Speak to me

As I walk through the fabric store, holding a single remnant of fabric, I whisper to it, “Speak to me. Tell me what you want to become.” Crazy as this may sound, the fabric never lets me down. I’ve come to realize that, in the beginning, my obsession with fabric was born out of necessity but has since grown into a life-long love affair. But let me start at the beginning.

Some of my earliest memories are those of trips to the fabric store with my mother when I was perhaps three or four. These outings were magical occasions for Mamma and me, as my older siblings were in school so it was her and my special time together. I remember the ‘bing bong’ of the store’s door chimes welcoming me into a veritable fantasyland of color and texture. The cool inner sanctum of the fabric store beckoned to me and I still remember the smooth coolness of the satins and silks, the crispness of the linens and cottons, and the delightful softness of the fleece and furs. If I close my eyes now, I can still feel them against my youthful fingertips. Each fabric had it’s own distinct voice and it spoke to me. And lest I forget how my eyes devoured the ribbons, the trim, buttons and lace; they dared me to dream of how they would look on my dress. Mamma always chose her fabrics carefully, frugally, matching her weekly coupons to the chosen items, looking for just the right colors and patterns that would make her children stand out in church, separating us from those who wore obviously inferior store-bought dresses. I remember thinking to myself, “Honestly! What kind of mothers did these other children have?”

As I grew older, the thrill of these outings began to wane and the mystique faded. I began to want to fit in with those other children and their store-bought clothes. It finally dawned on me just how exceedingly poor my family was. Oh, we always had what we needed, but what we wanted...well, “wants” were another thing altogether. The youngest of six girls, I quickly realized that I had two choices; wear hand-me-downs for the rest of my life or learn to sew. You see, Mamma was of the old school, believing in matching dresses for her girls, accompanied by white ruffled ankle socks and shiny black patent leather shoes for all holidays and special occasions. Now don’t misunderstand! My childhood was filled with beautiful hand-made dresses, every ruffle, pleat and eyelet created with blood, sweat and love. But since these works of art were only donned for special occasions, they remained in perfect condition for years. Yes, I wore the same version of these dresses in incremental sizes for nearly a decade of my life. Those feelings of superiority quickly faded, and thus it was that I took to the sewing machine myself.

My first creations were less than stellar; lumpy, lopsided pillows and short pants with uneven hems. But with time and effort, I learned. I learned that you cannot run a forked, metal pattern tracer over thin fabric on your mother’s treasured dining room table without a cutting pad underneath. I also learned about loading bobbins properly so as not to jam up the undercarriage of the Singer. But most importantly, I learned about scissors, or to use the proper terminology, fabric shears. Yes, there is much to be said about having a proper pair of fabric shears and my mother had them all: regular fabric shears, denim shears, pinking shears, quilting shears. And I remember being fascinated with her embroidery scissors with the outline of a golden bird on the handles. And as soon as one of us used her fabric scissors to cut paper...*gasp!*...they found their way into the junk drawer with the word “dull” written on them. You name it, she had a pair of scissors for it. And I remember well the lessons I learned from her, sitting at that dining room table, watching and eventually doing. She had the patience of a saint, that woman did. And even though her trips to the fabric store had now become solitary ones, she always managed to bring home a piece of cloth just for me, because it “spoke to her” and she thought I would like it. I never truly understood this until I informed her that I would be making my own senior prom dress, from an Oscar de la Renta pattern no less. She didn’t say a word and we headed to the fabric store.

The “bing bong” welcoming chime was no more, the automatic doors swooshing open instead with crisp efficiency. But once again I was transported to that world of color and texture, running my hands over the various silks and chiffons, until finally I was drawn to a thin, dusky blue-gray, silky viscose. Once again, she didn’t say a word. Including the pattern, thread, zipper and all of the lining, our purchase came to over $100 (with coupons, of course!). And when I struggled with turning seams with poorly basted ruffles, it was only after I broke down in tears that she calmly stepped in and showed me the finer points of trimming, turning and top stitching. And when I walked that stage clinging tightly to the arm of my prom date, I never felt more proud of myself.

And as it so often does, history repeats itself. My three sons all at one time or another have been responsible for there being a pair of “dull” scissors in the junk drawer. But I was blessed with one daughter, my youngest, who loved sewing as much as I and looked forward to accompanying me to the fabric stores. I remember watching her as a little girl, running a delicate finger across the fabrics, until settling on just the right one. I could see in her eyes that she, too, had heard that special fabric calling to her, just as I had all those many years ago. And although today she doesn’t sew as I still do, as an architect she does help clients with interior design. When I asked her one time how she knows what fabrics to choose, she replied “I don’t know. They just sort of tell me themselves.”

Well, Mamma is gone now. As I cleaned out her sewing room, my eyes filled with tears as the scraps and remnants of my childhood were uncovered. As others in the family haggled over her china, I quietly put fabric, thread and her button box in my car. I am now the keeper of her scissors. And as I sit here sipping my coffee, running my finger along the tracing line I left on Mamma’s dining room table all those years ago, I say a silent prayer that my granddaughter will one day discover the wonder of fabric. I hope it speaks to her, too.