The Softest Armor

During the years that we were moving around constantly I did not realize that the moving was a blessing in disguise: it compelled us to keep our possessions stripped down. (Those of our friends who helped us move boxes of books during that time are snorting at the idea that there was anything stripped down about our possessions. We like books, okay? I'm happy to live indefinitely with five pairs of shoes, but I also want five translations of the Iliad right here where I can grab them.)

In recent weeks I have been going through my house room by room and looking at each item therein. Does this belong in my house? If not, does it belong in the garbage or at someone else's house? If so, does it belong in this room? And so on. Recently I've been working in the guest room and the Horrible Office^TM. It is mostly a drag, but I get a frisson of pleasure from the empty spaces that result. I had a week's worth of happy feelings from walking by the door of the Horrible Office^TM and seeing two feet of clear baseboard where there had been junk piled since approximately the time of Diocletian. (Or since 2007. One of the two.)

A couple of days ago, though, I did something that was unexpectedly fun: I moved my fabric stash from its storage container into a flatter one so it could fit under the guest bed.

Sounds dismal, right? I would have thought so too. I wasn't expecting the welter of memories.

The top layer was the recent stuff, like the leftover blue felt from the communion banner I made in 2008. I cannot remember April and May of that year without a rush of profound gratitude: thank you, God, that I no longer spend my days submerged in that kind of nausea. UGH, that was awful. There was the funky reptile fabric that turned into a dinosaur Halloween costume for the boy who is now 10, and scraps from the little outfit I made for my niece when she turned a year old.

Then the excavation began. I found cotton flannel purchased in 2001, when I thought maybe cotton pajamas would preserve my sleepless toddler from itchiness and buy me a little more sleep. (Note to Jamie ca. 2001: try ditching the stitching and lay off the coffee.) Time has blunted the pain of sleep deprivation so that I mostly remember what a sweet little wakeful guy he was, with his blond curls and his vivid dreams. "Green lightning!" he sobbed into my shoulder more than once, wakened by a nightmare. Another night he said, "Chicken. Eat. Me." That one wasn't a nightmare but a toddler rendition of "Kitchen. I eat." My milk supply had plummeted because I was pregnant with his younger brother; we were both hungry.

Further down I found the fabric my mother and I bought together to make clothes for my oldest. When I only had one child the two of us would visit her house. She and I would pick up a yard or two of a cute cotton print, and pin and press and palaver while he slept.

She had tried to teach me to sew when I was in junior high but it proved too much of a drain on her patience. I taught myself in 1995, when my mother-in-law decreed that all of us would give homemade Christmas presents and I decided it couldn't be that hard to sew my sister-in-law a pair of flannel pajamas. Those scraps were at the very bottom. They make me laugh still: I borrowed my friend Anneleisa's machine and sewed that whole pair of pajamas with the presser foot up.

(Oops! Nowhere to go but up after a beginning like that! I kept wondering why I couldn't get the zigzag stitch to work.)

Right above them were the remnants from the first project I made on my own machine; they are still charged with the worry I felt about spending that much money on myself. It seemed so extravagant.

I didn't know how much pleasure I would get out of that machine over the next fifteen years. My husband has never understood my itch to make clothing. Sewing rompers, knitting socks -- he thinks it's a little like digging a well in your backyard and carrying the water inside even though the municipal water is perfectly safe and there for the pouring. It strikes some Proverbs 31 chord in me, though. It reminds me of the women in other parts of the world who have made most of the clothes I wear, out of necessity and not out of spare-time privilege. It draws on my little store of hard-won knowledge, ferreted out through hours of deciphering pattern-speak -- hours in which an armhole facing became a series of sensible steps and not a mystery akin to transmission rebuilding.

These days making clothing is an underappreciated art. When I pin a dart or turn a sock heel I wonder about the women who first figured those things out, the tricks for accommodating their loved ones' angles and curves. The clothes we make for our children are born of our hands' skill and our hearts' tenderness. "Here," they say, "it's a tough world out there. Here is something to keep you comfortable, protected." No matter how soft the fabric, they look to me like armor.

Comments

[Marcie]

Like. Like a lot.

[Erica]

This might just be my favorite post of yours ever. So well written. Reading it made me feel like I was wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket; your memories triggered wonderful ones of my own.

[Lilian]

this is a beautiful post, wonderfully written!

[Celeste]

Great post! Last year I read a new book about a woman's reflections on hand knitting garments for her family. I can't think of the title but if I do, I'll share it with you. She even remarked about how knitting for her children made her feel connected to all women who care for their family in such an intimate way. A garment is really love made touchable!

[Celeste]

Found it--Knitting the Threads of Time. Nora Murphy. Highly recommend!