So-So Sewing

There was only one elective in the curriculum as I started high school.  In addition to English, Algebra, Religion, Latin, PE, and study hall, I had the option of Home Ec, Art or World History.  Why my parents pushed Home Ec is beyond me.  I think I would have done much better in Art.  I know I learned more about cooking from my mom, aunts and grandmothers, but I have to admit that the semester we spent learning to sew was worthwhile - even if I didn't think so at the time.

My Nonna had an old fashioned Singer sewing machine - the type with a the foot treadle and wooden drawers - but I had no clue how to use it. At sometime during my early teen years, my mother managed to get a sewing machine that she probably paid for by sending ten dollars a month to Sears.  Once I was assigned the project of making a blouse and jumper in Home Ec, it was up to me to figure out how to use our machine.

While Sr. Raphael wasn't exactly Rachel Ray in the kitchen, she did know her way around a Singer.  She taught us everything from the mechanics of the machine, to how to select a pattern, buy material, lay it out, cut it and put the whole thing together.  She was very particular about things like knowing the grain of a fabric and  fitting sleeves (no puckers).  I did get an A on my blouse, but as I got going on the jumper, time was running short. We were allowed to wear our completed outfits instead of our uniforms on one special day before the end of the school year - but of course, first we had to get a passing grade from Sister R.  I ended up with a C+ on my jumper because I used a double thread on my hem and in tacking down the facing around the neck and arms - a real rookie mistake and clear evidence of rushing to get it done.

Despite the mediocre grade in home ec, the class did provide me with the basics - and the courage (foolhardy or not) to take on other projects with the sewing machine.  I think most girls my age were expected to know how to sew - at least a little.  It wasn't unusual to see an outfit in Seventeen Magazine and then go to Wiebolt's to find the Simplicity or Butterick pattern, buy the fabric and have a new skirt or blouse inside of a couple weeks.  Lots of girls made their prom dresses - a bit too daring for my abilities.

Junior year I was in Glee Club.  We were rehearsing songs for our spring recital and early on, Sister Sheila announced that we all needed to wear the same dresses for the performance.  Then, she turned to the blackboard in the choral room and wrote the Simplicity pattern number for the dresses we were to MAKE. There were groans from the altos to the sopranos. The dress was simple and actually rather stylish, considering a nun picked it out. It was sleeveless, scoop-neck, and floor length with an empire waist (pronounced "ohm-peer") and it had to be white.  The only unique option was the ribbon at the waist - we could pick any color.

We probably wiped out the supply of patterns at all the local department stores - because those of us who were the same size ended up sharing the pattern.  Since the dress had to be white, we searched for the most inexpensive cotton fabric, so many of us used bed sheets. Quite a few moms ended up pinch hitting for sewing machine-phobic daughters. Mine didn't turn out half-bad but the back of it could have been duct-taped together since it only had to last for one performance and we would be far from the audience up on the stage. I don't think anyone used the dresses for prom, but considering everything was handmade, we all looked pretty good up there for the recital. I used a shiny green ribbon on my "ohm-peer."

As I got older, I got braver. I made a button-down white shirt with black polka dots for a friend in a rock band. During my freshman year in college I actually took apart a brand new winter coat and put it back together.  I thought it was too big and instead of trying to return it, I figured I could alter it myself.  I made all kinds of clothes as I prepared to go away to school (only to spend most of my time in jeans and t-shirts).

I got my own Kenmore sewing machine for a shower gift and I can't list the number of sets of draperies I've made, duvets for comforters, shams for pillows, shower curtains, and on and on. One of the dearest memories I have is finding a quilted material and making heavy drapes to cover the glass doors to our balcony from the nursery, preventing my newborn twins from any winter drafts. The machine came out for a few Halloween costumes, and eventually got tucked away in a closet.

Not too many people sew anymore.  I retrieve the sewing basket to hem skirts or pants by hand, sew on a button or to dig out the measuring tape when I'm convinced I have to keep track of the size of my waist and hips.  

In all these years, the machine hasn't failed me once.  I can still pass the thread through all the tensions without a hitch, but I do need glasses to thread the needle.  I have bobbins with many colors of thread in the sewing basket, ready for any new project - but lots of them are in the earth colors of the 70s.  

I pull the machine out every once and while for the odd decorating project or to hem jeans. I know I could probably get a new machine that can do a lot more tricks and at a pretty reasonable price.  But seeing as there are few outfit/drapery/costume projects in my future, I think I'll just keep the one I have.  It has served me well.

Afghan Moments

There were no boys in our extended family until six girls had been born.  This includes my two sisters and me, two cousins on my mom's side and one on my dad's.  So, a lot of our playtime consisted of girly things like dolls, tea sets, and dress-up - but we also did a lot of roller skating, sledding, exploring, hide and seek, swimming and softball.  Still, there was one annual, truly girly event that we never missed, and we relished every moment:  the Miss America Pageant.

When we were very young, we got together, glued to the tv in my nonna's living room, watching every piece between commercials and hoping that Miss Illinois would win the crown.  The bathing suit competition, the walk in the evening gowns and even the questions Bert Parks would ask toward the end had us commenting like race horse handicappers on the best bets.  But the talent competition was the part that oftentimes had us cringing as many a young woman's time in the spotlight became material for "America's Funniest Home Videos." The talent competition was fertile ground for any contestant to embarrass herself, and lots of them did.

This is where the term "afghan moment" comes from and, I'll state right now - my sister Judy coined the term. It has nothing to do with Afghanistan. An afghan moment occurs when you are watching the talent competition in the Miss America Pageant and Miss New Jersey forgets the words to her operatic aria, or Miss Arizona drops her flaming batons, or Miss New Hampshire's grande jete ends with her nearly falling into the orchestra pit.  That is when you take the afghan that you always have on the couch, and ... you cover your head with it because you just can't bear to look.

There are other things on tv that have given me afghan moments.  Almost anything George Costanza said or did on Seinfeld made me cringe.  So, it's no wonder I can hardly watch the antics of Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm without my trusty blanket. Dancing with the Stars, American Idol and The Bachelor are all so full of these moments I just can't watch any of those shows. Even the Oscars are rife with afghan moments but I can bear it for the most part.  My sister Judy is made of stronger stuff when it comes to the cringe factor and she will still call me with Afghan Moment Reports or Alerts and we co-cringe as she relates the incident. It's easier when you have cringing partner.

Obviously, everyone has afghan moments in everyday life - whether it is passing gas in a yoga class, congratulating someone on being pregnant (when she isn't), whiffing the ball in golf when others are watching you tee off, laughing so hard you either force milk through your nose or you wet your pants, commenting about someone you thought was outside when he or she is standing right behind you, or tripping on a crowded sidewalk - just to name a few.   Of course, in our family, we loudly replay these incidents over and over again, hoping to embarrass the individual as much as possible, sending him or her searching for a handy afghan. After a number of years and many retellings, you do get over it - kind of.

So, if "Afghan Moment" becomes the "not-a-pretty-sight," "awesome," "think out of the box," or "bad hair day" phrase of the next five years or so, the credit goes to my sister Judy.  And you heard it here first!

What are your afghan moments?

The famous t-shirt

My son wearing the shirt at left, and my husband wearing the shirt, at right, while helping clean out my parents' basement after a flood, in 1972.

Tale of a T-shirt

Besides my diploma, I have a few items that still remain from my college days.  There's a green mug with the school crest that was perfect for hot lemon tea with a shot of my buddy Baker's Canadian Club when I had a bad cold.  In a file somewhere, there is a manila envelope with letters and cards, including a batch from the English class of my student teaching days.  I even have the trunk I lugged back and forth, even though it sits in the garage and is filled with deflated basketballs and rollerblades.

Before leaving DeKalb for good, so many years ago, I stopped in the bookstore and picked up an NIU t-shirt and a red football jersey with my year of graduation on it.  Both were on sale and even though I was running low on money, I still managed to arrive home with $10 in my pocket.  The t-shirt was for my boyfriend (now husband) and God knows what happened to the jersey - though I have seen old pictures with different siblings wearing it.  But that t-shirt has lived on.

NIU's colors are black and red and most Huskie apparel comes in these shades.  The famed t-shirt, however, is navy blue with white lettering and it did get lots of wear over the years. Someone wore it while painting - I think it was the back fence from our house in Evanston - and it acquired many white splotches. Then, for some reason, our sons thought it was a cool thing to wear and it managed to survive their high school and college years as well.

It was torn under one arm, and just generally became more and more worn as time went by, but apparently it was made well, and despite its age, avoided landing in the rag bag.

Last week, one of my sons came home for the weekend.  On Sunday morning, he came down for breakfast wearing - of all things - the blue t-shirt.  "I can't believe you still have that thing," I told him.  "It's a lot older than you are; I thought it was falling apart."

"I had it fixed," was his sleepy response.  I learned that he actually took the t-shirt to a tailor at his local cleaners and had this 37-year old, paint-stained t-shirt repaired into fairly decent shape.  I don't want to know how much that cost him.

It's funny how an inanimate object can take on a life of its own.  The shirt has traveled with me from DeKalb to River Grove to Madison, Wisconsin; to Chicago, to Evanston, to Glenview, to Bloomington and Oxford, back to Glenview and then back to Chicago - the last time in my son's duffel bag.  

I remember the night he and his brother moved out of our house to their apartment in the city. As they drove the moving truck to the end of the street, they banged on the sides of the doors and hooted with excitement.  The shirt was with them, something that had to remind them a little of home, kind of like a little security blanket but a lot cooler.

I hope he holds on to that ratty old shirt.  It makes me think that wherever he goes, he's taking a little bit of his dad and me with him.

Taking a Digger on Van Buren

As kids, we often judged the severity of a winter by how many times the ice or snow caused us to fall on the sidewalk, street or alleys.  Our grammar school was only a couple blocks away and we made the trek through two unpaved alleys that were nothing but tire ruts punctuated by dozens of potholes.  The potholes would fill with snow which would get tamped down by cars, then thaw a little, then freeze.  It was inevitable that you would fall at some point, often falling on loose stones and sending books and pencil cases across the ground.  

If you happened to tell my Aunt Alice that you fell - at any time of year and for any reason - she would immediately start to laugh.  It didn't matter if you hurt yourself or not, she found any fall hysterical. If a sibling saw you fall, Alice would be the first to know. My beloved aunt has been gone for a number of years, now, but she is never far from our thoughts.

Today was brutal.  Single digit temps with sub-zero windchill. Any leftover snowpiles or slush puddles along the sidewalks were completely frozen over, and therefore treacherous. I managed pretty well going to the office, but heading to the train in the evening was my downfall, literally.

As I stepped off the curb on Van Buren near the LaSalle Street Station, my feet went right out from under me and I fell forward in the middle of the street.  I landed hard on one knee but my many layers provided enough padding and spared me from torn slacks.  Of course, I immediately stood up, looking around to see if anyone saw me.  I was in between packs of people and those ahead of me kept on moving, oblivious to my spill. But as I started to get to my feet, I heard, "oh, wow..." from behind me.  Turning quickly to the voice, a man asked if I was ok.  I was more embarrassed than anything else and motioned I was fine.  

I didn't lose much time getting to the train, took my seat and settled in. But after a couple stops, a dull ache started in my knee. I imagine that will be a nice shade of blue and purple by tomorrow.

In the last couple years, YouTube-style videos of (usually) women falling have been emailed back and forth among the women in our family.  Women dancing on tables at weddings who fall off, women who bend too far over when tossing a coin in a fountain and fall in, women who try out the kids' swingset or trampoline and fly off - these visuals are perfect for causing my sisters and cousins, (and me, too) to laugh out loud at the computer screen, and thinking, "that looks like a Judy fall, or a Carol fall..."

As I scrambled to regain my footing on Van Buren today, I could have sworn I heard someone laughing.  I'm sure my Aunt Alice is enjoying this winter.

My Sister Went to the Ball

My sister Amy, the youngest of my siblings, spent a lot of time over the summer and into the fall promoting Barack Obama.  I thought it was only fitting when she told us that she would be participating in the Big O's celebration and attend the inaugural.  With a close friend living in DC, she had a place to stay.  Her friend Ed came up with a mother lode of miles so they could fly for free.  She had her ball gown - a dress from our parents' 50th Wedding Anniversary celebration a few years ago.  A big splurge was a pair of fancy shoes from Nordstrom's that were both ball-worthy and comfortable.

A few days before her departure, she stopped by and together we went through my closet looking for other things she might need.  She ended up with my suede evening bag; a long, black coat to wear over her gown - but probably wasn't warm enough as the temperature in DC was pretty cold.  She also used my husband's suit carrier for the long dress and coat.

Then, off she went with the good wishes and love of her entire family.

As Inauguration Day dawned, the frantic texting back and forth began. Just as I was about to leave my car after parking it in the train station before heading off to work, Amy excitedly called on my cell phone to tell me she and Ed had been interviewed by MSNBC as they rode on the subway.  I told her I would spread the word to the rest of the family and we would look for the interview on tv.  "Have a great time," I told her, "but be careful." The big sister stuff never goes away.

From the CNN live feed on my computer at work, I could see the mall in DC was rapidly filling up with thousands and thousands of people.  I texted her again:  "It looks so crowded!  Watch your purse and be safe!"

I decided to watch the inauguration ceremony in the Student Center, taking my camera to get some candid shots of students as they watched on the many flat screens.  It took a while for the Center to fill up, but well ahead of the actual swearing in, the place was filled to overflowing.  We watched as past presidents and dignitaries filed in and took their seats; then, finally, the new First Family came through the door.  We listened to Aretha sing, to the beautiful quartet play in the cold wind, listened as the preachers blessed everyone and our soon-to-be new President, and we watched with not a little nervousness, tearful eyes and smiles all around as he and the Chief Justice stumbled through the oath.  

But as the words, "So help me God," were uttered, the Center exploded in applause.  "You did it!" someone yelled to the screen.  Yes, he did.

We listened to the speeches, celebrated with some cake, (actually in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr.,) and little by little the students found their ways to their next classes. It was a great way to watch the ceremony - with so many students who took in every word and left the Center with a definite happiness at what they had just observed. And I got some pretty good pictures for the College's website, too.

By the time I got back to my office, there was another text message on my phone from Amy:  "Safe and thrilled!"

 I guess that pretty much said it all.  Our baby sister had witnessed a high point in our nation's history.  The ball that evening was just the icing on the cake.

Amy sent text messages to just about everyone in our family who then passed them on to one another.  My sister Sue did some sleuthing and managed to find the MSNBC interview in an article in Newsweek that was posted on their website, and sent that around to family and friends.  Now Amy was famous, too!

Before she left, I had told Amy that while our dad's participation as a soldier in Roosevelt's funeral after he returned from the Philippines was a historic event for our family, her attendance at the inauguration hit a new high.  Happily, it's a high she is still savoring.

 

Friday night warmth

Dealing with the 16 degree temperatures last week turned out to be a walk in the park - or maybe a walk in the Loop - compared to the last few days.  I dealt with yesterday's -17 degree early morning temperature by only venturing out of the house once:  to retrieve the papers at the end of the driveway, and then spent the rest of the day cooking, baking and getting ready for dinner guests.  

The house has been pretty warm, with the exception of some cold spots around the front door.  From the inside, a thick layer of frost has developed around the metal of the deadlock bolt.  We had an easy remedy for this...a strip of duct tape, and then pulled a rug up against the bottom of the door. Not too attractive, but it works.

There is something comforting about fending off the brutal cold by spending time in the kitchen. As Martha Stewart yammered away about Persian cats in the background,  I started by making a killer Bolognese sauce (no thanks to Martha) that ended up simmering on the stove for six hours.  And it is so true that the longer it simmers, the better it tastes.  I also used one of the last frozen containers of pureed tomatoes from my garden.  Combined with some porcini mushrooms - a hint from my mother who makes the best Bolognese in the world - the sugo was outstanding.  We had it with farfalle pasta, a salad, garlic bread, wine and the company of best friends.  Some brownies and hot apple crisp for dessert rounded out a great meal.

It's amazing how the cold outside simply melts away, at least from our thoughts, when there is so much warmth within - and not just the warmth generated by the furnace.  Our table conversations covered our kids, work, the upcoming inauguration, some politics (although not too much - we still want to remain friends) and a few disagreements on American history (was Gerald Ford ever Speaker of the House?) that were settled with a quick Google search.  

At gatherings like these we always, gratefully, toast our friendships that have lasted decades. And as the candles on the dinner table dimmed, the warmth remained.