How are you creative?
I write. That is the most creative thing I do. I also garden, crochet and am learning to knit. I am finding knitting very challenging. So far, I am creating only messed but I will get it. I am persistent.

How are you creative?
I write. That is the most creative thing I do. I also garden, crochet and am learning to knit. I am finding knitting very challenging. So far, I am creating only messed but I will get it. I am persistent.

In the years after my big 4-H apron failure, I had little interest in sewing. Mother did take time to show me how to use her “new” second-hand electric machine enough to sew up rips. She was a barely adequate seamstress with only the basic skills to show me, even though she made most of our clothes. She avoided challenges steering away from fussy details.
Mother rarely took time for mending, so if I got a rip, I was on my own. Of course, I mastered sewing on buttons. I think one afternoon she guided me through making a simple gathered skirt on a waist band. The button at the waist had a wide overlap, making it ok without a zipper. The waistband had no interfacing to make it hold its shape. My stitching wavered. All in all, it was tacky and amateurish. It screamed homemade!
In the eighth grade, all girls had to take home economics. I made a flannel robe with a snap front. All went well till I had to sew braid down the front panel, covering the snaps. I had trouble keeping the braid lined up over the snaps. I broke several sewing machine needles by sewing too close to the edge of the snaps. I think the department was running out of needles, so my teacher did the last few inches. The robe was an improvement over the skirt I’d made at home with Mother’s help.
I was delighted to get a B on it, but I think the teacher had had enough! I wore that robe till it shredded. I felt like I’d learned quite a bit.

Who are the biggest influences in your life?
The biggest influences in my life were my parents. My mother is warm and compassionate. I always felt her love. My father was stern. From him I learned to work and to finish a job. That was a great help in my career. I never worked under a more demanding boss.

We are traveling when we stopped for a break a young woman grinned at me so broadly I knew it was more than mere friendliness. When I looked at myself in bathroom mirror I realized I looked like a hobbit.
Share what you know about the year you were born.
I don’t remember a lot about 1950. One good thing about being born in 1950 is it’s always been easy to calculate my age. Despite that, I still managed to mess up on my age. I claimed to be twenty-five for two years, then repeated year thirty-seven twice. I have no idea why I did that.
My grandma was in the hospital. We had a houseful of company and we didn’t go to Miss Laura Mae’s house for several days. I was happy to be sitting on her top step with a biscuit again.
“Well, I ain’t seen y’all in a month of Sundays,” she said “Where you been?”
“Right there at the house,” answered Mother. “I’m so tired I can hardly wiggle. Bill’s mama thought she was having a heart attack and they kept her in the hospital overnight. It turns out it was just a hernia. She was doing fine but they still kept her overnight for tests. They were supposed to let her out the next morning. You know how Dr. Hawkins is. You can’t go to see him without him wanting to keep you overnight for tests. Anyway, she was sleeping and the nurse came to check on her. Miz Swain thought she was seeing a ghost and got all upset, convinced she was dying. She had the nurse call Bill to call all the kids in. You know she has seven.
Anyway, all the kids and in-laws came flocking in to the house along with all their kids. There was no need to all pile in at the house and stay all that time. They all live within ten miles of us. I don’t know what good they thought they were doing, anyway. Next thing, her two brothers and their wives showed up. Somebody called her step-brother from way down in South Louisana and told him it might be his last chance to see her. They couldn’t have been close. They hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years.” Mother complained.
“Lordy, was she really that sick? That sounds like a mess.” Miss Laura Mae offered.
“No, nothing was bad wrong. She’s just the superstitious type and was convinced it was a sign she was going to die. Anyway, the whole bunch hung around the rest of the night and visited the next day, like it was their last chance to see each other. They made a bunch of long distance phone calls, which I know they’ll never pay for, ate up my week’s supply of groceries, drank up all my coffee, and even used up all the toilet paper. Even after she got out of the hospital, they kept right on visiting. The kids were running in and out banging the doors, screaming and yelling like a bunch of heathens. I stayed behind them with the broom and mop, but it was hopeless. It was horrible. I thought they never would go home. I am so tired, I could sleep for a week. We are out groceries. I don’t even have any dry beans left. We’ll be eating biscuits and gravy till payday.” Mother sighed.
“You know, my mother had a stroke last summer. They didn’t know if she’d make it. She lives out in Texas. I wanted to go, but we talked about it and Bill decided we really didn’t have the money. I didn’t get to go for three months. It’s strange how when it’s the man, it is so different. It makes me mad all over we didn’t go when Mama was sick. I could have missed my last chance then. Why are men so selfish?”
“Honey, that’s why I never married agin after Floyd died. Most men think they own their women, an’ women don’t need to do nuthin’ but tend to them, the younguns, an’ the house an’ garden. I wasn’t much past forty and still had a couple of younguns to raise when Floyd died, but it was a lot easier for me to take in ironin’, sew for the public, babysit, or sit with the elderly or the sick than have to answer to another man. Now, don’t get me wrong. They’s a’plenty o’ good men out there, but they do that one bad thing. They just keep on a’breathing in an’ breathin’ out.”
They both laughed till tears were running down their faces.
I gave up on pestering Mother after I’d made her sufficiently mad. The 4-H apron project folder lay forlornly on my messy dresser. One Monday the teacher reminded us Thursday was 4-H day. Don’t forget our projects. She added 4-H was not just an excuse to get out of class. We’d better show up with our finished project. I assumed my grade would be affected, always a troubling situation. I went wailing to Mother when I got home.
Disgruntled at another burden heaped on her shoulders, she looked at the folder I waved in her face. “I don’t have time now. You don’t have to have it till Thursday.” So, Wednesday after supper, Mother finally looked through her stash of fabric. Alas, she chose an exceedingly ugly brown bit of fabric unlikely to be of use for anything else. She hastily scanned the project folder to see my project called for a yard and a half. “This is pretty close. It should do.”
Naturally, I hated the ugly print. “This doesn’t look the one the leader showed us!” I protested.
“It’s fine.” she said, anxious to be done with the project. “The apron doesn’t have to look exactly like the picture.” Truer words were never spoken. The tacky mess I had to offer at the 4-H meeting was a pitiful example of sewing.
The agent had nothing good to say about it as she had us label our projects for entry at the fair. I hadn’t even thought to iron mine. It was definitely the red-headed stepchild of the lot. Clearly, some of the other girls, or their mothers, had followed the instructions to the letter, producing lovely aprons. That satisfied my yen for sewing until I took home economics.



Izzy sharing a coffee break with me. He polished off the foamy milk.
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