The Sewing Machine

The Sewing Machine

After searching stores and the internet for the perfect curtains for my kitchen and utility room I gave up and decided to make them myself. Believe it or not, it was sort of fun. I don’t sew often. In fact, I sew so little that I almost sold my sewing machine in the great-purge-of-2011 garage sale. My father bought the machine for me when I was in junior high school. He bought it from someone he knew who either owned a pawn shop, or had a connection to someone who did. I think he paid a whopping thirty-five dollars for it, but for someone as frugal as my father that was a dear price.

I was taking sewing in my Home Economics class at the time and the adage, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” was certainly applicable. The first sewing project I undertook on my new sewing machine was to re-make a pair of my father’s U.S. Navy white bell bottoms I found in his ancient footlocker in the closet under the stairs. The entire fashion foray was a frustrating fiasco. I remember staying up half the night (I wanted to wear them to school the next day) sewing and seam ripping and trying on and crying and cussing. My parents had gone to bed hours before and I cussed an adolescent blue streak, damning both the bell bottoms and the sewing machine straight to hell.

I never succeeded in re-fashioning those Navy issued bell bottoms, but I learned more in that sewing all-nighter than I learned in the whole semester of Home-Ec. I learned one must be patient to be a good seamstress. I learned following a pattern is easier than trying to wing it. I learned you cannot re-size a pair of pants just by taking in the seams. Perhaps the biggest lesson I learned that night was my parents were willing to let Miss Know It All make her own mistakes without saying, “I told you so.”

As frustrating as that first experience was I grew to love sewing on that old machine. I made clothes, cute clothes, from Simplicity and Butterick and Vogue tissue paper patterns. I made most of my college wardrobe following the fashion advice from Seventeen Magazine. The old machine followed me into my married life and I made maternity clothes and matching “sister dresses” that miraculously didn’t warp my daughters’ fashion sense.

I’m still using that old machine. Last night I made curtains out of a lightweight white canvas duck cloth that was ironically similar to the fabric in that long ago bell bottom debacle. Thank you Daddy, for giving me much more than a second-hand sewing machine all those years ago. You gave me the confidence to try new things – even if I didn’t know what I was doing. You taught me to keep trying even when I failed the first time. And, most importantly, I knew you always believed in me. Not bad for a thirty-five dollar investment.

Grandmothers

My oldest daughter celebrated her birthday last month. It is hard for me to realize that thirty-one years have passed since I gave birth to my firstborn. It is even harder to believe that a little over a month ago she gave birth to her firstborn. Thirty-one years ago I was twenty-four years old and clueless about being clueless when it came to babies. I thought I was prepared to be a mother up until the point when the nurses let me leave the hospital with my newborn. What were they thinking? We knew nothing about babies, especially this bald, big-eyed one who could twist my heart with a whimper.

The drive home from the hospital was like driving through a Bosnian mine field, there was danger everywhere. I now saw the other drivers for the idiots my father always swore they were. I couldn’t depend on traffic signals to stop the flow of oncoming cars, and even pedestrians presented peril. Were the doors locked? The elderly woman waiting to cross the street could be a crazed babynapper.

Once home I had no idea what to do with this baby of mine. Should I put her in her crib, her bassinette, her infant seat? Unable to make a decision of this magnitude I think I just held her for two days until my mother arrived. My mother, who was now a grandmother (at the ripe old age of forty-seven), knew what to do with a baby and I learned from her. Or, so I thought.

Having just been through the new grandmother experience myself, I think I can say with some authority that we grandmothers don’t know much more about babies than the new mothers. It’s been too long, and believe it or not, things change. Oh, babies don’t change – they are still cute and helpless and smell like sweet milk, and pee and poop and spit up, but their care and handling changes.

While sitting in the obstetrician’s waiting room during my daughter’s last pre-delivery appointment I read an article in a parenting magazine that reinforced just how much things have changed in thirty years. Babies now sleep on their backs. In the olden days they had to sleep on their stomachs. Dear God, if I don’t even know the fundamentals how am I going to help my daughter through the new-baby-at-home-stage like my mother helped me? Were things this different for my mother when she was my new baby salvation? I committed the rest of the doctor’s office magazine article to memory and reminded myself that my daughter was much smarter and surely more baby savvy than I had been as a first time mother.

Then it was her turn to wonder why she was allowed to leave the hospital with her infant daughter. The new parents and precious newborn arrived at their New York apartment via a taxicab. (I can only imagine the horror of that ride home from the hospital.) I was there waiting for them, waiting to be the arms of experience and knowledge for my daughter to pass her daughter into. How did I pull it off? I did what my own mother had done over thirty years ago. I took my granddaughter into my arms and silently vowed we would get through this together, and then proceeded to pretend I knew what I was doing.

Progress Report or I Promise I'm Not Hiding Under the Bed

Art Museum in San Angelo, Texas

Last night was San Angelo’s third Thursday Art Walk. I really, really wanted to go, but I did not want to go by myself. My husband’s work schedule is such that I never know when he will walk through the door in the evening. After thirty-two years of marriage I’ve gotten used to being fairly flexible when it comes to planning and I’ve never shied away from going out on my own. But circumstances feel different in a new town where I don’t yet have friends I can count on seeing when I solo.

I made myself a deal: If my husband didn’t get home in time to go on the Art Walk I would stay in and have a glass of wine with Dr. Sheldon Cooper (Big Bang Theory) instead. Fortunately, I was spared my virtual date and had the pleasure of a real date with my spouse.

Our first stop was a new studio, Art in Uncommon Places, where I had the pleasure of meeting the owners. These two women are literally changing the face of San Angelo with their creativity. I got to see a mosaic mural in progress that will soon adorn one of the bridges near the Concho River. I also learned of other public art installations planned for their work. Being in their studio, talking to them, inspired in me such a rush of creativity I am inspired to get back to work on my own projects.

At another stop we enjoyed a glass of wine and listened to live music. While there I met one of the owners of the wine bar, eavesdropped on a conversation about a yoga studio, and realized I had met the performing singer the day before while in line at Office Depot (one of the joys of living in a small town).

Our last stop of the evening was the cosmic culmination of the night. At a gallery/wine bar (yes, another wine bar) with live music and open mike night, we enjoyed a glass of our favorite local wine (Christoval Vineyards Tempranillo) and listened to a very talented bar patron sing songs by Paul Simon, The Beatles, and Neil Young. Then the stars aligned and who should come into the bar? The singer from the previous bar and the yoga conversation woman. We enjoyed more dialogue and discovered we all live in the same neighborhood and have similar interests.

I’m meeting people. I’m not hiding under the bed

Apologies to Dr. Sheldon Cooper for standing him up.

Home

So here I am, back in my new town trying to get on a schedule after a month and a half away. I didn’t really have an opportunity to settle in to my new home before I left. The house is a mess, not even fully unpacked from the move (or even my trip). There are many remodeling and renovation projects yet to do. I still need to learn my way around town. I still need to meet the neighbors. I still need to make some friends. I want to find a place to volunteer, to exercise, to get my nails done, to shop. The dogs need a vet and I need a housekeeper and a contractor. If I let myself think about it all I get a little overwhelmed.

Perhaps I should focus on the positives. I’m here. I’m reunited with the man I can’t stand to be away from after living apart for over a year. I have a doctor, a dentist, a pharmacy and a drycleaner. I found someone to cut my hair. I met some wonderful women and hopefully new friends in the extended learning class. I took the extended learning class. I have affiliated with my local political party. I joined the museum. I discovered the river walk. I went to a wine tasting at an awesome wine bar. I found a great place to listen to live music. I found a place to have a glass of wine at four o’clock in the afternoon while contemplating buying art. I’ve eaten at several really good restaurants. I met another newcomer and we’ve enjoyed several outings. I learned about The Chicken Farm Art Center and attended one of their first Saturday events. I went on the third Thursday art walk in November. I’ve had houseguests twice. I’ve gone to garage sales and estate sales and antiques stores. I went to the mall. I have a workable home office. I guess I’m doing okay.

After hearing that I had signed up for an evening class at the local university one of my best friends commented that if she were me she probably wouldn’t have left the house yet. That comment brought on thoughts of how much easier it would be to just hide under the bed all day or sit on the couch and watch bad reality television on Bravo until my husband came home from work and announced that this move was just a joke and we were going home. But I am here and this will work. No more “Housewives of Anywhere” marathons, no more episodes of “Hoarders,” no more hiding under the bed. I’ve got things to do, people to meet, and a housekeeper to find.

Metamorphosis

I went to New York on December first for the arrival of my first grandchild. She was due on the fifth, but the little sweetheart made her own schedule (and has been doing so since) not arriving until two weeks later, opting to share her father’s birthday. My trip was scheduled for the entire month of December, giving me what I thought would be almost a month with the precious child. I had a glorious time with my daughter and son-in-law while waiting, but I wanted as much grandmother time as possible. Fortunately, the owner of the apartment I was sub-letting agreed to two more weeks.

Everyone told me having a grandchild would be a life changing experience and I thought they were exaggerating. Sure, I was excited to have a grandchild, but life changing, really? Yes, really!

From the moment I walked into my daughter’s hospital room and saw her holding her daughter I was changed. I held my granddaughter and with tears streaming down my cheeks and splashing onto her I realized that this little girl and I are going to have quite a time over the next several decades. With her miniature face looking inquisitively at me we formed a bond, I swear we did. I will always be there for her, no matter the miles between New York and Texas that separate us.

It is said that on one’s deathbed your life flashes before you. At my granddaughter’s birth I saw my life and her life before me. I saw long walks on the beach searching for perfect sand dollars. I saw over-priced frilly dresses and tears at airports and reading Anne of Green Gables and hugs and kisses and letters and phone calls. (Or texting or skyping or whatever technology brings us in the years to follow.) Mostly I saw love, an overwhelming, all consuming, my-life-really-won’t-be-the-same-ever-again love.

And then, way before I was ready, forty-five days passed and I had to board a plane for home. My heart broke to leave my little New York family. My heart broke to leave my granddaughter. I’ll see her in two months and we will get to know each other all over again, and continue to make memories in this new love affair I have embarked on. It is life changing – really, truly.

Husband

This is the sort of man I am married to: He hates to kill things. He is not a hunter, but it goes much further than just not owning guns and shooting deer or birds or lions or tigers or bears, oh my. He doesn’t like to kill anything and this can sometimes lead to problems in our marriage, because there are a few things I don’t mind seeing killed – like spiders and mice and (ugh!) cockroaches. He is the person who will take a spider outside to freedom rather than kill it. I am the person who will step on it faster than you can say, “Oh – my – God – is – that – a – spider – about – to – land – on – your – head.”

We recently moved to a new (old) house and I hired an exterminator ten seconds after I saw the first roach (albeit, dead) in the house. The cockroaches in my new town are apparently a different breed of roaches than I’m used to and I was not about to encounter one of the huge things alive. The nice man came out immediately and sprayed the house and voila – I haven’t seen a roach, dead or alive, since. (I’m sure I will develop some heinous carcinogen-related illness as a result of this someday, but at present I’ll take that over vermin in my home.)

I don’t think mice are susceptible to the bug man’s bag of tricks. I found a mouse in the sink drain of the guest apartment and pretty much went ballistic, so much so that my husband had to take the plumbing apart which led to a myriad of issues in our 75-year old house. But, alas, problem solved. Or was it? One can never be too sure when it comes to mice, so I did the unthinkable (in my husband’s book) – I bought glue traps and put them under cabinets and in closets. My husband hates glue traps, thinks they are cruel and inhumane. I couldn’t care less about the suffering of a rodent. I’m sure that makes me a horrible person and I will probably come back in my next life as a mouse and get stuck on a glue trap and die a horrible death, but for this life I’m killing the little bastards any way I can.

Yesterday, before we left on our vacation, I went to the guest apartment closet to get an ice chest and there on the aforementioned glue trap was a huge lizard, not a vile mouse, but a big brown and white lizard. Oh dear God, what have I done? I like lizards. I wouldn’t wish this kind of death on a lizard. The glue trap was specifically put there for a monstrous mouse, not a sweet lizard. Now I had to face the reckoning. I had to tell my husband that a.) I had put out glue traps and b.) I had imposed a horrific death upon an innocent lizard. I passed him in the hall, shuddered, and said, with tears in my voice, “Go look in the guest house closet.” I was ashamed of myself.

My husband was gone for a long time. What was he doing out there? Could he be holding a burial ceremony for the lizard? Could he be calling a divorce attorney? Could he be giving the lizard mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? When he finally came into the house I meekly asked and found out the lizard was still alive and my wonderful and caring husband had freed it from the glue trap. How in the hell can one free anything from a glue trap, I stepped on one once and almost had to throw away my shoe. But patient and diligent and not willing to let the lizard die, my husband worked gingerly until he freed the little guy.

Was my husband upset with me for setting out the glue traps? Nope, how can a guy who won’t kill a spider and spends hours setting free a lizard be mad at his wife? I sure married a great man, even if he won’t kill bugs for me.

The Estate Sale

Another chapter in my life has come to an end – the closing up of my dear grandmother’s house. This past weekend we held Big Red’s estate sale and it wasn’t at all what I expected. I was dreading having strangers in her home picking through her things, but amazingly it turned into a nice experience.

A funny thing happened. A lot of people came to the sale and just stayed – they stayed to hear about Big Red. Who was this woman who quilted and tatted and knitted and loved books and did calligraphy and had a green thumb and collected stamps and made porcelain dolls and painted ceramics and baked bread and taught school and raised ten children and lived to 104 years old and had 104 progeny and collected rocks and pottery shards and driftwood and loved cowboy lore and poetry and owned every Weight Watcher cookbook and had a great record collection and costumes and vintage hats and an aquarium for a boa constrictor? Who was this woman?

And, what a great house. Yes, I can see that it hasn’t been updated since 1953, but what a great vibe it has. Good bones. I’ve never seen a bathroom (kitchen, living room) this large. I love the original linoleum. She raised how many kids here?

As the day progressed the estate sale bargain hunters became our new friends. As we told the history of the antique trunks and the dining room table we found the people we wanted to be the new owners our grandmother’s things. The young couple who bought the claw-foot iron bathtub and so many books, the university graduate student and her husband who came back on the second day and were thrilled to take home the Robert Wood print for half price and the man who bought the antique sewing machine because his family had one just like it that had been lost in a fire.

While we told the story of our Big Red and sold the household goods already picked over by her family and friends we silently wished for the love, happiness and good karma certainly contained within her “stuff” to follow their new owners. I think Big Red would have been pleased.