Doe Slay Me Far Sew

History is repeating itself. There are some things being passed on from one generation to another that have absolutely nothing to do with genetics.

Since I've been sewing so much lately, I find my mind wandering a lot. I let it wander to wonder how in the world I ended up surrounded by 8 (or maybe 14) sewing machines. I think it meandered all the way back to elementary school.

My mother was a very busy woman when I was a child. By the time I hit Kindergarten I already had three younger siblings. She had supernatural abilities to feed enormous groups of people. Her friends were unusual, too. Most of them were widows in their twilight years or people who were just down on their luck for one reason or another. She hung out with them a lot (usually pulling their weeds or taking them shopping). She was wise enough to drag me along with her when she did.

That's how I learned.

By watching her.

I watched her sew a lot, too. If I ever had new clothes on it was because she made them for me. We have a favorite family legend that involves an impromptu swimming trip. We were a few swimsuits short at our house that day. My mother just pulled some fabric out of her stash and whipped some up. They were a bit off in a few places because she didn't have a pattern, but hey oh. We went swimming.

One day I found a broken sewing machine in the basement and decided I wanted to use it. Right then. My mother didn't have time to fix it. At the moment I was probably whiny and wished she had more time and energy for me. I might have even had a Verruca Salt moment or two. I don't remember all the details.

What I do know is that I am forever grateful that she didn't have time to do everything for me. At 8 or 9 years old I became a mechanic. It took me weeks to figure that sucker out. But when I did I felt empowered. I felt capable.

I felt free.

At about that same time, Barbie Dolls became a part of my life. My friends were all playing with them and I thought I wanted one. I got the discount store variety with the hollow plastic legs and the arms that would never stay attached.  It didn't matter. While every other Barbie was going on dates with Ken, my doll was more or less a dress form for my wild imagination.

Our family was regularly blessed with care packages a.k.a. hand-me-downs. My favorite care packages came from an aunt that owned a drapery business. She would give my mother sacks with little left over bits of designer fabric. I can still remember sorting through those and holding up a scrap and visualizing what it could become. (Your black and gold sofa from the 70's made a lovely splash as an overcoat paired with dust-ruffle remnant leggings).

I drove my mom nuts asking for help. She really just didn't have the time. One day she took a break from her chores, grabbed a pencil and paper, and gave me the talk. (Probably not the one she should have given me....still waiting for that one).

She drew a shape and explained that this is what a sleeve looks like. If you want poofy sleeves make it bigger here. If you want short sleeves, cut it here. If you want gathers add here. She drew me a shirt pattern and a pants pattern with similar instructions and then sent me on my way.

I figured it out. Barbie never had it so good. And because I knew how to fix my own problems, I felt incredibly liberated. Creativity began spewing out of my hair follicles.

This week Sir Thomas entered the Dress Pit. He asked to walk over to Grandma's house. I let him. He came back with a trophy. She had given him some camouflage scraps. (I'm telling you, this woman has a fabric stash like nothing you've ever seen). I didn't see him again for a really long time. He was concocting something in the basement. Next thing I know, in comes Sir Matt in brand new camo pants. Apparently Sir Tom had spread the material out on the floor, had Sir Matt lay on it to trace a pattern of his body, borrowed a needle, thread, and scissors without my knowledge, and then went to work.

When Sir Thomas was seen in the Dress Pit later that day I recognized the look as his eyes lingered on my favorite sewing machine (that was just barely repaired from Sir Spencer's shoe making phase two years ago). His little wheels were turning. He had just earned a new appreciation for technological advancement...and he wanted some.

Deja vu.

Just like the great woman that came before me, I didn't have the time to teach my own son how to sew. So, just like her, I gave him a sheet of paper with some primitive shapes resembling pattern pieces, a ten dollar yard sale sewing machine that I hadn't been able to get to yet, a crash course in threading it, and a sincere expression of faith in his capabilities. Getting it to work was his problem.

It took him a couple of hours.

Should have seen how proud he was!

He's now taking orders for Nerf ammo straps.

It's beginning to look like the deer hunting version of a Julie Andrews movie around here.

Photo credit: Keiko Foote, Nichole Crosgrove, Brianna Crosgrove