Why I don't like to sew?
In 1958 I had my 1st experience with sewing. Home economics was a required subject for girls in the 8th grade. My first experience was an apron. That wasn’t so difficult, but then the second experience was a straight skirt with a kick pleat. Mom was an excellent seamstress and we were allowed to take our projects home during the weekend to work on. Mom was great. She did most of it for me because she lacked patience teaching me. I could jam a bobbin in nothing flat and ruin more sewing needles than the whole sewing class.
We picked out a corduroy material in gold with little brown specks in it. Our high school colors were gold and brown and the next year I would be going to school at Central High in Evansville, Indiana. I wanted something that would stand out! The skirt would have a deep kick pleat and a medium waistband. When it was finished it was the most beautiful skirt I had ever seen. I couldn’t wait to wear it. I think I may have even worn it with a few straight pins still intact on the pleat. I got up on Monday morning and put on the beautiful skirt mom and I worked on together and a turtle neck brown sweater; a gold scarf around my neck with my brown penny loafers and bobby socks. I was coordinated from head to toe. Off I went to school with my hair in a pageboy and my new duds on. All day long the boys pestered me and the girls looked envious. Wow what a worthwhile project. It brought me and mom together; made me a 100 in home economics; and I got plenty of attention to boot. I was feeling on top of the world and like Marilyn Monroe.
When I got home from school mom told me to put some empty soda bottles in my basket on my bicycle and gave me some money to go with it for grocery shopping. Linda, my best friend down the street, came by and wanted to hang out, so I told her to hop on my bicycle and I would ride side saddle on the back rack over the bicycle tire. We made it to the grocery store. I enjoyed the trip to the store showing off my new duds. On the way home we had eggs; milk; bread and a few other items. We placed it all in the bicycle basket over the handlebars and I held the eggs to protect them while we bounced over the grass along the side of the street. My other arm was around Linda so I could hold on.
Pride! Humiliation! I was humbled by the next thing that happened. She hit a bump on the side of the street and the bike fell over. I fell off and tumbled backwards holding the eggs as tight as I could. When we stood up I had ripped my kick pleat; had egg dripping off my skirt and grass and dirt ground into my sweater. I was embarrassed and dreading facing mom.
Linda went on home so she wouldn’t get accused of ruining my skirt and the eggs. I went in to face the music. Mom wiped off my skirt with a wet rag; took what was left of the eggs and groceries and sewed up the rip. All was well after all. Mom made my clothes throughout school and helped me with the next project a gathered skirt.
Why then, can’t I sew? Could it be the eggs! Could it be the clogged up bobbins? Could it be mom did most of it for me? Yeah!
We picked out a corduroy material in gold with little brown specks in it. Our high school colors were gold and brown and the next year I would be going to school at Central High in Evansville, Indiana. I wanted something that would stand out! The skirt would have a deep kick pleat and a medium waistband. When it was finished it was the most beautiful skirt I had ever seen. I couldn’t wait to wear it. I think I may have even worn it with a few straight pins still intact on the pleat. I got up on Monday morning and put on the beautiful skirt mom and I worked on together and a turtle neck brown sweater; a gold scarf around my neck with my brown penny loafers and bobby socks. I was coordinated from head to toe. Off I went to school with my hair in a pageboy and my new duds on. All day long the boys pestered me and the girls looked envious. Wow what a worthwhile project. It brought me and mom together; made me a 100 in home economics; and I got plenty of attention to boot. I was feeling on top of the world and like Marilyn Monroe.
When I got home from school mom told me to put some empty soda bottles in my basket on my bicycle and gave me some money to go with it for grocery shopping. Linda, my best friend down the street, came by and wanted to hang out, so I told her to hop on my bicycle and I would ride side saddle on the back rack over the bicycle tire. We made it to the grocery store. I enjoyed the trip to the store showing off my new duds. On the way home we had eggs; milk; bread and a few other items. We placed it all in the bicycle basket over the handlebars and I held the eggs to protect them while we bounced over the grass along the side of the street. My other arm was around Linda so I could hold on.
Pride! Humiliation! I was humbled by the next thing that happened. She hit a bump on the side of the street and the bike fell over. I fell off and tumbled backwards holding the eggs as tight as I could. When we stood up I had ripped my kick pleat; had egg dripping off my skirt and grass and dirt ground into my sweater. I was embarrassed and dreading facing mom.
Linda went on home so she wouldn’t get accused of ruining my skirt and the eggs. I went in to face the music. Mom wiped off my skirt with a wet rag; took what was left of the eggs and groceries and sewed up the rip. All was well after all. Mom made my clothes throughout school and helped me with the next project a gathered skirt.
Why then, can’t I sew? Could it be the eggs! Could it be the clogged up bobbins? Could it be mom did most of it for me? Yeah!
posted by Sasebone at
12:18 PM
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