The Language of Sewing

Hems. Tension. Darts. Inset sleeves. Pleats. Notions¹. A-line. Remnant. Basting (and not as in a Turkey!) Bias. Blind-stitching. Spool.  Tracing. Interfacing. Ripper (of which I have become very familiar with through the years!) Gather. Lining. Seams. Patterns. Pinking Shears.

All these words and terms are old friends of mine.  I have neglected them in the last few years because other things in life became a higher priority, not to mention lack of time.  I realize now that much of it was my own tendency to become easily distracted and enamored by all things new or different.

It's not that I didn't realize the value of knowing how to take up a hem, mend a tear, sew on a button, or even sew an entire garment.  No, it was more about eating up life as fast as I could because with every passing year I felt the hand of the Grim Reaper tapping me a little harder on the shoulder, and I wasn't going down before seeing and doing all I could.

Now that I have come full circle, and am on the homestretch towards that "undiscovered country", I reflect on the skills of my youth.  I cannot fathom producing dresses, blouses, skirts, etc. as I once did, but I do love knowing that I could, if I had to.

Sewing is like a riding a bicycle, and getting back on the wheel, bobbin, foot, and feed would be easy as pie.  Oh dear, I am really mixing my metaphors!

 ¹ - Speaking of notions (i.e., buttons, trim, zippers, etc.), my grandmother and mother were very practical, economical women.  When a garment became irreparable, you didn't simply throw it away.  First, you stripped it of anything useful - old buttons, zippers, hooks and eyes, appliques, even collars, lace or ribbon.  Anything that could be recycled was carefully removed and stored for possible future use.

Parkinson's Black Cloud

Parkinson's Disease forces a person to face their mortality every day...
Photo Credit:  Salon / Shutterstock

My father had Parkinson's. He was diagnosed with it not long after he retired.  At first, the symptoms were hardly noticeable, and with low doses of medication, didn't affect his daily life much at all.  But as it always does with the disease, it progressed.  Medication dosages increased, and despite them the signs such as decreased speech volume, trembling, and general weakness heightened.  Mom tried not to show it, but she grew angry, taking it very personally.  To her, Parkinson's was a very real enemy, and she resented the fact that just as Dad and her were not only alone, but free to travel and enjoy their golden years, there was a black cloud over them.

In 2001, my sisters and I found out that Parkinson's was taking a heavy toll on both Mom and Dad.  As we brought Dad and Mom came back from New Mexico for good., I didn't know I had so little time left with him.

During the quiet moments when Dad and I were alone, he would share with me what it was like to have hallucinations, a common side effect of his meds.  How, although he knew he was awake and "they weren't really there", he often saw wee, little people sitting on the end of his bed, or climbing up his dresser.  He said it was a surreal experience, something he couldn't explain away.  I asked him how he dealt with it.  "I just watch them, remind myself it's not real."  What else could he do?

Dad had a dignity and pragmatism about his growing frailty.  He cherished Mom while at the same time being very concerned for her, recognizing that the mental health concerns and emotional weakness he had long been aware of, was now growing stronger for her.  He had been shielding her from their consequences as much as she had been helping his due to Parkinson's.  They were a team.

Dad went first, only a few months after their return; in the end, it was his heart that gave out.  Mom went with him that day...but her body held on for another six years.