I Hate To Sew

Dame Judi is a seamstress. When I was growing up, she made a lot of our clothes. Back-to-school shopping involved a trip to the fabric store. DJ always had pattern books around the house and we'd have done a preliminary run-through, but there was nothing like going into the shop to the tables in the back where the huge pattern books sat and look through them. Then we'd copy down the numbers and rifle through the immense file cabinets to find the packets.

With four children, plus herself to clothe, Dame Judi seemed to always have sewing projects in various states of doneness. I remember at the farm she and Sean working to outfit one of the smaller upstairs rooms for a dedicated sewing room. (I also recall this project included employing some very heavy reclaimed wood, siding from an out building, as I recall. I also recall one of those shelves slipping as they tried to install it and one of them getting a gigantic sliver of wood in the shoulder. Nasty).

We could always count on DJ making our Easter frocks, usually staying up until the wee hours of Easter morning to finish them. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond her scope. Lined skirts, dresses, pant suits. (I remember one particularly stunning outfit she made for me...a bright red, orange and yellow plaid with red flocked flowers on it that she turned into a jacket and pants. I loved that outfit. It was the 70s). No fabric was too heavy or too sheer. And she always took fabulous liberties with the patterns, changing them up to suit ones taste and style.

She made both of my sisters wedding gowns. She would have made mine, too, but I found something off the rack at Laura Ashley for $300 and she said she wouldn't be able to make it for less than that so to go ahead and buy it. She did, however, make my petticoat and veil. The petticoat, layers and layers of tulle, was lined with a satin underskirt, on which she appliqued a heart taken from some extra fabric that had composed her wedding gown. She also made The Child's baptismal gown, complete with petticoat - embroidered with her initials and the date of her baptism- and a little cap. Both the dress and the cap were smocked by hand and at the hem of the gown she worked in the handkerchief I'd carried on my wedding day.

Precious heirlooms.

All the grandbabies received hand-made dresses from Nana. She just recently finished a costume for some musicale that Molly was in. Every single thing she does is beautiful and amazing, even if the creation of it gives her fits.

In my youth, I assumed that a talent for homemaking skills was genetic. Dame Judi had a flair for interior design, so did I. She was a brilliant cook, so was I. ('K, as a kid I wouldn't say my culinary skills were brilliant but I was interested, she coached me and I did alright. Certainly, she laid a fine foundation for me). So I necessarily assumed that I'd be able to sew like she did.

Not.

To be fair, the first project I embarked on was a shirt. For my Ken doll. Too small, too intricate. I was frustrated with the bothersome details and abandoned the project. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

When I was in high school, however, I decided to take another stab at it. I enrolled in a Beginning Sewing home-ec class. At first it was all well and good. We started by making samples. Taking smallish squares of cotton we'd perform the basics of sewing: darts, seams, etc., sewing all these little samples together into a book. That was fine. But then we had to do our final project. It was to be a simple a-line jumper, nothing too complicated. I selected a pattern and fabric. It was rosy pink with tiny flowers on it. Pretty.

We could work on the project at home, since there weren't enough machines in the classroom for everyone to have one. I rarely sewed in class. I was shy. I was, stupidly, nervous about working on my jumper where everyone could see me. What if I made a mistake? (Yeah, what if? The teacher would have been there to guide me and I might have learned something). So I opted instead to sit in the back, looking through big pattern books and talking with my friends. I think I sewed in the class exactly once, doing the long side seams...the easiest part.

And then. The project deadline suddenly arrived and I hadn't done a lick on the jumper. I hadn't worked on it at home, either, you see. I remember Dame Judi being none too pleased with me when I announced that I had to sew that evening. There was a lecture about procrastination and then she set me up in the sewing room, with the caveat that since I'd left it to this late date she was not going to be available to help me. Tough love.

At first, in my anger and arrogance, I was determined to show her. I'd whip that thing together and it would be perfect. But nothing about the process was remotely whip-like. The facing around the neckline confused me. A needle broke. I stuck pins into myself. And then, when I finally had everything pinned together and started sewing in earnest, the tension on the bobbin went off. I didn't know how to fix it and I couldn't ask for help. So I sewed anyway. The top stitches were alright but the ones underneath were loose and crooked. I soldiered on, finishing the blasted thing in the wee hours of the morning.

I turned it in and forgot about it.

A week or so later my teacher asked to see me after class. She was a hip, earnest young woman, in her first year of teaching. She told me, sadly, that my jumper was unacceptable. "I just can't give you a passing grade for this," she said, her big brown eyes welling up. "I know you're a good student," she said, "so I've decided to give you the weekend to do it again. If you can turn in a better project, I'll be able to raise your grade".

Now, I wasn't at all an aggressive student. I was the kind of kid who thought twice about asking a teacher if I could use the bathroom. So what happened next surprises me to this day. I looked right at her and said, "Ms. Hutchison, I really appreciate that and you're a great teacher. But I hate sewing and I'd rather get an F than ever have to sew anything ever again".

Poor thing. Fresh from teacher's college, ready to save the world, and she had failed to inspire me to love sewing. Oh well.

For the record, I didn't flunk. That was my dad's last year of teaching and Ms. Hutchison was one of the young teachers who held him in high esteem. I think she couldn't bear to flunk his kid. I'm pretty sure she gave me a C. Undeserved. But there it is.

To this day, I'd pretty much rather eat rocks than sew anything. That includes mending. I have a basket, as we speak, of things that are wanting a button or have a bit of hem coming undone. These tasks are in fact within my scope. I just hate doing even that. Which is why most of the items in my mending basket have been there for about a year. Seriously. The only thing motivating me to address them is that many of them are spring wardrobe items, things I'd rather like to be wearing about now. So I'll probably gut up and work through them this week. But I won't like it.