks and chairs as she walked down the aisles, checking
our efforts.
Mine were not the ones she chose to hold up
for the others to see. My hand-eye coordination has never been my strength.
Like El Greco, I am heavily astigmatic, and anything I draw or sew tends
to come out with a distinct slant to the right. I don’t see it slaunch-wise;
it just comes out that way. Unlike El Greco, my efforts are not in the
least artistic. They are just efforts. Mrs. Tenney could see that I was
really trying, however, and she cheered me along by saying: “Perhaps you’ll
find sewing on the machine more successful.”
Lined up against the wall in the back of the
room were several electric sewing machines. To start up the action and
control the speed, you pushed sideways with your right knee on a lever
that hung down below the machine. Girls who finished their simple hand
stitching projects (“Always wind your thread around several times between
the button and the fabric before you knot it off, girls!”) moved on to
the machines, learning how to thread, sew forward and backward, and never to interfere with the tension control.
As we became proficient, we were each allowed
to make one garment. Mine was a three-tiered cotton skirt, and Mrs. Tenney
showed me how to gather fabric on the machine by making three rows of stitching
about 1/8 of an inch apart, and then pulling all three of the threads on
the wrong side of the fabric, so that the material bunched up. Boy, was
I proud of that skirt! The only problem was that after a couple of washings,
the tiers began to drop off. My grandmother, who quizzed me about the process,
finally realized that I had not secured the ends of my stitching when I
had sewn the tiers together. In other words, I hadn’t remembered Mrs. Tenney’s
admonition to knot the ends of the threads, or at least to sew a few stitches
backward over the first stitches and the last ones. Any dreams I may have
had of adequacy as a seamstress unraveled along with the tiers.
Actually, it is ironic that my grandmother
is the one who figured out the problem. She was the daughter of a proficient
needlewoman, and her two older sisters were also known for their fine work.
When it came time for her to make her first dress (at about age 13), her
mother sat down with her and led her through the process. According to
Grandmother, she did wrong everything that could be done wrong, including
sewing the sleeves in backwards and inside out. Twice. Patiently, she ripped
out her stitches, and painstakingly redid her work. When at last she was
finished, she modeled the dress for her father, who praised her well. Her
mother, however, quietly told her: “Abbie, you’ve seen this through, and
I’m proud of you. But when you are grown up and married, don’t ever
try to save your husband money by making your own dresses!”
So I guess I come by my sewing problems honestly,
by heredity. Grandmother did persist enough to be in charge of repairs
for our family. She had a sewing machine, an old White treadle model, and
she wielded it handily for things like mending ripped seams or letting
out the clothes of her growing grandchildren, or making napkins out of
the remnants of old, double damask table cloths.
I, too, have persevered, and am known to my
family as someone who knows how to sew. It’s a misleading reputation. I
can sew, but the problem is that I rarely enjoy it. It’s a true love/hate
relationship. It doesn’t help that I have friends who sew beautifully.
My next door neighbor and best friend who was a good bit younger than I
was given a sewing machine, took the Singer classes that went with it,
and in no time at all was tossing off draperies and garments and clever
crafts. By the time we were grownups, she was tailoring sports coats for
her fiancé.
I have watched people who are proficient
at sewing, and believe me, I’m not. I start to sweat as soon as I sit down
at the machine. My seams are often crooked; turning corners is always a
challenge (and rarely do I achieve a uniform turn); and even though I have
learned how to manage the tension control, I have trouble figuring out
which needle size to use with which thread size, for which stitch length.
In short, I would probably do better to find
a good seamstress and pay for any work that needs to be done. I haven’t
bothered to do so, partly because I figured that once my children were
grown, I wouldn’t have a lot of sewing to do. I hadn’t counted on the needs
of my elderly mother, who is shrinking at an alarming rate, which means
frequent taking-in and re-tailoring of clothes. She also needs dressing
aids like snaps sewn on to her shirts, which means taking off the buttons,
sewing on the snaps, and then re-sewing the buttons atop the snaps.
There are, of course, some kinds of sewing that I enjoy. I like to
make things for my grandchildren: a play mat for the baby, a doll (rather
hideous, alas) for a seven-year-old, a wall hanging for the little boy’s
room. But even with those, I am always aware of my lack of craft. I have
a stepsister who sews like an angel, and loves doing it. I envy her beyond
the telling of it.
Perhaps I simply approach sewing with expectations
too high, or with unrealistic hopes for my own competence. As I said, if
I were smart, I’d simply give away my machine and quit. But somehow,
with every new project, I feel a surge of hope and determination that this
time I’ll actually get it right. My mind’s eye has vivid pictures
of how it will be, and no amount of experience convinces me that this time
won’t be different.
So as you read this, picture me, poised with
my scissors over a darling piece of fine wale corduroy, black with tiny
pink flowers strewn across it, on which is pinned the pattern for an adorable
size three jumper that I just know will be perfect for my granddaughter.
And, please, wish me luck.
Observations from the Occasional Seamstress
1. If there’s a bad place for a bobbin to run out, it will…usually two
inches before the end of a seam, or just as you’re turning a tricky corner.
Corollary: You won’t notice that it has run out
until you have finished the seam or corner.
2. If you sew for a child who lives too far away for constant fitting,
the garment will be too short (tight) (long) (big), and will never be wearable.
Corollary: You will find yourself just trying
harder.
3. People who ask you just to run up a quick seam have no idea of the
time they’re asking you to spend.
Corollary: People who say things like “just
take up the shoulders a bit,” have never in their lives had a sewing lesson
or fitted anything.
4. You might as well let your sewing pile up, unless you can leave your
machine set up permanently, because you might as well make the time spent
hauling it out and setting it up worth your while.
Corollary: If you find a spot to set the
machine up permanently, it will grow dusty, because you will still
let your sewing pile up.
5. If you try to save time by not basting things first, you’ll probably
have to pull out whatever stitching you’ve done.
Corollary: pulling stitches out takes three times
as long as putting them in!
6. It won’t matter what brand of thread you use. These days, if you’re
sewing by hand, the thread will twist, knot and tangle. If you’re using
the machine, it will suddenly break. God knows what the manufacturers have
done (or not done) to thread, but it’s just not the same as it used to
be.
Corollary: Don’t bother to try straightening
a piece of fabric by pulling a thread. According to the clerk at my fabric
store, the way cloth is manufactured today, nothing is done on the true.
7. New bifocals may seem like the answer to the problem of threading
a needle, but after about eight months the effect wears off.
Corollary: Those little foil needle-threading
devices are a wonderful invention.
