A local church group approaches my friend, Charlotte, and tells her that their chosen charity project for the Christmas season is to make adult bibs for a nearby old folks’ home; and, as none of their church members have sewing machines, they wonder if she’ll come help them with the sewing. She agrees to it and, thinking that two machines will be better than one, she asks me if I, too, will help out. While my rule is to keep my head down when people ask for volunteers, my most regrettable (and little-known) flaw is that when asked directly, I’m unable to say no.
So, on the designated afternoon I show up at the small fellowship hall with my sewing machine and all the associated paraphernalia, which I tow behind me in a small rolling suitcase. A sewing machine is a hefty item and, though the burden is obvious, a dozen women seated around a couple of tables impassively observe as I prop the heavy door open with my hip and struggle to pull the suitcase through the narrow space. From the other end of the tables, Charlotte introduces me, and I return the hello nods with a nod of my own. Taking a quick scan, I determine where I’m supposed to be. A machine is already set up on a nearby table and I claim the adjacent space.
Charlotte seems to be caught up in getting the work organized. She’s arranged five stations—ironing, cutting, pinning, sewing (that’s me), and turning—that’s when you turn the finished product right side out. Huh. I thought she’d be sewing, but instead she seems to be the project manager. I plug in and thread my machine as, behind me, she explains and demonstrates how the tasks are to be done.
It’s not long before women start bringing me the bibs that are ready to be sewn. And it takes no time at all to see that not only do they not own machines, they don’t even understand the common-sense basics, like how the right sides of the fabric should face each other when you pin them together for sewing a seam; or how you should cut with the grain, not at any ole angle you please. And not only is the cutting jagged, how is it possible that two pieces of fabric, cut from the same pattern, are not the same size or shape?
It falls to me to redo it all.
As I’m facing the window, I’m not certain what’s going on behind me, but I hear. The mirth and teasing goes on and on, a soundtrack of never-ending laughter. From a central position, a woman feels compelled to belt out hymns of joy. No cutting or pinning for her; she’s moved by the spirit. At one point, men flow in, which sets the women aflutter. Listening to the ensuing exchange, which is loud and mostly foolishness, it strikes me how much these men think of themselves. God’s gifts. They settle their backsides into chairs, take no part in the work, and go to great lengths to distract the women.
Meanwhile, with shoulders hunched, I repin, recut, and sew the bibs together. And as I do this, I ponder this mass ineptitude. My experiences tell me that it’s impossible for so many people to be so completely bad at something that’s so easy. What’s going on with these women? Is there some reason why they’re making no effort? Do they not care? Are they really this useless? No, it can’t be. Another possibility is that this incompetence is some sort of pretense, a deliberate ruse. But surely not. Why would someone want to be viewed in this way? I’m mystified.
Charlotte settles behind her machine every once in a while, but only for a few minutes at a time because she’s constantly being called away to help with questions—how do you put more steam in the iron? Why is this pin not sharp enough to go through? Can stripes and polka dots go together?
I listen to her as, patient and warm, she does for someone what they should be able to figure out for themselves. She possesses a forbearance that is beyond my comprehension.
She approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder, and bends down to whisper into my ear.
“You might as well go ahead and turn these, too,” she says, placing a bundle of inside-out bibs beside my machine. “Would you mind?”
Apparently turning bibs right-side-out is also beyond their abilities. I feel abused. My mood’s so foul that I’m unable to produce a civil reply, so I simply offer an affirmative jerk of my head.
I work and work, never looking up. The singing woman continues to sing. People continue to chatter and laugh like they’re at a party. Mutilated and poorly pinned pieces of fabric continue to appear beside my machine. The reason for the men’s presence becomes clear when sandwiches and punch are brought out. The scrape of chairs is followed by a vocal migration to the other side of the room. No one offers me a sandwich. No one offers me punch. Repin, recut, sew, turn, set aside. Do it again.
An hour-and-a-half later someone announces that it’s time to call it quits for the day. I begin gathering and packing my things. No one says good-bye. No one says thank-you.
“We made twenty-two bibs today,” one of the women declares. “Good for us!”
And I think, yeah, good for you, as I once again fight my way out the door. Dejectedly, I tromp to my car and load my stuff in the trunk.
Whatever rant you imagine David being subjected to when I get home, multiply it by fifty and then add some.
Two days later I help with the new community garden. Nine people show up. Ten tons of decomposed granite are spread. A pole barn is erected. Everybody works hard. The volunteers are respectful toward one another. There’s no singing or joking, just practical people content in their efficiency, satisfied by working toward a worthwhile goal. David is in charge of the project and, due to his dedication and organizational skills, it’s going to be a terrific source of nutrition for all the folks in the county who can’t always afford what’s on offer at the grocery store. I’m a hell of a lot prouder of the work I did for the garden than I am of the work I did on those bibs.
We spread the decomposed granite which will make up the floor for the pole barn and the shed.
People cooperated and the work got done. Perhaps the tall people were of more use than the short people in certain areas.
Of course, there are always ladders.
