Home sewing is one of those Ultra Molly skills. It’s one I came to in and of myself, and has become a source of diversion and income since.
My mother sewed from necessity. She is a clever woman, and once made a snowsuit for toddler-me, reconstructing it from a man’s winter coat after getting step-by-step inspiration in a dream. How many people do you know with the faith to pray about a need, have an instructional dream, and jump right into the cutting and sewing the next morning? That’s my mom, all over the place.
Faith notwithstanding, sewing was never something Mom particularly enjoyed, I think. But I was fascinated from the beginning, amazed that flat pieces of fabric could become interesting things to use and wear, with the help of a mysterious and, quite frankly, sexy machine I was too little to use.
When I was finally tall enough to see the needle and press the foot control at the same time, she handed me the owner’s manual, asked, “Please don’t sew your fingers… your father can’t stand the sight of blood,” and turned me loose. Thus ended my formal sewing instruction.
Close to three decades later, I sew for my own, and I sew for gifts, and I teach other people to sew. It’s a lot of fun, and not something I ever anticipated doing, but I was blessed with a lovely Tall, Dark, and Slightly Neanderthal fellow who told me, again and again until I listened, that not everyone does what I do, and some would like to learn it.
But this person is the main reason I sew:
Knowing it’s only a matter of hours (and stash-shopping) between a cool fashion idea in her head, and trying on the finished outfit (in this case, a geometry assignment masquerading as a wool skirt) is more than a little bit fun. She’s incredibly worth it.