Ann Layton
Forgotten Fabric
There is a patchwork quilt piece that hangs above our piano. My great aunt Alice pieced it together and died before it was finished. Somehow it came into my mother’s possession and she fashioned a beautifully framed work of art. Essentially three families are represented in one wall hanging. First, mom stitched one of my maternal grandmother’s tatted doilies to the quilt top, and then she displayed one of her own needles with the thread still in the eye. Using fabric to send a message of love is typical for mom.
Throughout my youth I have concrete memories of her: intense at her sewing machine, working her magic. It is amusing that as I have tried to piece together my childhood experiences of mom I return to fabric and sewing. Like the course weave of an onion burlap sack that my father used in farming, mom also tried to keep a tightly knit family. Just as the patterns of possibility exist for a fine fabric, so likewise were my mother’s abilities to bless my life. Even today her greatest joy is seeing my siblings and me successful and happy in our endeavors. We consider ourselves fortunate that she raised us with such support and love. As I reflect on my recollections of mom, I hope to convey the fabric of her life as a mother.
It must have been an exciting day when my parents finished remodeling what had been dad’s childhood home and my mother finally had a space for her miles and miles of fabric.
The sewing center was actually part of the utility room, which led to a walkway through to the back door. This opened up to a picturesque farm scene complete with red barn, animals grazing, chicken coop, pigpen and the original outhouse. The backdrop was the majestic Wasatch Mountains.
It became a joke at Christmas when one of my siblings or myself would receive a package with a pattern and fabric. Sometimes the project had been cut out, the transparent paper still attached with pins, or it was partially finished and in a way trying to convey a message: telling us that her gift would have to be delayed until she had “time”. So is the story of a mother and in this case my mother. Time is in short supply with a household to run and seven children to attend. Remember in “Sound of Music” Maria and the reverend Mother discussing her possible employment as the Von Trapp governess? The superior mother explained that Maria would be in charge of the children and she asked “how many?” Her answer was seven. Maria gasped in disbelief and shock as she exclaimed, “seven” and with a double take and wide eyes she incredulously said again, “but seven children!!!” Maybe some days this is exactly how my mother felt with the overwhelming responsibility of raising such a tribe.
Mom’s sewing room was a veritable fabric store of someday projects. I remember opening up the rows of cupboards that hung over the washer/dryer and spying multicolored layers of cottons, polyesters, muslin, knits, and flannels. They were stacked in rows and stuffed into a hibernating slumber until mom could pull out her unfinished projects. She and her sturdy Bernina shared a fond affinity of which I could never relate. Once at a sewing center, I took my “loser” brand sewing machine to get fixed. I had inherited it from a friend and soon found out why she was so willing to give it away. Since my sewing repertoire consisted of a Junior High pillowcase and minimum mending skills, I had little need for an upscale model. The store attendant examining my sad little machine told me that sometimes the “sewing gene” skips a generation. In my case I fully agreed. I lost any motivation to sew as I watched my mother unpick and restitch time after time. How could she enjoy such tedious monotony without seeing the results of her efforts for sometimes months? To my young mind, there was one advantage of sewing: Fabric stores became our playground while mom searched the racks and pawed through rows of patterns. I remember climbing under and in between the racks of fabric. They made a great secret hideout for my siblings and myself, and she was able to have just enough time to grab her goods, scramble to find us and go: seconds before the manager demanded she keep her children from destroying the store.
For mom sewing was an escape and it brought joy not only to her but to others as well. She shared her passion with countless family members and friends. Soon she had quite a reputation as a proficient seamstress. In fact in my 9th grade year I won “best dressed” and several of my clothes were sewn by my mother’s hand. You could say that she knit her signature into my clothes. Her skill developed through hours of practice, in between the theatrics of toddlers and teenagers.
Last I checked there are still yards of cloth gracing her cupboards. But like many dreams, some are unfulfilled. Sometimes delaying one’s dreams satisfies unexpected realities. Someone once said, “Sacrifice is giving up something good for something better.” With the responsibility of growing up the eldest of five children, this quote was one she became well acquainted.
As a newly -wed and then becoming a young mother in her mid-teens, Mom’s reality was changing dirty diapers, cooking meals and cleaning house. She had to set aside some of her dreams and alter her plans to accommodate a brand new baby girl. Little could she have known as a young mother that her life would come to represent her skills as a seamstress and the patchwork of possibilities that would emerge as a result.
By 24 she was divorced, and a single working mother of three. This was the 1950’s when being divorced and a woman working outside the home was not only uncommon but also frowned upon. Yet despite the odds against her, my mother made the choice to separate herself from an unhealthy relationship and become the sole provider for her little ones. She did her best. Some years later, she met my father; married and preceded to have four more children, go back to school and eventually into the workforce. In my eyes she is a great example and a wonderful mother. Yet I have often heard her make comments about her shortcomings as a parent, her cooking skills, and as a church leader.
I believe the insecurities she felt as a mother were unfounded. It was mom that first taught me the love of books. I remember an old rocker with a plaid blue-covered seat that she had reupholstered herself. It sat in my older sister’s room and I remember sitting on her lap as she read. She still loves beautifully illustrated picture books. I do the same now with my children. We go to the library and bring loads of picture books home and read them in the afternoons and before bedtime.
Though my mother didn’t instill in me a great love of sewing, it was she that first impressed in me a desire to care for the less fortunate or those in need. She was constantly serving: whether neighbors, friends, church members, or family.
On several occasions we would take a meal to an elderly, invalid neighbor Edna. Visiting Edna wasn’t something she felt was her duty, she did it because she cared. Today she carries on in the same compassionate manner that she did then.
Early on mom learned how to work. Whether it was on the family farm or supporting her young children, work became enmeshed in her slender frame like tightly knit tweed.
Being a good housekeeper helped her stay sane, as the normal clutter of so many bodies under one roof would pile up. Her housecleaning mantra became, “it’s better to clean up, then catch up”.
My father has often nicknamed mom “the mother hen”. It fits her in a way. Like a hen keeps her chicks under her wing and out of danger. My parents joke now as they think back to how smart they were and at the time didn’t realize it. They often comment how as children we were so different. It has been said that a different set of parents raise each child. Our family traits could be compared to mom’s spools of thread. Many were different sizes, colors and strengths.
Witnessing the struggles my mother endured as she suffered from an aneurysm, which caused a massive stroke made all of us even more aware of her courage and tenacity. Faith was not the only attribute that contributed to her recovery. Mom has quite a stubborn streak. I know dad would adamantly attest to that fact. But she persevered just like she had always done her entire life. Her iron will reminded me of durable denim: meant to endure intense pressure and sturdy enough to outlast constant wear and tear. She had to discipline herself like never before. She became known as the “miracle woman”. Many in the medical field exclaimed that they had never seen such a remarkable recovery.
Her parental approach to discipline wasn’t always calm and laid back. Sometimes her parenting skills reminded me of brusque burlap: a tough love sort of discipline and other times her words and demeanor were smooth and silky like some of my homemade dresses. I remember her sewing patches on the knees of my younger brother Chris’ jeans. She would reinforce them just like she did when we’d have a disagreement: We may not have agreed on every level but if there were strong words and hurt feelings then she was the first to make things right. I remember crying in my bedroom and she would come in and apologize. I knew that she loved me despite our quarrel. As a child I came to realize (as every child does) that she was not perfect. Now as an adult I recognize her weaknesses just as she knows mine.
One particular memory stands out as mom was altering the sleeves of one of my brand new dresses. I stood beside her as she sat at her Bernina. She proceeded to tell me how much damage could be done with one careless cut of the scissors. Just as she finished her sentence her hand slipped and noticeably cut one of my dress sleeves. I was stunned and sick to think it was irreparable. But mom knew just the right stitch to cover the mistake as if it was invisible. For years after when I wore that dress, I would feel for the spot where she had mended the sleeve and somehow be comforted knowing she knew just what to do. She may have not known in every instance what to do to make things right and perfect in my life but like a warm, cozy flannel mom lent me a comfortable security blanket, so to speak.
I learned from mom that motherhood is all about letting go of your own pursuits for a time and promoting your children’s future. All along the way your pins of promised dreams are in place. Yet they are altered and reset time and time again. But one day you wake up and realize that helping to fulfill your children’s dreams in a way completes some of your own.
For many years mom laid aside her pension for clothes (and shoes) so we could be outfitted for school. As the economic environment changed at home, you could safely say that she has made up for that loss. Her temperament typifies her tailoring tastes. She enjoys the classic lines and avoids the trendy. She’s been known to spend hours in Christopher and Banks and other stores. Also bargain shopping is one of her favorite hobbies.
I doubt that mom would trade any of us to go back and live a different life. She may wish she could have had more skills to bring to her early motherhood but to us, her children we don’t know the difference. And more personally to me, I’m just grateful she followed the path she did.
Her life is like the scrambled patterns of a patchwork quilt: the varying colors and textures reflecting the artist’s design. Some colors are bright and vibrant, revealing youthful enthusiasm while others are dim and faded like the golden years she is now entering. Some of the textures display delicate, threadbare chenille worn like her “grandma hands” and slight frame, while others convey heavy, course wool in which describe her firm resolve.
I have looked to her for strength and encouragement when I have felt defeated as a mother. I continue to admire her great love for all of us. She is constantly thinking of our needs and desires. She would be happiest if we all lived in a family commune out in dad’s pasture behind their house. But nowadays she spends much of her time with family: surging her devotion into each visit. In a way we have switched places. Just as I used to look over her shoulder and watch her skills as a seamstress, years later she observes my “sowing” skills as a mother.
After her illness she had to relearn many skills. Emotionally and physically this was (and is in some ways still) a painful process. Learning to sew again has been a challenge. But some time after her recovery she sent me a quilt and matching pillows. Her work wasn’t as meticulous as it used to be but what truly mattered to me were her efforts. It reminded me of her joy as she received my homemade gifts as a child. She was thrilled knowing I had spent my time and effort on her behalf. Now I felt the same way as I cried when I saw the less than perfect stitches. I will forever cherish this gift not just because of its beauty but rather its priceless, personal value.
If mom’s life could be compared to a sewing pattern, I would have to say it would be one of the more advanced, difficult ones to follow. But just as she became a superior seamstress, she has become a mentoring mother. I think many of the rows of fabric still line her shelves. Maybe someday she’ll get to them or maybe not. But one thing is sure: the dreams she sacrificed had a silver lining in that the family she fashioned through her handiwork replaced any fabrics long forgotten.
