Small Things (by Anna Kamienska)
It usually starts taking shape
from one word
reveals itself in one smile…
It’s not from the grand
But from every tiny thing that grows enormous
As if Someone was building Eternity
As a swallow its nest
Out of clumps of moments.
A mother’s love often reveals itself in the small things. My own mother, diminutive in stature and now closer in years to 90 than 80, offers up her love in a hug, a flash of a smile, a chuckle, a kiss on my arm.
Not so long ago, she was deft with a needle and thread—quite the accomplished seamstress and quilter. When I was young, she sewed many of my clothes, including a new dress for Easter each year. Sometimes we even wore matching mother and daughter dresses!
When I became old enough, I was allowed to accompany my mom to the fabric store. We’d sit side by side at the long rectangular table. Running down the entire length of the center of the table were specialized book holders, large enough to prop up the oversized pattern books– McCall’s, Butterick, Simplicity and Vogue. Licking a finger, we’d turn the pages of these books, imagining the possibilities. Once we settled on a particular pattern, we’d jot down the pattern number on a little white slip of paper and make our way to the large steel file cabinets which organized the patterns by brand and number. Think old library book catalog system before the advent of computerization.
After we pulled the pattern out of the drawer we started to look at fabric (my favorite). There were rows and rows of possibilities: calicos, ginghams, eyelets, plain cotton, polyester, silk (too expensive, but lovely to caress). After we’d selected the proper fabric, we’d move to the notions section: buttons, zippers, thread, rickrack, lace. Assured that we had everything needed, we’d stand in line at the cutting table where our chosen fabric was measured, cut and folded. The clerk would neatly stack the notions on top of the fabric, ready for purchase.
At home, I was anxious for my mama to get started, but it was important to prewash the fabric and hang it out on the clothesline to dry. Another lesson in patience for this impatient daughter. Perhaps the next day, we’d put the leaf in the kitchen table to extend it to its longest length and lay out the fabric. Taking the slender pattern packet, we’d open it and gingerly pull out the instructions and the tissue -thin pattern pieces imprinted in seemingly crazy and impossible shapes. The instructions had to be read carefully, and the fabric laid out just so, edges matching and the grain of the fabric running the correct way. Each pattern piece had to be cut and released from the other pieces in the tissue paper– bodice, sleeves, facings– then fit on the fabric like a puzzle piece and pinned to secure. Satisfied that all was in order, my mama brought out her super sharp scissors—for sewing purposes only!—and began to cut out the pieces, stacking them in a neat pile as she went along.
I’d watch as my mother threaded her trusty Necchi sewing machine, moistening one end of the thread in her mouth to make threading the needle easier. Proper adjustments to the sewing machine were made for fabric type and stitch length. And, now the actual “sewing” could commence.
Unpinning the fabric from the pattern pieces, she’d then proceed by pinning the appropriate pieces, right sides together before sewing. She might even baste a tricky curved neck or puffed sleeve, just to be sure everything was even and precise. The iron stood nearby, ready to press open newly sewn seams.
At some point, I’d have to try on the half-finished dress with pins intact. I’d pull the dress over my head creating tiny scratches on my forehead, no matter how careful I was. My mother was ever patient and persistent. She was exacting, yet flexible if something required adjustment or alteration. I can picture her at the sewing machine, as well as in her rocking chair doing the handwork with a cup of tea by her side. Each stitch was important. Each building on the next one. Each step of the process made the next step possible. The finished product was given a final inspection, ironed and hung on a hanger until Easter morning.
I think of this act of love often. My mama’s fingers no longer hold a needle and thread. Her mind is unable to comprehend the puzzle of pattern pieces and instructions of any sort. Her fingers, however, still soothe edges of tea towels and arrange collected leaves in patterns on the kitchen counter. And most importantly, she still possesses a mother’s love and I am soothed by a kiss on the arm.
My mama’s old sewing cabinet. Note the super sharp scissors, pin cushion and tiny cabinet with sliding drawers to organize buttons and small spools of thread.
A romper made for my son when he was little.
Another one of Margie’s creations for her granddaughter, Kali. Yes, I’ve saved them!
