ARTHRITIC HANDS, 1 — SEWING TASK, 0
The hands in question (Photo by friend, used with abandon)
I have sunk to a new low.
This report is in the hope of some sort of absolution, some tiny relief of guilt, or at least the promise that you won’t tell the ghost of my mother.
My mother, Helen Hardy Moreland, was a woman of her time. Which was 1897–1967. The last half-dozen of those years were eaten away with a series of small strokes, and may she rest in well-earned peace. I am living proof that a somewhat easier, if less righteous, life might have given her another three decades or so, but probably my real secret was being born in an easier century.
Despite a graduate degree and (usually) enough money to pay the bills, my mother was constitutionally unable to pay someone to do anything she could do herself. She tried really hard to instill this philosophy in her daughters. Being A Lady was of paramount importance, but if the toilet malfunctioned you went for the plunger yourself.
Helen Hardy Moreland, circa 1940 (Author photo)
When my mother was not cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, writing, teaching, gardening, canning, hostessing, ironing, baking or functioning as a personal enabler of her husband’s distinguished career in academia she was sewing. I mean, how else to clothe four daughters? Sewing included darning, mending, tatting, or crocheting when called for and in all circumstances fixing everything yourself.
It is this last that just did me in.
I needed to add a snap fastener to a newly purchased garment. (Which itself my mother would have stitched up between tea and dinner.)
In my defense, I actually own a sewing basket. I inherited it from my mother-in-law, another woman of the same time and disposition as my mother. She actually used all this stuff:
Isabel’s sewing basket (Author Photo)
Hidden deep within this nifty basket are some snap fasteners. I got one out. I went so far as to mark the spots where its two pieces needed to go.
Then my fingers mutinied. My opposable thumbs absolutely opposed any participation in holding the tiny snap in place, let alone getting the threaded needle (I deserve points, at least, for getting the #$^%+@# thing threaded) through its tiny hole. As if my hands were given voice to shout, with indignation, “Oh good grief! We type your stupid stories!! What more do you want?” It was a battle of frustration; the mutineers were unmoving.
Vanessa’s alterations corner at Lily’s Cleaners (Author Photo)
I caved. Took the damned thing to my friend Vanessa at Lily’s Cleaners on Pine Street. She said, with a gentle smile, that plenty of people bring in small jobs; she’ll have it ready tomorrow.
It will remain our secret.
I agree with “let a professional do it!” I do not have the patience or skill for sewing – glad I was born when I was, with no expectations of having to sew for the family or we’d all be naked!
. . . which would, at the least, make for an interesting convention opener 😊
Thanks for that look back at your mother. Limitations of aging can definitely be frustrating but can usually be worked around … as you expressed “sew” well.
I express better than I so. Xoxo
Maybe your fingers haven’t mutinied, maybe they simply retired from sewing. Either way, I’m certainly glad they still agree to type your (very much not stupid) stories though!
Thanks for the affirmation, Liz! I’ll try to think of it as retirement, though it’s an open question as to how many of my other parts will retire, and how soon . . .
Your fingers were just having a bad day. When the next sewing job arises, they will be fine!
I’ll try to remember that, next time others of my parts are mutinying. Which seems to happen with some regularity these days 🙄
Lovely little story of mutiny. I guess that’s what aging is: to be captain of a ship on which the crew keeps mutinying, one at a time. And even if we make them walk the plank, we are without their labor. The worst, of course, is when the captain herself mutinies, and then it’s just a ship and a crew, adrift somewhere in the distance. But you and I and so many of us are lucky to live in this age. I just got tested for an affliction that killed my grandfather (your papa) and I’m not the slightest bit worried. If the test is positive or negative, I know the outcome will be fine and not too difficult. And you are doubly, even triply lucky: not only do you live in a time when one can write with mutinous fingers, but you have avoided one of the curses of our modern age: you actually live within walking distance of someone who can do the repair for you.
Oh me, I don’t even know what finally did in our Captain Familias. I thought it was old age. In any event, hope your tests scores are good. We should all sign up for such an end as the Captain’s — following a pleasant lunch with loved ones, keeled over (no pun intended!) while praying our way into the hereafter, or otherwise peacefully contemplating the next adventure. Or like my precious sister Helen, after calling everyone to leave nice goodbye messages on their answering machines — I have mine saved on my phone — then finally just not waking up, an eventuality she’d advertised as welcome. This might make another good essay 😊. But meanwhile I will hope all my crew parts don’t mutiny together in the immediate future. Thanks for dropping by! Xoxo