Sewing for Beginners

I actually wanted to learn how to sew by hand, but I guess that particular skill is no longer taught. As I entered the classroom, I eyed the rows of tables laden with fancy, computerized, expensive white sewing machines.

The other ladies in the class exchanged tips about exotic mechanisms called "bobbins," and referred to ironing as “pressing.” I grimaced and wondered about the distinction. Did I know how to “press?” I thought I could iron, but could I press?

Well, resolute, I decided (as I took my seat in front of one of the gleaming blockish machines) that if they could out wrangle the contraption, so could I.

“We’ll start with a French Stitch,” the instructor announced and I was instantly weary. French Stitch? The French never did anything in a simple or straightforward manner.

I must have winced because she (her name was Ethel) told me not to worry (too late) and showed me how to loop my thread along at least six grooves on the machine to get the thread to the point where I could actually sew something.

And Ethel started each sentence with a booming “So!”

Being an English major, and cursed, my mind was quick to invent a word game and all I heard was “Sew!”

After she breezed through the extremely complicated and convoluted threading process (I could never do it again without the aid of a small team), Ethel announced that we would now “cut the fabric.” Whatever that meant.

To my horror, cutting the fabric involved math! I just never saw that coming—much like the “pressing” crisis.

“So!”

(Sew!)

“Let’s trim our fabric to two times 20 ½.”

Oh God, fractions.

To my eternal relief, she quickly calculated what that would come to and left me to maneuver the razor-sharp utensil.

Ethel called out, “Be careful! Even the most experienced sewers end up injuring themselves!”

Yikes.

I cut my fabric to what I thought she wanted, counted my fingers, and returned to my machine.

Step by step, the six of us worked on our projects. Since I thought small talk should be part of the experience, I turned to the woman behind me and asked if she was making the pillowcase for someone.

She said she was, her brother, and I mentioned that I was making mine for my daughter who was away at college.

“And I miss her,” I finished.

Suddenly Ethel’s voice shook the room.

“I know EXACTLY how you feel! I got married at 18 and had three children with my first husband, then we went through a divorce and I married my second husband, who was 24 years older than I was, and we had three more children, and both of those husbands had other children, so I ended up raising 11 children, but I really loved being a mom and when they all grew up I was devastated, but now I have a new fiancé and we just found out that his two year old is going to live with us so I’m raising a two year old, and be careful what you wish for, because I’m older now and it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. So I know exactly how you feel.”

I blinked a couple of times. I guess the parallels were all there.

Sew, press, sew, press, sew, press (that was our process)! As it turns out, when you “press,” you place the iron on the fabric and push it around a little. It involves just slightly more “pressure” than ironing. It was all in the wrist.

Somehow, over the next hour, the pieces of fabric that I purchased (in their raw form) for a cool million morphed into what appeared to be a fairly usable pillowcase! Success!

And Ethel gave every indication that I would be welcome to return the following week, when we would “read a pattern” and make pajama bottoms!

So at the end of the class, I put away my pincushion and my seam ripper (never had to use it!) and carried my pillowcase (as though it were the Holy Grail) to the car.