The summer I turned 12, my parents signed me up for cooking and sewing classes. Although I disdained home ec in school, they were determined that I was NOT going to get out of learning the womanly arts. Except that, ultimately, I did.
For a series of long hot days, I would report to my mom’s cousin’s basement, where her sewing nook was located. She struggled to teach me how to use a sewing machine, and in the end, after much agony on her part, my project was finished: a pair of hot pants made of stars-and-stripes material.
My mom was the cooking teacher. I could not have been less interested in learning culinary skills. My brain conducted a sit-down strike, and my parents despaired: Jennifer will never attract a man if she doesn’t know how to cook. Except I did. I felt very victorious when I ended up marrying a man who loves to cook, and is brilliant at it. So my cooking apathy was not a problem.
But here’s the surprise. I am finally interested in learning to sew. Probably because my favorite bloggers are crafters. I am so jealous of how they turn old bath towels and bedsheets into charming patchwork kitchen rugs, and transform thrift shop shirts for their children by covering over the “Baby Hottie” logos with adorable appliques of pears, cut from vintage fabric. I finally feel ready. The time has come.
I’ll start with this sewing machine, which of course is vintage. My neighbor Holly, an expert seamstress and former theatrical costumer, has checked it out and assured me it is sound.
I might even use this book from 1913, intended to teach little girls to sew. It’s just my speed.
Although I don’t really have much call for Edwardian doll clothing.
Therefore, instead of taking instruction from talking scissors and happy pincushions, I will just probably just break down and take a class.
Then, maybe, I can create something from this that I’ve had sitting by my desk for weeks.
I LOVE that vintage fabric with the blue and white boys and girls and the partridges. Where do I get it?! My mother tried to teach me to sew once, too, at about the same age, but only when I asked her to. She said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” knowing my penchant for impatience. She was right. We fought like cats and dogs, and in the end SHE finished the dress we were working on together, which was too small by the time it was finally finished. That should give you a sense of just how LONG it took.
