You Can Sew Again

Home Ec. was a mandatory high school class for girls in earlier eras of American life and I had the epitome of all Home Ec teachers. A cross between Ms. Manners and Attila the Hun, Mrs. King was her name and sewing was her game. She taught her particular home art well, though, and I enjoyed it until a couple decades ago when lack of time, other passions and less expensive readymade clothes caused me to abandon my trusty machine. Just like song lyrics, though, I can still chant strings of obscure sewing terms; ease plussing, fusible interfacing and darts come to mind.

Recently, while searching for a gift, my assets were challenged by my imagination. I have a beloved cousin who doesn’t spend much on clothes for herself so I’ve enjoyed gifting her with things she would like but never buy. This year a comfy fleece jacket was the object of my search. Shopping for her in the large size shops, I found selections small and prices that maybe a Palm Beach denizen could afford.

While perusing those coats, though, a dangerous little inner voice began to challenge me, “This coat doesn’t look that complicated, what, two sleeves, a collar.” I snapped back to reality. “Forget it,” I commanded. But that voice kept challenging. “What, you can run a business but can’t figure out a pattern with maybe six pieces?” My defenses growing weaker I whined, “But, the zipper.”

Like a reformed cigar smoker telling themselves they’ll ‘just step inside the smoke shop and enjoy the aroma for a minute,’ I headed off to a fabric store just to consider the idea of sewing again. Stepping through the door, I was instantly overcome by the high of two decades earlier. Bolt after bolt of colors and textures I could instantly imagine as finished clothing hanging in my closet. Walking the isles in awe of the amazing selection of blends and textures, I was transported back to my active sewing years when I spent hours matching plaids, installing invisible zippers, and topstitching.

Then, I turned a corner and before me stretched a huge table piled high with bolt after bolt of fleece material in amazing colors and designs and it was ON SALE! That fabric reeled me in, I started petting it, moving from bolt to bolt more in love with each one. I had to have some; it had me in its spell. I could feel my hands gliding it ever so gently under the presser foot, I could hear the hum of the machine as the fabric was molded into…”STOP!” I tried to command myself, but I was too far-gone. Whether I made that coat or not, I had to have some of this fabric especially at only $5.00 a yard!

Trying to shift my brain back to reality, I forced myself to leave that table to find the pattern books. The pictures didn’t look that complicated; of course neither do the pictures of those toys that arrive in a hundred pieces needing assembly. Maybe, I thought weakly, they’ve invented a special glue for installing zippers by now.

Asking a lady next to me what patterns cost these days, she answered matter-of-factly, “the ones your looking at are fifteen dollars.” I was incredulous. They’d been $3.00 in my pattern buying days. Maybe this was a sign, how could I justify paying more for a pattern than for fabric. “But,” my pattern perusing neighbor continued, “they are having a dollar sale on that brand today.” Oh no, I thought, adding up the cost in my head. Unless zipper prices had gone through the roof, I could make my cousin a coat for under twenty dollars. Even if I totally couldn’t do it, that was a cheap experiment.

I finally escaped the grip of the fabric store with three yards of fabric in a pastel Indian blanket-like geometric design (that I conveniently forgot would require matching of designs), coordinated thread, and a twenty-eight inch zipper requiring traditional installation.

The next evening the entire living room carpet was covered with fleece, tissue paper pattern pieces, scissors and so many pins, I would need a metal detector to assure we wouldn’t find them for weeks with our bare feet. Not only were pattern prices horribly inflated, but now six different sizes were bundled into one pattern requiring you to go cross-eyed when cutting trying to follow the line for the size you wanted. And, of course, with having to lay out the pieces so the designs matched, I couldn’t follow the suggested diagram.

Crawling around on all fours, my muttering was punctuated only by periodic screams as my knees found errant pins. The ordeal ended when I fell exhausted on the couch praying to the sewing gods that I’d done it right.

The next night I took out my orphaned sewing machine. ‘Do I still know how to sew?’ I worried. Staring into the attachment box the words started coming back--presser foot, zipper foot, bobbin, I chanted. I lifted my hands like a preacher beginning a sermon, hoping they would they know what to do. Sure enough, they deftly grabbed a bobbin and placed it on the bobbin winder atop the machine. Then my right hand with a life of its own reached around and loosened the wheel so the presser foot wouldn’t race when threading the bobbin. It was like riding a bike. My body knew just what to do. With a swift confidence, my hands threaded that machine--across-down-up-over and down. Then they pulled up that bobbin thread, neatly tucking those strands under the presser foot and held them taut in readiness. I was in awe, my hands remembered, even if I didn’t.

I then attached the back pieces to front pieces. My cutting ordeal had paid off. The lines matched, one hurdle overcome. Oh, but there was still the zipper--matching the most important lines of all, I banished the thought as I watched my hands glide that wonderfully forgiving fleece under the presser foot at exactly 5/8 of an inch from the edge. Wow, my brain was still spewing sewing minutia.

The second night I attached the collar and facing around the neck and down the fronts. The facing had a raw edge. Dare I even try an edge finishing stitch? I perused the instruction book and found the automatic-raw-edge-turner-under stitch. Then I sifted through my presser foot collection. There it was, the funny looking one. I smoothly removed the regular foot with one movement of a lever and attached the new one. Grabbing a scrap, I slowly began to feed my machine the edge. Curling it perfectly in the front it came out the back neatly finished with a tiny zig zagged hem. I was beginning to remember the addiction to sewing, it came not only from fondling fabric but also, from these miracle moments when you molded a flat piece of cloth into an impressively shaped and finished something. I had so much fun finishing the edges of the facing I considered finishing the edges of all the seams, then reality set in, the zipper.

The next night was zipper night. I held it confidently in my hands. I zipped and unzipped it, wanting to impress upon it that I had no fear. Ok, start it at the dot at the top of one front side and baste it upside down. The long basting stitches were easily removed so I stayed confident. Now the zipper foot, once again my hands remembered. Yes, the narrow one so it moves down the side of the teeth. Ok, basting done, so far so good, now for the other side. Suddenly everything stopped. My hands stopped, my brain stopped…how do you switch the zipper foot to the other side! I lifted my hands hoping they would move in their confidently automatic way, but they didn’t. The more I fumbled with dials and switches, the more that zipper foot chided me sitting there stationary on the opposite side of the needle from where I needed it to be.

I hung my head. I was regressed back to age sixteen fumbling hopelessly in front of a sewing machine. What had possessed me to think I could remember any more than how to sew a straight line? Where was Mrs. King when I needed her?

I decided to retreat and attack it later. When I sat down the next night my right hand went flying instantly to a small knob in the center of a larger one on the front of the machine and, with one click, that zipper foot moved over. It was amazing, automatic sewing took over again and off I went.

I went down the other side with a basting stitch, unzipped that zipper and it was awesome, the lines matched on the first try! I followed those basted lines with permanent stitching and the zipper was in. It was anti climactic, the worst was over and it had been almost painless. It was all down hill from there. Growing almost cocky, I even used a decorative stitch around the pockets (of course being reminded that a Murphy’s Law of sewing, the bobbin always runs out directly in the middle of a line of decorative stitching.)

If you remember Murphy’s Laws you probably remember Home Ec classes in high school. If, like me, you haven’t sewn forever but keep thinking you’ll try again some day, I hope my little adventure, thirty years after Mrs. King, has given you some confidence. I could barely part with the wonderful fleece jacket; it’s been so long since I’ve actually held in my hands the fruits of my labors. If you decide to take up sewing again remember, fleece is a forgiving fabric that requires no interfacing, zippers are possible and just don’t think too much.