My mother learned to sew from her mother, who made a living as a seamstress and was highly regarded by Amarillo’s wealthier families. I didn’t know my grandmother well, but one thing I did know was that she sewed for the Whittenburgs. She thought it was a big deal and when she mentioned it, which she often did, we were expected to act impressed. Namedroppers abound in Amarillo.
And I learned to sew from my mother. When I was in the school play in eighth grade I wore a dress I made myself. There was a feeling among some that wearing homemade clothes was something only poor people did. Ordinarily I was concerned by what other people thought, but like I said, my mother sewed. And my sister sewed. And I sewed. We were a clutch of femininity joyously surrounded by bolts of cotton, spools of lace. Cloth World was our favorite store. Also, because we didn’t buy off the rack, there was no risk of running into someone who was wearing the same thing we were. And it wasn’t like we were going around in feedbags.
Once, when my mother was in her sewing room, the girl from around the corner was over.
“I smell vinegar,” she said.
“My mother is ironing pleats into the dress she’s making for me.”
“Really? I want to see.”
So I took her in to see my mother, and that’s exactly what she was doing—standing over the ironing board and spraying vinegar to sharpen the folds. Even though I explained that the smell of the vinegar evaporated with the steam, from then on, every time I wore that dress, that mean-spirited girl told everyone in the vicinity that I smelled like vinegar. I dislike her still. It was a lovely dress and the pleats in the skirt were perfect.
For my fourteenth birthday my mom made me a black pin-striped suit. Very classy.
“I love my birthday suit!” I declared happily—and then didn’t understand why my family was laughing at me. Imagine, fourteen, and not knowing that “birthday suit” meant naked.
Some of my projects were disasters. One summer during my high school years I purchased a couple of yards of cheerful red fabric—considering the era, it was probably that awful double-knit. Jumpsuits were in style at the time and that’s what I had in mind, but in the end that no-nap red, thick and ungiving as neoprene, made me look like a giant tomato. It had a wide sash at the waist, big bow in front—way too busy for my stubby form. Eventually it went in the trash, never having been worn. See, being able to try something on is the advantage of buying ready-made—cutting into a piece of fabric is a commitment conceived in ignorance. It took me years to be able to look at a pattern and envision. I was seduced by thin models, fitted bodices, and inset panels.
And now, during this period of quarantine, I have turned to sewing. I was brutal in cleaning out my closet this spring, and I need to replace the tops I got rid of. Because, on account of the virus, I can’t go to the stores in Austin, I ordered fabric from a couple of websites and I’m quite happy with the results. I’ll post pictures!
At this point, though, having used all the fabric I bought online, I dig through all my scraps and realize that I still have a meter-and-a-half of the silk I bought in Cambodia. I purchased the same amount in buttery yellow, dark green, black, and gray. I made a top out of the yellow, but it quickly thinned and fell apart. It was so delicate that, in order to have held it together I would’ve had to’ve zig-zagged the whole thing on to a backing. And I wasted the green and black on a ridiculously oversized vest that looked more like a costume than something I’d wear in the course of a day.
But still left to me, a silvery gray. As I mentioned, the silk isn’t of the highest quality; in fact, it’s so stiff and papery that it barely qualifies as fabric. This remaining piece is already half frayed away; and woven into this, as with the others, are all sorts of nasty organic bits—black hairs, human or otherwise; bugs, grasses, scabs, and twigs. When I think of silk I think of pliable softness beneath my fingers, luxurious and costly; but this fabric was woven by filthy hands in a roadside shack with a dirt floor. I have no idea what to do with it.
Another brief anecdote: While living in Kuwait I attended a lecture sponsored by The Kuwaiti Fabric Institute. The speaker for the evening was a Pakistani, a dignified scholar, there to give a history of Pakistani Carpets. A few minutes into her talk she was interrupted by another woman, also well-dressed and dark, who posited that Pakistani carpets couldn’t hold a candle to Turkish carpets. Instant fury! I’d gone expecting a boring lecture about dies and designs, but I ended up being treated to a nose-to-nose screaming match. What fun. A moderator had to step in. Carpet passion. Who knew?
I ordered this from Joanne’s. Rayon, very comfortable.
Here’s the top I made from it. A stylishly sloppy look.
Here’s another top I made recently. Lovely fabric. You can’t tell from this, but it’s got metallic threads running through it that are sometimes green, sometimes turquoise.
The Cambodian silk. This sure looks like hair to me. The zig-zagged edge it so keep it from fraying.
Here’s what I did with it. Every little rough spot represents a gnat or bit of grass that’s been woven in. Seriously, it’ll probably fall apart after only a couple of wearings.
