I used to sew my own clothes, but not anymore. The talent – the time – is gone.
I’m a Boomer-aged eyesight disallows threading a needle and I don’t wish to make more wrinkles in my forehead from fret. I feel like an antiquarian.
I used to make my own clothes, but not anymore.
I made my wedding dress, complete with Battenberg lace. My mother was proud of me – and I was, too. I was slim with a peaches-and-cream complexion that glowed. My face wasn’t wrinkled but it was be-freckled and beloved.
Now my face is be-wrinkled, be-freckled, and beloved.
Below is the photo, intended to reflect the retro theme of my parents’ home’s living room. I wonder where all the family antiques shown in the photo are now? Larry and I are the only non-antiquarians pictured (wink-wink)
I used to sew my own clothes, but not anymore. My portable sewing machine, a wedding gift from my mother, dropped on its head, cracking its plastic case. But that’s not what stopped me. The bobbin got messed up and my good intentions to take my machine to the repair shop succumbed to my busy schedule… until the shop vanished, along with sewing as a pastime for women.
(this is not my sewing machine. It’s an antique Singer)
I’ve continued to snip, then hem my slacks when they’re too long. I surged a pair of yoga pants which were two inches too long, feeling like my mother was at my elbow as I performed the task. She was an angel – just as she was when I strove to achieve the best of the best, Grand Champion prize at the Indiana State Fair.
I miss my mother. I can’t sew anymore. She was the one who patiently ripped out the imperfect stitching when I sewed a zipper into a dress… She was the one who helped me match the plaid across shoulders and seams. She was the one who encouraged, praised, and guided me in all ways possible.
Her inability to act on my behalf now – because she’s in heaven – makes me cry.
Here’s another significant mention of my mother https://pjcolandoblog.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=1132&action=edit