My wheat bag fell apart last night, the material finally perishing after too many overheated turns in the microwave.
I rummaged through my material stash, and came upon a short length of lightweight denim material, remembering when I bought it, 50 years ago.
Mum had enrolled me in sewing classes and I’d been told to bring a pattern, material, scissors and a tape measure.
The pattern was easy. I loved shirt-dresses at the time, and bought one from The News. It had plackets, and a standup collar, gathered cuffs and buttons from neck to hem, and probably hidden pockets in the side seams. The material was harder to choose. I opted for a bright yellow brushed cottony-veloury length, believing that yellow was “my” colour due to my brown hair and eyes.
Mum bought me a pair of Fiskars dressmaking scissors (Made in England), a tin of Dorcas pins, and a tape measure (also Made in England). I was all set.
The sewing teacher, Bette Thompson, had taught me calisthenics for one year when I was nine. Either she gave up on me after that year, or I chose to ride my pony.
Bette was a treasure. Patient, encouraging, and tactful. What she thought of my yellow material and the complicated pattern was not revealed until later.
She valiantly taught me to measure, and adjust, and cut; to pin, then sew, then unpick, sew again, unpick again, until I got it right. That shirtdress pattern was a nightmare for a beginner.
However, once I’d finished that yellow veloury-cottony shirtdress, with cuffs, inset sleeves and buttons down the front, not to mention a matching, covered belt, every other sewing project I ever tackled was easy.
It took two terms — half the school year — to make that shirt-dress. When I put it on it looked dreadful. The sewing was reasonable, and the fit was good, but, oh! that colour was awful. I looked sallow and sick. It was a hard way to learn that yellow was not my colour. I never wore the dress in public, and threw it out when we moved house.
“Get a simpler pattern next time,” Bette suggested in her most gentle tone.
I chose lightweight denim and made an A-line skirt, with self-covered buttons. It had a zip, so not all was straightforward, but it was another skill I could tick off.
By this time, mum had bought me a brand new Janome sewing machine from Harris Scarfe. Her machine was an ancient Jones that you had to tap with the back of your hand each time you used it, so that your hand would jerk away when it gave you its customary electric shock. It wasn’t portable, and I needed a portable machine to take to classes.
After using the Adult Education Elna Lotus, and the other lovely machines, that Janome was a clunker. It was noisy and could only go forward, backward and zig-zag.
When I was 18 I traded in the horrible Janome on a lovely Husqvarna Combina II.
Sitting down at the kitchen table tonight, I measured the 50-year-old denim with my 50-year-old tape measure, and cut it with the 50-year-old scissors.
Then I pulled out my Husky machine, still going strong after 47 years. It has been serviced twice in that time. I bought it because it didn’t need oiling.
I have always loved sewing. The rumble of the machine, the feel of the material, the sense of creating something useful for oneself, and the sheer relaxation of it.
Sewing can be meditative.
Like tonight, it can revive memories long stitched away into a stash of assorted colours and textures, of intentions to create, of regularly mending dad’s work pants, and of creations long since packed away, worn out, or discarded.
Best of all, I now have two new wheat bags to nestle on my feet on these cold wintry nights, and enough of a remnant to make another one, maybe not in 50 years’ time.
