memoir

Sew and Sew Part 4

I went to a tiny high school. There were only nine in my graduating class. All the girls had to take four years of Home Economics, the boys four years of agriculture. I benefited from the sewing instruction. I was horrified to learn what my sewing project was to be my senior year. We were to make a fully-lined wool tailored suit with lapels, welt pockets, bound buttonholes, and set in sleeves. The skirt had side pockets and a set-in waistband. The other concern was the extreme cost of the fabric. I’d never sewn fabric that expensive, not to mention it would be an extreme stressor to my family’s budget. Somehow, they came up with enough money, forty-five dollars.

I was terrified to put scissors to the fabric. I measured, pinned, remeasured, and could finally could put off the cutting no longer. I had the teacher check every step. Each day, I folded every precious piece carefully and put it in my sewing box, terrified one would slip into the trash and doom my project.

My anxiety increased exponentially when my friend, Mary, folded her scissors inside her jacket pieces. She was devastated the next morning to unpack her project and found her scissors had cut a one inch slash in the right front portion of her jacket. Naturally, she was distraught. The whole class was traumatized, seeing her disaster. She had no extra fabric.

The teacher comforted her, assured Mary there was a solution, and showed us all the pattern could easily be altered to put a pocket with a flap on both sides of the jacket. The change actually was more attractive than the original design.

That lesson amazed me, increasing my confidence. I was able to go forward with less reassurance, competing my project with pride. I wore that suit with confidence. It was one of the nicer outfits I ever owned. Mary’s suit turned out beautifully as well.

From that point forward, I knew that if I didn’t have the skills I needed, I could research and get the information I needed. Sewing has served me well. I bought a sewing machine and made everything the children and I wore until peer pressure made them insist on name brand clothes.

This is the exact pattern I used.

Sew and Sew Part 3

Home Economics in ninth grade pushed me a little harder. I had to make a two piece outfit with a collar, long sleeves, and cuffs with buttons. That meant lots of buttonholes since the blouse buttoned up the back. The skirt had to have pockets, a zipper,a set in waste band and a kick pleat. It taxed me. I ripped out at least half my stitches and redid them. Sewing a straight seam is harder than it looks. To make matters worse, the teacher assigned a home sewing project with the same specifications as the in class project due at the end of same grading period.

The home sewing project was a bigger challenge since I didn’t have the teacher casting her expert eye on every stitch I made. In theory, I would remember all the skills I’d learned in class and practice them on the home project. Sadly, I’d retained little. I struggled with every step. Of course, I didn’t get right on it, so my meagre skills diminished as each day passed. That project was a total misery, but I did finally get a barely acceptable product turned in. I was grateful for a c+ on it.

A couple of girls in the class turned in projects made by their mothers and got A s. I was so jealous!

I wore both those outfits till they wore out. After I struggled through that class, I had sufficient skills to start making my own clothes, though I still had a lot to learn.

Hogwagon

What is your all time favorite automobile?

This sounds like a bonafide hillbilly story but I’ll tell it anyway. When Daddy bought his farm, it was covered in trees which had to be removed to create pasture. He came up on a bastardized vehicle that had been cobbled together that was ideal for pulling stumps. An avid hog hunting neighbor had acquired a bizarre amalgamation of various vehicles that met Daddy’s needs perfectly. It was a cutdown school bus with no windshield. An ancient truck seat replaced the bus seat. It had a flathead v-8 motor that was geared low enough to pull tree stumps. Its most distinguishing feature was a wire cage on the back the former owner had transported wild hogs in. With tractor tires on the back and big truck tires on the front, boggy ground was never a problem.

Christened the “Hogwagon,” this vehicle was a wonder to behold. Of course it could only be used off-road. Daddy could hook it to a stump, pull the stump till the deep roots were exposed, maneuver around till he could cut deep roots with his power saw and eventually pull the stump out of the ground. It was amazing to see the stump finally lose the battle against the hog wagon. Daddy cleared forty acres in a few months. With that job complete, the Hog Wagon fell into disuse, It had certainly helped Daddy complete a monumental task in record time.

Sew and Sew

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.

Influencers

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.

Miss Laura Mae’s House Part 12

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.

Sewing

I am so glad I learned to sew. From the time I can remember, I was fascinated with Mother’s sewing machine, an ancient treadle machine. It sits in my house today. It is still functional. It is the best machine to use for heavy jobs like hemming jeans.

My first dismal attempt was in 4-H. I chose a sewing project, a simple project I was supposed to enter in the fair. One of the initial instructions in the booklet was “Ask an adult for help.”

Let me preface this with, the fact that my mother was definitely not a helicopter parent. My project was MY PROJECT! The project instructions didn’t have any advice for a situation where Mother had a newborn, a severely overburdened budget, and no time or interest in teaching a nine-year-old to sew.

The prize-winning apron the agent showed us was of a heavy fabric like denim with perfect seams. It looked exactly like the one in the project guide, even down to the color. I imagined my perfectly executed project looking exactly like it with a big blue ribbon at the county fair.

As Mother held the colicky baby, I told her, “We need to go to store and buy material for an apron. For 4-H.”

She answered crabbily. “No we don’t. I have a drawer full of material Grandma sent.” She was always crabby when the baby cried.” I’m busy now. I’ll find you some later.” Though I asked three more times that day, I didn’t get fabric for an apron. The second time I asked, she sent me to dist the living room furniture. The third time, she sent me to hang out a load of diapers. I gave it up for the time being.

To be continued

Miss Laura Mae’s House. Part 11

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I got my biscuit and settled on the back step, singing the alphabet song.

Mother launched right into her conversation before Miss Laura Mae got the coffee poured.
“Laura Mae, I just got the strangest letter from Mama. You remember I told you my brother, John, in the army got married not long ago and his wife was expecting.”

“Sure do. How’s she doing?”

“Well, Mama got a letter from John saying Wanda, that’s his wife, had gone back home to stay with her mama till the baby came. He didn’t say anything at the time, thinking she’d be back. I don’t know if she’d left him, or what, but he hadn’t let Mama and Daddy know. Her daddy was high up in the military on a base up in Nebraska. Anyway, the first thing anybody knew was that my brother John got a letter from Wanda’s daddy saying Wanda had had twins, a girl and a boy, and that she and the babies had been crossing a railroad track and hit by a train. John said her daddy said they’d all been buried and to never contact him again. He said he just let it be.

Mama and Daddy, of course, were all upset, and Daddy caught the first bus to New Orleans to see about John. When he got there, John said he was fine and insisted Daddy go straight back home. He said he didn’t have any leave coming and didn’t even want Daddy to spend the night. Daddy came on home, like John asked. My sister, Annie came in that weekend. When she found out what happened, she told them something strange she had kept quiet about since it didn’t seem right. She’d gotten a letter from Wanda announcing their marriage. She wrote and told her and John she was coming over for the weekend. Well, when she got there, John met her at the bus station and told her she couldn’t stay. Wanda had gone off somewhere with her mama and daddy and he had to work. Annie couldn’t imagine what was going on. She went back home and reread her letter from Wanda, and thought it looked like it might be John’s handwriting. Mama went back and pulled out a letter she’d had from Wanda and thought it was possible John had written it, too. They don’t know if the whole thing was made up or what. I don’t know what to think. It all sounds too crazy to be true, doesn’t it? Have you ever heard such a thing? Please don’t repeat what I told you. I haven’t told another soul, but I just thought I’d pop if I couldn’t talk to somebody. I sure don’t want Bill to find out. He already thinks my family’s crazy. He’d never let me forget it.”

“Now, Honey, I hate to hear all that, but don’t be worryin’ ’bout me tellin’ yore business. That whole story doesn’t sound right, but I didn’t git to be this old without learnin’ when to keep my mouth shut. Besides, since I’m the only one you tol’you’d know where it come from, wouldn’t you? Has your brother ever done anything odd before?”

“No, he’s always been steady as a rock. He went in the CCC when he was fifteen, then on his off time he took any job he could get, and always helped Mama and Daddy as much as he could. He finished high school in the Army since our little country school only went to tenth grade. I don’t know what to think. I’m just worried to death about him.”

“Well, I know you are, but folks deals with trouble in all kinds of ways. You’ll just have to let him be.”

“You’re sure right about that. I’ve got three little kids and I couldn’t go see about him if my life depended on it. I do feel bad for Mama and Daddy worrying about him.”

“I know you do, but they’ll have to make their own way, just like he will. Things have a way of workin’ themselves out.”

The Heartbreaking Tale of the Post-Mortem Fruitcake

Egyptian archaeologists discover the world's oldest fruitcake.

Christmas revolved around fruitcake.  Mother pinched pennies for weeks to buy the candied fruit and nuts required to bake the perfect fruitcake.  On December 22, everything else was in readiness for FRUITCAKE baking.  She chopped the nuts, candied fruit, brought out her spices  and pulled out her time honored recipe for the perfect fruitcake which only graced our table during the Christmas Season.  Baking the fruitcake was a sacred tradition, which we looked forward to it simply because it meant Christmas was almost here.  The eating of the cake was irrelevant.  The tradition was what mattered.

My maternal grandmother died December 16, 1964.  We were all devastated. She was the indulgent figure in out lives. Her rare visits had a holiday quality.  Her gifts were provided a few luxuries in our lives  I couldn’t imagine life without her.  She had mailed her Christmas gifts to us on the morning before she died in the night..  It arrived two or three days after her funeral.  It was a macabre feeling, being anxious to find out what she’d sent, knowing she was in her grave.

In the way of kids everywhere, we rallied and had a wonderful Christmas.  The gifts had special meaning, knowing they’d be the last.  I still have a tiny jewelry box from that year.  My poor brother managed to turn this sad situation into a mess.  Grandma had included a small fruit cake in a red tin box.  Mother put it up, intending to serve it on a special occasion.  Naturally, this fruitcake from her mother was elevated to the sacred.  Well, my brother Bill must have had a special occasion of his own.  Mother found the empty fruitcake tin hidden in his room, not a crumb left.

She was furious!  He had eaten her dead mother’s fruitcake……….the last gift she’d ever sent.  He lived to regret his theft.  She didn’t let him forget it for weeks, getting weepy every time she saw the shiny red box, sitting in a place of honor on the table. She keeps buttons and thread in that box till today.

This is probably the only documented story of anyone ever actually eating, much less stealing a fruitcake!