Patchwork

Fixing a relationship, and patching the past

Sitting at the dining room table working on my first sewing project. The result was a reversible pair of Dr. Suess boxers that I held onto for years. // Photo courtesy of Peter French

After moving into my first apartment in September 2022, I was scavenging through the isles of a Habitat for Humanity looking for a standing lamp to brighten up my place, upon my search a clunky beige case struck my eye. It had rubber marks running along the bottom with a red sticker next to the handle. I went to lift it and it stood firmly on the shoulder-height shelf. I had to use both hands to set it down and unlock the rusted clips on either side.

I had uncovered a 1960s Kenmore Sears sewing machine. The metal body was tinted green, reminiscent of an old army uniform. The controls were still shiny and the owner’s manual was intact. It even came with a couple sets of needles and extra bobbin wheels.

Buying it was a no-brainer. I thought of my mom and how she had sewn at least half of the curtains in our house. I remembered her teaching me as well. First we made a pair of Dr. Seuss boxers, then a drawstring bag with illustrations of a bustling city. I would help my mom with her projects and look up to her in awe as fabrics draped over our dinner table, her hands moving with swift precision.

I brought the sand-toned, suitcase-looking device to my modestly decorated apartment and slapped it on the wobbly red desk that I ended up buying as well. I had forgotten everything she taught me.

At this time I hadn’t talked to my mother for over two years. As time passed, hurt feelings and anger subdued, but our relationship continued to drift apart. Late at night, I would envision the anguish I was burdening my own mother with each time I ignored her calls. I would tell myself that tomorrow would be the day I reached out.

All I managed to learn after abandoning my sewing machine for a month was how to spin a bobbin and by winter break it was sitting in the corner collecting dust.

I came home to Massachusetts that winter knowing that I should see my mom, but I feared what would happen if the walls between us were to vanish. Christmas passed and I had made no effort to reach out. My ticket was booked to fly back to Seattle on my mom’s birthday, which is New Year’s Day. The night before I left I decided I could just send her a text. I told her I loved her.

It wasn’t until April of that year when I reached out again, we spoke, we cried, and we apologized to one another for the pain we caused.

A collection of patterns I have brought to fruition over winter 2022 through the early months of spring 2023. These items range from my first project in recent years (bag), to my most recent (pink hoodie) which was the first piece I have sold. // Photo by Peter French

Nowadays when my mom calls, I no longer feel a pulse in my stomach. We don’t talk every day, but when I’m home she still wishes I’d stay longer. Our relationship may not be perfect, but we spend time together, we make meals, we laugh and we share memories.

Just before Thanksgiving this year I FaceTimed my mom and showed her the sewing machine I had found. She taught me how to avoid having my thread bunch in a knot when I stepped on the pedal, and she also reminded me that there is an owner’s manual with literally every instruction I needed.

My mom had sent me a care package for the holiday. Inside was an aluminum turkey pan, a book with some recipes and amongst other items, a shiny golden corduroy-looking tablecloth that we used growing up.

After skipping out on a traditional Thanksgiving meal to go camping, I decided to instead use the tablecloth to line the walls of the first bag I had made since 2009. The exterior was striped using a pair of navy corduroys that had ripped, and a pair of jeans that I had owned for years. I sketched up a pattern and didn’t stop until I set my final stitch around 2 a.m. When I would slightly press down on the pedal, the idle of the machine shook my desk so loud I imagined the upstairs neighbors thought I was pursuing some sort of midnight dentistry practice. I placed a pair of socks beneath it to mute the rumbling enough for my conscience to stay focused through the night.

I set the bag over my shoulder with a sense of accomplishment. I felt the confidence my mother had instilled, pushing me to dream about new and more complex patterns. Going through the process had resurfaced the simplest of memories, how to make a measurement, and set a pin — memories that I thought were gone.

My mom and I spoke about the night she taught me to get my machine running.

“I was thrilled, I don’t think you could have made me any happier,” she said. “Just to know that you knew that you could reach out to me if you needed help with something. [This time] it was how to thread a sewing machine, but hopefully that would translate if you ever had a bigger problem that you knew that you could reach out to me.”

Over the winter I spent hours creating patterns, finding fabrics and crafting them into tangible pieces. I would call my mom regularly from the isles of the thrift store asking if a certain lace would hold a stitch, or if I could use a skirt I found to make a beanie.

As I progressed onto more difficult pieces, I worked more efficiently and my stitches got cleaner. I learned to press my edges with an iron, and I learned it is better to go back and fix a mistake rather than try and cover it up. At times I found myself frustrated, ripping out seams that I had just sewn, but I would remember my mom telling me that sometimes you have to empty out the drawers if you really want them clean.

I am in the early stages of working on a sweatshirt for my mom. I want to show my gratitude for our relationship. With the past constantly growing, and the future shrinking away, I want to express that I am proud of the fact we shifted our roads to rejoin.

My inspiration for my mom’s design came from a sheet of fabric sitting in one of the mystery bags at Value Village. Upon ripping open the plastic I tossed aside the duds and inspected the print I had my eye on. A yellow minimalistic house made of just a few odd shapes and hearts running up the walls. The windows on the broad side of the house remind me of the days I hopped off the school bus, looking up to the window where I would see my mom with a wave or smile, welcoming me home.