Do you remember when I was in seventh grade? All the girls had to take Home Economics and learn how to cook and clean and sew. What a misfit I was in that class. I was the consumate tomboy, climbing trees and swinging from the monkey bars, not some petite girlie girl with perfectly manicured nails and a penchant for dresses and lace. Mrs. Mee, our teacher, disliked me from day one. When we were learning personal hygiene, she held up my hands and used me as an example of how NOT to look - broken nails, dirt under the tips, sunburnt and bug bit skin. She made me scrub until I practically bled to get clean enough for her hold my hand long enough to show me how to file my nails properly. I never had the patience for such worthless time consuming activities. I was not one to sit daintily on the edge of a chair and watch others having fun. I wanted to be in the thick of things, dirt and all.
When we did the sewing unit, and we each had to make a skirt that we could actually WEAR, I tried. I really tried. We didn't have the money for me to go to the fabric store and buy a pretty color of cloth. I had to use what was in the closet. You sewed so many outfits (remember the checkered poodle outfits you made us girls?) and there were lots of scraps there. I just had to find enough of one color to cut all the pieces out. The only cloth with enough fabric was a plain maroon cotton piece. I wasn't crazy about the color, but it would do.
How you must have smiled at my impatience. Who knew there was so much preparation to do? First wash the cloth, then iron all the wrinkles out, then straighten the selvedges, then identify the bias, cut out the pattern pieces (careful - don't make any ragged edges), lay them down in a dozen different ways to get the best placement, making sure they face the right direction, pin it all carefully in place without lifting the fabric off the table, slowly cut them out and be sure you cut right number of them - the list went on and on! You had to baste the pieces together first before you sewed them for real, then you sewed the same seam again, and sealed the selvedges from fraying. O good Lord! I couldn't believe how ridiculous the whole ritual was. Who in their right mind would do all that? Just go buy a skirt for crying out pete.
I finally finished the darn thing, with minimal mistakes. One single bit of a stitch showed on the inside of the waistband, and the hem was a bazillionth of an inch uneven. I got a B for that project, the first and only B I ever got in my life. And I vowed never to sew another thing again as long as I lived. I had to wear the blasted thing on the designated day, much to my humiliation (I NEVER wore skirts, ever, except when absolutely forced to) and the day couldn't end fast enough for me. Besides, all the other girls were showing off their beautiful skirts and specially purchased sweater and sock sets they had gotten to match. They all looked beautiful. I was miserable. I tore off my nemesis the moment I got home, stuffed it in the back of my closet, and gave it away as soon as I found someone desperate enough to want it.
But you! You not only sewed lovely dresses and shirts for your kids, you actually stayed up late nights to sew tiny little outfits for my Barbie dolls (yeah, I know. Tomboys and Barbie dolls - what a crazy combination). You made evening gowns, outrageous beach outfits, bridal gowns, zippy pantsuits, winter parkas, ski ensembles, opera coats, sexy underwear, office girl suits, casual wear - my Barbie was dressed better than anyone in the family! And all out of scraps of stuff left over from our outfits. Hours and hours and hours of painstaking needlework, all done by hand. The stitching was so tiny you must have used a magnifying glass to see it. The snaps looked huge by comparison. And on top of doing all that (it must have taken you the entire year), you splurged to buy the spikey high heels and snazzy purses that you couldn't make.
Why did you do all that?! For a mouthy kid who never appreciated all your hard labor. I loved those outfits and played for hours with Barbie, inventing all sorts of adventures - many of them inspired by the outfits you made. I never realized how much of yourself you invested in me, how much you cared that I was happy until much later in life - after I had kids of my own and saw things through different eyes.
I gave all those amazing clothes to my sisters as they came of age to be interested in Barbie dolls. How could I have failed to see what a treasue they were! If I could go back, I would have kept them for myself. I don't think anything even remains of all your hard work but my memories. And I do remember. I remember colors and fabrics and Barbie suitcases stuffed full of your love. I remember the Christmases when I opened those carefully wrapped gifts, each set more wonderful than the last. I remember them strewn across the floor of my bedroom, half of them inside out. I remember the tiny little hangers and the beensey shoes and the hats and scarfs. And I love you for doing that. I have never done anything half so nice for my boys. You are my inspiration, my best friend, my champion.
There are many definitions of love, but one of the best that I know is a slinky Barbie doll evening gown of turquoise silk with matching shawl carefully embroidered with little daisies that fit Barbie like a glove and provided the perfect tool for imaginative evenings of play for a temperamental coming-of-age teenager who would never grow up to be anything but a tomboy.
Thanks, Mom, in case I never told you how much I appreciate all your hard work.
Love,
Your difficult oldest daughter and biggest fan,
Esther
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