It Started in Cleveland, Part 1

           I must have been eleven or twelve years old living with my parents and four brothers at home in Cleveland, when I first remember Mom at a sewing machine. She was hunched over an ancient Singer, that sat atop our chestnut colored cherrywood dining room table. The machine, painted black had bright floral designs of red and blue scattered along its sides. Mom would be there for hours, her eyes deep in concentration, as she pressed a black foot pedal, which sent it whirring at laser speed. Mom sewed a lot for me then in the late sixties, when sensible A-line and Empire-waisted dresses were in fashion. She seemed to approach her projects with an artisan’s zeal, making certain that each garment had uniform, even stitching.  Whenever Mom compared the quality of store-bought clothing to the ones made at home, the store-bought items usually came up short.

           "Humph!," she'd sniff after rifling through racks of clothing in the children's department at the local Sears and Roebuck. "The plaids don't even match!"
           Most of the time, she waited until evening, after my brothers and I had headed off to bed to begin her projects.  Listening to the radio as she sewed well into the wee hours of the morning, Mom's handiwork was always extraordinary.

           One particularly successful creation made my six year old self sparkle on my first day of kindergarten. It demonstrated a masterful stroke of the sewing needle.  The two-piece outfit consisted of a white cotton dress with puffed sleeves and a deep collar, while a blue and white gingham pinafore served as an overlay. I felt like a princess. But the real tour de force was the hand-embroidered bumblebee practically buzzing on the front pocket. Then in 6^th grade, when she learned that I’d won a school essay contest, Mom quickly constructed an elegant gray double knit Empire waist dress with a white lace collar and antique buttons. Sewing inspired her creativity, but it also ended up offering a way to teach me money-saving ideas. 

            “If you learn to sew, Heather,” she’d say, “if you do that, you can create a one-of-a-kind outfit, and you’ll save lots of money.”  Her eyes brightened with excitement at the possibilities.  “Then with the money you’ve saved, you can go ahead and use it for something else you want.”

            With five children, and Dad’s meager salary as a self-employed cement contractor in summer, and a Yellow Cab driver in winter, Mom recognized the benefits of thrift and smart budgeting early in their marriage.  And she tried to pass along each insight.  She knew about the value of recycling, long before it became a household word. After I returned home from junior high school one fall afternoon, the recycling notion became clear to me, too.

            “Look at this!,” Mom said excitedly, as her hand reached into a plain brown shopping bag, and pulled out a simple garment.  The black velveteen dress had a look of elegance about it, though it was much too big for either of us.  She’d just been to a local thrift shop.

            “We can take this and make something for you to wear,” she added.   She looked pleased with the purchase, her face beaming.  I wanted to understand, but I didn’t really get it.  I didn’t know what she wanted me to see.  It was just an old dress, wasn’t it?

            Apparently recognizing just how dense a 13 year old could be, she demonstrated.  Her arms extended the length of the dress as she spoke.  “Let’s take one of your jumper patterns and place the front and back pieces on the largest sections of this outfit,” she said.  We’ll have to make a seam in front, but that can be covered with a colorful braid trim.”  She was incredible.  Devouring ideas from thrift store back issues of magazines like Woman’s Day and Family Circle, columns in either The Cleveland Press or The Plain Dealer, one of our two daily newspapers, and her own imagination, Mom made magic.