Sewing Ethics

My mother was so deft with a needle.  Living room curtains, my turquoise poodle skirt, an unusual outfit for my Barbie — all spun out of her head into our lives.  Impeccably knit sweaters, bronze sculptures, then on to her calling:  weavings that lend grace where they’re hung.  I’ve written about my mother, who at 95 is now caught in the Alzheimer’s web.  Unfortunately,  my DNA receptors stepped out of the room when the natural transfer of textile talent might have occurred. I forgive myself too quickly when I lose knitting stitches and carry on — head high, results shabby.  My dear father-in-law, who succeeded in so many undertakings, would find my lost stitches and hand over my recovered scarf  quickly.  I would thank him and then moan about the lost rows and the extra time it would cost me. “Did you really need to rip out four rows?”  He would look squarely at me and explain that he really did.  Years before, my sewing teacher in seventh grade — does Mrs. Barasch sound right? — was taken to task by my mixed performance. For me, threading a sewing machine was like  spinning gold with hands tied:  I led the class in mediocrity.  Nevertheless, I was the only student to score a 100 on the Sewing Final.  Mrs. Barasch resented the spot I put her in.  If I remember correctly, my A had holes in it.