Home-made treasure

My mother’s name was Kathleen. She sewed for us - it was to save money back then. I was always a bit embarrassed wearing my home-made school uniform and hand-knitted jumper when everyone else clearly had bought theirs from the store. It made me stand out. It was a sign (literally hanging off my neck) that said ‘not enough money’. Funny now that standing out from the masses is what is most appealing about my home-made clothes now.

Mum started out sewing in hard times. Born in 1932 in Ireland she was made to leave school at thirteen to sew in a factory. She loved school, was great at maths and it was difficult to reconcile that all her seven brothers were able to stay in education but she couldn’t. Her job in the factory was to sew the breast pockets on men’s shirts in a production line. The same task day-in, day-out in pretty awful conditions. All her earnings were handed over to my grandmother until the day she married and left home.

I remember her telling me the story of her bridal gown. Of course she made it, and it was stunning. She was ironing it the day before the wedding, and she absent-mindedly (bridal nerves?) ironed a hole through the lace sleeve. I cannot imagine how horrified she felt. The night before her wedding, she managed to make another sleeve from the leftover fabric and attach it. Her dress was a masterpiece and you certainly can’t tell from the photos that there was a near disaster.

Mum continued to sew once she was married. She used a second-hand, clunky sewing machine and my grandmother’s scissors that always seemed to have a blunt spot along the edge. She made clothes for all her four children and was so proud that we were always well dressed. Her wedding dress was cut up to make my christening gown. She made my high school dance dresses (which I’m chagrined to say I hated) and helped me make my own first strapless, corseted ball gown for a 21st party - I still remember her tut-tutting over my mismatched zip edges and trying to correct it for me. It’s such a lovely memory. I think it was the first time I amazed someone by saying ‘I made it!’.

Mum passed several years ago and I inherited her sewing paraphernalia. Every time I sew I feel connected to her, to her story and to her creative practice. I’m so thankful she taught me the basic skills of garment making and repair. It opened up a world of creativity and delight for me. I get to dive into a treasure trove of my fabric stash, or hunt in op-shops for something unusual to up-cycle. I have the pleasure of using tools that make the job so much easier - a fancy sewing machine, proper sewing shears. The joy of my senses being engaged - the feel of the fabric, the prints playing off each other, my intellect working out how to make something flat into a garment that moves with a body - is ever present.

Sewing was an act of necessity for my mother. For me it is an act of creativity, curiosity and courage. That first cut into much-treasured fabric with my breath held is the start of something new. It’s the beginning of a relationship with the fabric, reconnecting with my tools and exploring shapes and drape. It’s also about dealing with my mistakes - the frustration and disappointment alongside nurturing a hope that this garment will be something long-treasured and can hold it’s unique place in the history of home-made clothing.