Sprouted in Old Barrels

In between my room and the back veranda where I spent most of my time, was a tiny 6x8 room used to iron clothes. The room was always dark as the only natural light that made its way in was filtered through an insubstantial window whose purpose I never truly understood. Permeating the room was the scent of the old ironing board, crispy yet warm after years of use. The room always had clothes newly pressed or just about to be, hung up in the makeshift closet or strewn around on top of the barrels that were pushed up against the longest wall. When no one was around and I got tired of climbing the grill that enclosed the veranda I’d always sneak into the little room to search through the barrels.

The clothing that was retired to the ironing room and now housed in the barrels belonged to my aunt and was as vibrant and stylish as she was. It was an eclectic mix of 70’s fashion encompassing bell-bottoms and bell-sleeved peasant tops to mini tunic dresses. They were cut from heavy materials in colors and patterns I didn’t see in public anymore. It was at this moment that my mind opened to the possibility of what material and imagination could do. As I sat there touching and feeling the clothes I began to innocently turn skirts into maxi dresses and shirts into halter tops. The desire to make something of my own became so overwhelming that one day I solidified a plan to gain access to my grandmother’s scissors.

The old sewing machine that sat mostly silent in the hall outside my bedroom was where they were kept. The problem was that the hallway ran the entire length of the house. This meant that at any time or at any moment someone could walk through it and catch a too “young to play with scissors” child in the act of removing them from the sewing table drawer. I had to be silent and I had to be quick.

I knew everyone in the house pretty much dispersed after breakfast to begin the weekend chores. So I sit silently sat on my bed swing my feet with nervous anxiety as I waited for the last footsteps to recede from the kitchen. With my ears tuned for the slightest sound, I tip-toed to my room door and held my breath as I peeked into the hallway scanning in both directions to make sure everyone had gone about their business. To my right I could see the sewing machine and just past it I saw my grandmother pinning clothes to the line outside with her back turned to me. My gaze fell from her to the sewing machine. It had always fascinated me. It had a decorative woven iron base with a large foot peddle and the words Singer molded into it. On either side of the wooden cabinet sat 2 stacked drawers. The machine itself was finished in black with both the name and corresponding designs accented in gold. Although the machine itself was minimal in design it was offset by the large balance wheel that I often turned each time I passed by. After taking one more furtive glance over my shoulder I glided into the hall stepping precariously on my tippy toes and willing myself invisible. With my heart pounding in my chest I slid the drawer open just enough to slip my hand in and retrieve the scissors. I held it tightly to my chest closing the draw as silently as I’d opened it spinning on my heels and darting through my bedroom doorway not stopping till I’d stashed my prize in the ironing room. Filled with nervous energy I returned to my room immediately mapping out all the outfits I was going to make for the doll my younger cousin had recently been gifted.

I knew that after dinner everyone would move into the living room to watch The Cosby Show and I’d finally get a chance to use the scissors I had carefully secreted away. With my cousin’s doll tucked under my arm, I crawled behind the ironing board that was perpetually unfolded. Crossing my legs underneath me I sat on the floor and reached under a pile of old work shirts feeling for the scissors. I held them in my hands opening and closing them slowly mesmerized by the sound of the blades. It immediately dawned on me that although I had scissors I had nothing to cut. I knew in my heart that there was no turning back as I began to look around the room searching for something that wouldn’t be missed.

I would like to say that I didn’t get caught and that I wasn’t supremely reprimanded but that wouldn’t be true. However, what I can say is that before this moment I had no desire to earn my grandmother’s ire (this was the first but definitely not the last time I choose to “create” at my grandmother's expense).

It was worth it then and it’s still worth it now. I love to sew and need to create just as much as I need to breathe. Making anything with my own hands is the fruit that came from a seed sprouted in old barrels in the back room of my grandmother’s house.