"Good Scissors"

When I was young, my mother had

some mediocre scissors,

until she got a taste of those

bright orange-handled Fiskars.

A mom of five, few things in life

were hers and hers alone.

But those fantastic blades

were very clearly, quite her own.

Safely in her sewing drawer

beneath her stitch machine,

they were “hands off” to all her kids

to keep them sharp and keen.

The blades of her “Good Scissors”

were spared of all things hard.

Their crisp, angular, edges

pristinely left unmarred.

No cardboard, plastic, paper, wire,

and never ever tape!

Just the likes of thread and yarn

of viscose, wool, and crepe.

I’ve come to understand why she

protected them with fervor,

why she fought so hard to be

their razor-edge preserver-

One never really thinks of it

till one is driven nuts,

by a pair of crappy scissors

that never cleanly cuts.

In 4-H I learned to mend,

to dart and darn and baste,

paging through Vogue catalogs

pursuing higher tastes.

When I had labored long enough

to sew something with flair,

she finally felt she trusted me

enough to use her pair.

In 84’, when prom gowns echoed

those of southern belles,

replete with hoop skirts, lace and ruffles

stitched from light pastels,

her Fiskars cut my straight red sheath-

strapless, sleek and spare,

worn with elbow-length white gloves

a Hepburn-esque affair.

Her Fiskars cut out prairie shirts

with leg-o-mutton sleeves

from calico in dusty rose,

graced with vines and leaves.

Orange handles clipped the pattern edge

of leopard spotted pants.

With bright red pumps and fake ID,

I’d hit the floor and dance.

They cut a jumpsuit made from knit-

a cool, electric blue,

worn with bangles, hoops and flats,

hot, cherry-red in hue.

With a studded, twice-round belt,

I was a sight to see.

Quite an 80’s get-up

but I found it hard to pee.

Fiskars trimmed the lining of

a maid-of-honor gown,

with a taffeta cape-collar

elegantly wrapping round.

Worn for my best friend’s wedding,

I walked the aisle a-glow,

sheathed in deep-green velvet

from shoulder down to toe.

Her Fiskars slid through sheer chiffon,

(oh novice, please beware!),

that fabric slipped and slid,

and had me pulling out my hair.

Those shears made it cleanly through

tweed and tulle and twill,

helping me cut my own path

as I developed skill.

I don’t remember when,

along that path that I had sewn,

I simply had to buy

some bright orange Fiskars of my own.

It seems as if my current pair

has been here all my life,

indispensable to me

as mother and as wife.

They’ve trimmed the ends of colored floss

stitched onto baby clothes.

They’ve waited for their

moment as I darned up holes in toes.

They’ve stood by reassuringly,

while knees of pants were patched,

and always proved dependable

when buttons were attached.

I’ve used my teeth to sever thread

but it can make you cry

when the fuzzy end that’s left behind

won’t thread a needle’s eye.

One crisp, sharp, snip of Fiskar blades

and everything is better.

No need to lick or twist.

No need to reach for needle threader.

I now own three or four bright pair,

plus one rotary cutter.

Used with my Fiskars cutting mat,

all jobs just “cut like butter”.

Unlike my mother’s shears,

I use mine for so much more-

in my life as artist

I have projects by the score.

All of my creative work

goes so much more as planned

when I have those steel pressed blades of mine

held firmly in my hand.

So many things we use today

are so poorly designed

but the folks who made my Fiskars

clearly had my hand in mind!

Those sexy, curvy handles, boy,

I mean, what’s not to love?

Just slip your fingers in those curves

and they fit like a glove!

The way those flanges are thought through-

they give your hand some leverage.

So, Thank you, Fiskar Scissor-Gods!

To you, I lift my beverage!

I’ve used Fiskars just for fun

and they’ve earned me some cash.

They’ve helped when I am teaching kids

to re-purpose their trash.

They’ve helped me as a sculptor

as a teacher and with art,

and as graphic designer,

Fiskars often play a part.

In recent days I undertook

a task to make attire,

using old historic garb

as basis to inspire.

With a host of other artists,

we undertook the mission

to raise non-profit funding

in a runway exhibition.

The artists had the honor

of perusing a collection

of garments made through history

and preserved with perfection.

Garments from that collection

would be put on public view

in conjunction with the runway show

to garner revenue.

For my muse, I chose a coat

that clearly was the sort

of high English refinedness,

once worn in royal court.

Hand-stitched embellishments were sewn

from collar down to knee,

the jacket dated sometime

circa 18th century.

Such craftsmanship, such expertise,

so nearly dead and gone,

made me wonder on what lines

fast-fashion now is drawn.

Reflecting on the history

imbued into that coat,

the status that such needlework

would, no doubt, denote,

I then recalled the span of years

that are my history

and the long parade of garments

that live in my memory.

I considered how we value things

that clearly are well-made,

compared to those whose quality

is clearly lower grade.

And yet most clothes in which we live

our lives from day to day,

are cheap and thin, poorly sewn

and made to throw away.

The artistry of sewing

that was once well-executed,

mass-marketing has ruined

or left horribly diluted.

And so I took the old in hand

to give it life a-new.

Ripping, clipping, stitching,

I gave the old its due.

A jacket from the second-hand

and pants left long unwanted,

my task to re-create that coat

was one I met, undaunted.

With Fiskars and a ripper

I took it all apart,

a puzzle that, when all was said,

would be my work of art.

With sparkle-covered pockets,

and spangle-covered hems,

repurposed antique buttons

inlaid with small faux gems,

With factory embroidery

I cut from legs of jeans,

and printed flowered patterns

created by machines,

I pleated, darted, gusseted

using nothing new,

except the thread I chose to match-

the color “denim blue."

I sewed together, piece-by-piece

a coat inspired by time,

transforming cheap embellishments

into something sublime.

Many compliment me

or turn to pay attention,

as the coat is clearly one that falls

outside mainstream convention.

It's very finely tailored,

and fitted just for me,

and when I wear it, coat and I

are “Common Royalty”!

This piece of art will stay with me

as it was built to last,

to wear into my future,

inspired by the past.

I know that I have talent,

I learned so much in school,

but I couldn’t bring my thoughts to life

without the proper tools.

I’ve come to understand

that buying cheap just means more trash.

It means that I pollute the earth

and waste my hard-won cash.

To buy a junky tool the maker

always buys it twice.

But too buy a tool that’s smartly made

will more than “just suffice”.

"Fiskars Orange" let's you know

you're buying quality.

They have a world-wide presence,

so I know it’s not just me.

Ask anyone who owns them

and they surely will agree,

these scissors are a work-horse

for the sewing industry.

Durable, affordable,

dependable, it’s true.

There’s few things in life on which

you’ll have this point of view.

It’s rare that quality and price

are offered, hand in hand.

It’s rare to know you won’t be

disappointed by a brand.

My mother knew their value

and I learned their value too,

I know that when I reach for them,

they’ll always pull me through.

So as a maker, I know there’s

no ifs, no ands, no buts-

it’s my orange-handled scissors

that will always make the cut.