Hunched

If you have to ask what 4-H Club is, please Google it. For the rest of us, especially in rural counties of the South, 4-H was an integral part of our education and sometimes, chagrin. We said the pledge each time we met, promising to better ourselves—head, heart, hands and health.

It was sixth grade and time for sewing a real Hands-On project. My apron from the year before was elementary, sad and basically unwearable.

Mom was an experienced seamstress and had been sewing her own clothes since 13 years old. That astounds me. I’m sure she wanted me to at least have some small interest so she could coach me toward this uphill climb called a Skirt and Blouse.

Selecting the material, buttons, matching thread and pattern (some say patterin) were only abstract ideas about to become reality. Off we went in our black ‘51 Ford to the nearest big city, Paducah, Ky. Dread, deep dread came along, too. The only redemption was that maybe we could stop at Munal's Donuts on the way back home.

The Remnant House in Paducah was one of mom’s favorite places. The colors, textures and patterns made her head swim with possibilities of what to sew next. Would it be an outfit for my sisters or me, a tailored jacket for my brother, or a quilt made with love?

The Remnant House was definitely NOT my favorite place. The colors, textures and patterns made my head swim for a different reason. I felt faint when I walked in. A miasmic dome closed over my head as I stood blank-faced and stared at the endless rows of tables of fabric.

“What about this one?” Mom asked hopefully, showing me a sweet blue fabric with tiny yellow flowers. I nodded to get it over with and we finally left with the material for the “Project”. Poor Mom, having to fit this square peg into a round hole.

“Oh, that’s kind of cute,” I thought with a bit of optimism as I looked at the picture of a finished Skirt and Blouse on the front of the McCall’s pattern. The confident models on the front of the package sporting outfits that promised to make me the Sandra Dee of my sixth grade class were extraordinarily deceiving. As I pulled the contents from the package, I gazed at a display that would confuse a blueprint engineer.

Side note: May I say, women (and men, but mostly women) who can follow a sewing pattern and whip up last minute prom dresses, last minute costumes, Easter outfits, everyday clothes and school clothes are geniuses and unsung heroes.

The kitchen table served as our fabric cutting and torture table.

“Put right sides together, notice the selvedge (selvedge?), pin the pattern to the material, baste, bias, gathers, think about what you’re doing," Can I take a break? " Oh, sister. .”

“We’ll just rip out the seam and do it over. It’s OK.” When is supper?

Can I go play? Mom, can you just do it? (Screech! Halt!)

“No,” Mom says. “This is your project. I will help, but you must do it.”

So I pout awhile, play Jax and then return to the “Project”. I’m actually sewing on the updated Electric Singer machine. The previous one was a treadle and required hand, eye and foot coordination, thus the unfortunate apron mentioned above.

“Make sure the presser foot is down. Keep a ½ inch seam allowance. Wet your fingers, it helps with grip.”

“Oops, you went off track there. Let’s rip it out. Now do a backstitch.”

The skirt finally came together. It was what it was, freakish but finished. The blouse was a different beast.

Here’s why: Sleeve holes will not behave. Sleeves want to pucker. Collars (imagine!). You must turn them inside out and do magic. Button holes and buttons. Six of them. (Gee whiz!)

My mother, bless her, encouraged me toward the deadline. My fellow classmates and I were required by decree of our Queen of Home Demonstration agents, Ms Sunshine Colley, to model the Skirt and Blouse and walk across the auditorium stage in front of peers and parents.The accolades would certainly make this project worth it. Haha.

My memory of this 4-H Fashion Show was that I walk-ran across the stage in a Quasimoto-like position, my posture accommodating for the janky outfit. Honestly, I think the outfit wore me. Polite applause followed and I made it through.

What I learned: I am not a seamstress or a model and my mother is a Saint.