In Stitches

My friend, Pamela is a couturiere seamstress. In her studio, she creates masterpieces with her zillion-dollar sewing machine, and some of her fashions have been featured in magazines. Like all artistic endeavors, technique can be learned but talent like Pamela’s cannot. 

Some people should never be allowed near a sewing machine. My mother, with all of her good intentions, was one of them. When I was in first grade, she made me two dresses. Although I was not usually a rebellious child, there was no way I would wear even one of those monstrosities in public. The left armhole and the right armhole weren’t lined up in the same place, so when I put a dress over my head, I sadly resembled The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Victor Hugo would have been proud, but those creations did not ring my chimes. Consequently, mother donated the dresses to the congregational rummage sale. 

That year, the rummage sale was a huge success. Everything sold out---except for those two dresses. Dad finally hung them on our cherry tree. The birds were traumatized, and we were treated to several cherry pies. 

Unfortunately, my sewing skills must be genetic. I don’t own a machine, but I do wield a mean needle for an errant button or torn seam. What I lack in talent, I make up with an abundance of gall.  Recently, I purchased a pair of large sized gloves for my small sized hands. They were on sale, but the color was right, and I figured since I couldn’t grow my fingers, I could shorten the gloves. The choice was to fake my sewing skills, or to purchase a pair of clown shoes to match the flapping fingers. I didn’t want to cut the tips off, because my hands were in the gloves, so I turned them inside out. I pulled the tips down and sewed them horizontally. Doesn’t everyone? 

After I finished, I turned the gloves right side out. Unfortunately, now the tips were square. I created a drawstring for each finger and pulled each one to a bulky tip. Waa! La! The gloves kind of fit, and I don’t think anyone will ever notice that my fingers are shorter on the right hand than the left one. However, my observant son did call me, “Stubby.”

I promise that Pamela will never see those gloves, because she would probably hang me from the nearest cherry tree. 

Esther Blumenfeld (sew what!)