What Really Matters

My mother taught me the importance of a good pair of scissors. Our livelihood depended on them.

Not long after my mom and dad met, my father bought a new set of golf clubs, which came with some scraggly-looking yarn club covers. He decided he could make better ones, and said to my mom, “these could make a good business. Sew me up one.” Of course, my father didn’t know how to sew.

Mom was magical. She had sewn all our clothes when we were little, made us sewn toys, and yes, she sewed up our family business’ first ever golf club cover, cutting through the thick fur with her Fiskars. My parents made their living off that business, one that still exists today. I was always proud my parents came from very little and created the American dream for our family.

I bemoaned the day that I accidentally left the family’s good scissors, our Fiskars, at a friend’s house where our dance line had gathered to cut yarn into colorful pom poms for our shoes. I never got them back, and I am still angry at myself for losing such a valuable tool. My mom wasn’t mad; she comforted me by reassuring me we can buy another, “everything is fixable,” and her motto, “focus on what really matters.”

Growing up, I worked at the manufacturing plant when they needed extra help, or during the summers. At the embroidery machines, we used sharp little hand scissors I called “nippers.” My proudest memory was when I was loading a set of tiger-striped fur into the hoops, embroidering “Rak jak Mea,” in Thai lettering, which means “Love, from mom.” This was a set of covers that was being made for Tiger Woods, the new up and coming superstar in golf, and his mom, was Thai. I “nipped” the threads away to make them perfect for him, and felt like I was somehow sharing in his glory.

Sadly, after 30 years, my parents divorced, and my mom was bought out of the company. When my brother got married, he asked my dad if he could inherit the family business. Without asking me, my father agreed.

“Is it because I’m a girl,” I asked, when any logical reason went unanswered by my father as to why only one of his two children was going to inherit the family business. Didn’t he know that it was a woman who had engineered the first headcover, and he wouldn’t have a business without my mother, her scissors and her sewing skills? Out of my brother and I, I was the one who knew how to sew.

“Could I work for the business,” I asked my brother.

“I don’t want to work with family,” he said, negating the fact, the actual fact, that it was, in fact, a family business.

Needless to say, the relationship with my dad and my brother was strained for a while, and I struggled.

Years later, when my dad moved, he asked if I wanted an old sewing machine or two that he had stored in his garage. These were old, cumbersome, industrial machines: a walking foot, which could easily sew through thick materials, and an overlock serger. I didn’t know what I would do with these machines, but if this was my only inheritance, I’ll take them.

They took me $465 to fix and get running, and it took about a year, as I had to find an industrial sewing machine mechanic. But I loved them. I bought beautiful fabrics for my new home-sewn product factory.

My daughter was born, and I sewed my little darling fleece baby blankets. Every time she grew, I made her a new blanket. I created baby clothes and gear for my friends, and believed I could create my own company when the time was right. As she’s grown, my daughter and I make crafts together, and she guided the fabric through the machine as we make ornaments. I feel such pride handing down the talents of my mother.

Recently, I’ve made pillows and throws with my scissors and sewing machines. The pillows liven and brighten the house in colors and fabrics that make me smile. I’ve given cozy throws to friends and family, to brighten their day and warm their toes as they watch television. I gave some to my nieces for their birthdays, and I’m sending one off in the mail tomorrow as a housewarming gift.

I may not have been the first born male in my family, with the privilege of inheriting the family business, but I did succeed in sharing my love of craft with my family and friends from the few things I was given. And isn’t that ‘what really matters’? Love you, Mom.