My mother was a very talented lady. I don’t think I understood that when I was a child. She did not work outside the home until after I was grown. Children do not recognize domestic engineering as a job because it is simply the result of love, right? How can expressing love in cleaning, cooking, reading, teaching, sharing, gardening, sewing, and laughing be work? Children just don’t understand. Sometimes adults don’t either.
Mama made a lot of my clothes. She could sew AND knit! I remember a few items more than others. Remember koolocs? I couldn’t wait for Mama to finish an orange pair she made just for her little girl. Oh! I had the most lovely poncho. I loved that poncho as a girl and would love to have one like it now.
In the last few years, I have worked at picking up sewing. WORKED at it! Sewing is not easy! I bet I spend just as many hours ripping out as I do stitching up! Mama made it look so easy. I’ve seen Mama lay out newspaper on the floor and make a pattern. Seriously! I can barely get a printed pattern out of the package without a mishap. Every item I have sewn has little mistakes. I can tuck most of them in and hide them from the world, but some of them show. I guess that is fitting because I do the same with my personal blemishes. My sewing never looks professional like Mama’s did, but I enjoy it just the same. Well . . . . when I am not ripping out, pricking my fingers with a pin or needle, and cursing like a Sailor I enjoy it!
Last week I had a conversation with a friend about her mother’s scissors. She was purging and found that she just could not bring herself to let go of her mother’s scissors. Even for someone who doesn’t sew, a Mother’s sewing tools are too intimate to part with.
I don’t know what went with my mother’s scissors. I don’t remember seeing them after she moved back to Colorado. I have a lot of Mama’s things, but not her scissors. I guess it is just as well because I also don’t have her talent. I hope one of my children will treasure my own scissors someday as much as I treasure the memory of my mother’s scissors.