Sew Much to Learn

Early this week, my husband Chris started in with, “Aren’t you sew excited for your class on Wednesday?” It went on like this any chance he could find. Sew lucky, sew happy, and sew on, until finally, on my way out the door Wednesday evening, “You are going to have sew much fun!”

For someone who has no kids, Chris nails the dad jokes.

For years I have wanted to take a sewing class, but something always got in the way. Sometimes it was my work schedule, but more often than not I was thwarted by an agonizing memory from eighth grade home economics class. While working on a duffle bag, I had gotten the fabric bunched up in the feed dogs. Failing to let up on the foot pedal, the bobbin thread looped so tightly into knots underneath the mess that the machine came to a disquieting stop. Somewhere in the fracas the needle broke, and there was the smell of burning rubber. It required a seam ripper, a sharp pair of scissors, and a visibly frustrated teacher to extract the nightmarish ball of fabric and thread from the machine, which was out of commission for the remainder of the semester.

It’s sad, really, because I should have at least had a basic genetic predisposition to sewing. My maternal grandmother was a master; a 4-H leader, a purple ribbon seamstress. My mother says that as a girl, she could pick out a dress in the Sears catalog and my grandmother would perfectly reproduce it, just by looking at the picture.

I had chances along the way to sit behind the sewing machine with her and learn, but declined. It seemed easier to stick to Scotch tape, glue, and a stapler when it came to making Barbie clothes anyhow. Another one to file under “Regrets of Insolent Youth.”

This new sewing class of seven students included me, five other women, a man in a Yankees baseball cap, and the teacher, Diann. We took our seats at widely spaced tables at six p.m., and I looked down at the handout titled, “List of Supplies for Beginning Sewing.” It had a phone number and said, “Call or text if you run into problems.” Oh Diann, I thought, you are brave. I could imagine myself in a desperate moment, “Hello, Diann? I have run into problems.” Or worse yet, “Diann, my sewing machine has burst into flames. Can you come over?”

After introductions, Diann went over the basics: She gave us the six-week class outline, safety tips, proper sewing machine etiquette, tips and tricks. She showed us how to properly handle and care for sewing shears, explained the dusting, lint removal, and oiling of the machines, told us to keep our fingers away from the needle while sewing, and not to stick pins in our mouths. 

The rows of machines, all with their covers still on, sat waiting in quiet rows on the other side of the room until, finally, it was go time. 

First we sewed on paper. There was no thread, just the needle following straight, curved, and zig zag lines, making neat rows of tiny holes. When we were done, we held the paper up to the light and evaluated our progress. I would have been happy to stop there.

Next, we moved on to the project for the night: a hot pad. Diann had cut the pieces out for us already, squares of fabric and insulating material sitting in neat piles with color-coordinated spools of thread.

We followed slow, step-by-step instructions, assembling the layers in an order that was critical to the outcome. One step included folding rectangles of fabric in a way that was like closing the flaps on the top of a cardboard box: under, over, under, over. After the assembly, we pinned everything together. I absently stuck three pins in my mouth while I worked, then spit them out, abashedly remembering the safety talk. 

We took the pinned squares over to the machines, threading them per Diann’s calm instruction. Sitting behind the sewing machine, palms sweating, foot on the pedal, it felt like the first day of driver’s ed. But as soon as the machines started chugging along, seven students’ heads bowed in concentration, the scene was actually relaxing. Diann wandered between the rows smiling reassuringly, nodding encouragement, offering gentle reminders to slow down. For several peaceful minutes, I wasn’t worrying about war, global warming, my 2021 taxes, or single-use plastics. I was just focusing on guiding the fabric moving beneath my fingers while the needle bobbed up and down.

I sewed the hot pad inside out, as instructed, with the carefully stitched and pressed fabric loop secretly sewn somewhere in the middle. It looked rough. Diann said to be patient, that the magic comes when you turn everything right side out. She demonstrated by performing a few twists and turns of the fabric then with sleight of hand, shook the hot pad into its intended shape, the fabric loop emerging from one corner. Ta-da! 

I watched on as, one by one, the other members of the class turned out hot pads worthy of gifting, or selling on Etsy. I turned my hot pad inside out, and it looked nothing like Diann’s or anyone else’s. Plus, the loop that was supposed to magically pop out did not. I could feel it bunched up in the corner.

The young woman at the table next to me got the same, unpleasant surprise. She turned to me with a panicked, incriminating look. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing she had observed and copied my erroneous steps. I’d never given her any indication I knew what I was doing, but I think because I was old enough to be her mother, she trusted me. 

I wanted to just blow it off, pretend I didn’t care. “Who uses that loop anyhow?” I said dismissively, “My hot pads live in a drawer, not on a hook.”

But Diann wouldn’t have it. “You’ll never be happy knowing that loop is trapped inside,” she told me, winking.

Diann handed me a seam ripper, and gave one to my neighbor, as well.

She was right. I’d come too far to settle for another sewing failure. Diann was giving me the time and space to make it right. 

I didn’t mind sitting there ripping out seams next to the young woman who seemed silently resigned to her role in the remedial group. There was a spirit of camaraderie, and it felt unrushed—peaceful, even. Diann assured us she would stay as long as we needed, because the important part was that we left feeling successful. 

I didn’t even feel bad as everyone filed out of the class with their perfect hot pads, even the woman who’d had enough time to make two. I glanced at my neighbor who was smiling by now. “We are going to be successful,” I laughed.

While we worked, I asked Diann why she chose to teach community ed, mostly because I couldn’t imagine voluntarily teaching adults like me who, besides being a slow study, stick pins in their mouth right after the safety talk about why to not stick pins in one’s mouth. 

Diann explained that the adults who were the most fun to teach were the ones unafraid to make mistakes. “That’s how kids learn,” she said, then added, “It will come to you.”

Diann described her relationship to sewing, something that, for her, transcended hobby status. “It’s an essential life skill,” she said with conviction. She felt compelled to teach sewing out of civic duty, to keep the skill alive. “People need to feel productive,” she said, “and useful.”

After ripping out the stitches, I liberated the loop, and so did my neighbor. We shared a joyful moment, then got back behind our machines with renewed confidence and stitched our hot pads back together, the right way. 

“Do you feel successful?” Diann beamed as I gathered my things to leave.

“Very,” I smiled, holding my hot pad by the loop.

“Good. See you next week for pillowcases!” She said.

“Thank you, Diann,” I said, pausing in the classroom doorway, “I had sew much fun tonight.”

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