The Journey of the Sacred Scissors -- Uniting the Women in My Family

No one! And I mean NO ONE was ever allowed to touch mom’s sacred scissors.

Sneaking into her bedroom, where the Singer sewing machine was always set up, I loved to open the round wicker blue and grey sewing basket filled with so many wonders. While she was well occupied making us a delicious dinner, I would carefully lift the shiny silver blades, admiring the warped reflection of my tight curly hair and guilty face in the contours of her most prized tool.

“MARIA,” mom hollered from the kitchen. Recoiling like they were on fire, I dropped the scissors into the basket. Rubbing any signs of guilt off my hands onto the corduroy pants she had made for me, I raced towards the kitchen.

“Yes, mom?” She looked tired, as she turned quickly from the stove.

“Will you set the table, please?” she asked. She prided herself on always asking, although I never took it as an ask.

“Yes, mom,” I repeated. Sighing silently with relief that she was unaware of my misdeed.

Standing on tiptoe, I reached for the plates and cups and carried everything carefully to the dining room. At six, I knew how to set a pretty table.

My Mom, the Self Taught Seamstress

She had taught herself to sew as a preteen and made many of her own and her younger sister’s clothes. They had been raised by very frugal parents in the lean years following World War II in southern Canada. She would laugh, telling us of some of her early sewing disasters that they had to wear anyway because there was no money to replace the mishaps. Lucky for me, she had honed her skills very nicely by the time I was born and as the first child, most of my clothes were handmade though they looked like they had come from a tailor. Though I did not appreciate the value or the work she put into my wardrobe, I was always proud to don the stylish items which included a red lined wool coat with a matching hat and many adorable dresses and tiny pant suits.

(If you read How the Button Box Lost its Magic, you will remember this coat and the little maple leaf buttons.)

My Sewing Lessons Begin

I will never forget the day she called me to her side while she was sewing and said that now my lessons would begin. She picked up the hallowed scissors and held them on her open palm for me to admire.

“I bought these scissors,” she declared reverently, “with some of the first money I earned sewing for a neighbor. These were the very best scissors available and I saved for a long time to get them.” She handed them to me, and I accepted them gingerly and with silent contrition knowing this was not the first time I had held them, though maybe the most carefully. “You are old enough to sew and you are old enough to take proper care of these scissors.” I matched her serious gaze.

“They are only for fabric, and you must NEVER ever cut anything else with them. Not even paper. It makes them dull.” I nodded. She looked me straight in the eyes, “You may only use them if they go straight back into the sewing basket every time.” I gulped feeling very guilty at my former nonchalance towards this cherished instrument. Our eyes locked and I felt a sacred kinship as she welcomed me into this part of her world.

As the family grew, mom became too bogged down to keep up with the clothing needs of all of us. And her talents were relegated to special and occasional items. She continued my sewing lessons however, and I was the only family member allowed to touch the precious scissors. “Hand me the scissors,” she commanded one day, and I smiled importantly as I passed them to her with my younger brothers looking on in awe.

Sewing was something mom and I did together. She was a busy and commanding person and I revered this connection. My first projects consisted of patchwork quilts. I was allowed to use the scissors to cut squares of fabric from worn out clothing items and then sew them into strips. We were reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder books at the time and I envisioned myself like Laura and Mary stitching together my nine piece quilt squares. Each successive quilt improved in quality, and looking back I appreciate my mom’s ability to teach me and then sit back and let me run with my new found skills. My first quilt was truly terrible, but she proudly put it on her bed, despite the tufts of stuffing poking out from the poorly fastened seams. That quilt contained my grandpa’s old work shirt, my baby brother’s outgrown pants as well as random pieces from mom’s scrap bag. At 9 years old, I felt incredibly accomplished, and loved to tell the story of each individual square.

Those scissors took me all the way through my teen years when I became the main seamstress in the house. Though I made a few of my own clothes and an occasional item for my brothers, most of my sewing consisted of quilts and alterations. As a short girl who was addicted to books my favorite project was to get a new pair of pants, usually from the thrift store, and using mom’s always sharp scissors I would deftly and easily cut several inches off the bottom. After hemming them neatly, I would invariably take the extra portion and craft a pocketbook sized pocket to attach to the outside of my right pant leg. Before cargo pants were fashionable, I was sporting “book pockets,” to alleviate my boredom when Mom inevitably got into exhaustively long conversations with friends or strangers.

Passing the Scissors

There was no ceremony. No fireworks. Not even a fancy tea. But the day my mom passed the scissors on to me was almost spiritual. I was a young mother by then and she simply told me that she really didn’t sew anymore and since I did, it was time for me to have “the good scissors.” Though that was all there was to it, and I thanked her casually, the profundity was sobering. The torch had been passed.

Continuing the Legacy

I am blessed with three daughters. We have not done as much sewing as I would like and I certainly do not have the level of skill to share that my mom did. However, when the Covid lockdown started and I was looking for ways to pass the time together and create positive memories during this unprecedented world event, I suddenly realized I had never made my youngest daughter a patchwork quilt like her sisters have.

After some deliberation, we all joined forces and decided to embroider individual squares and then put them together into a special quilt for “the baby.” (She’s ten!)

Making our Quarantine Quilt

First I found my embroidery floss and my fancy thread clip scissors.

“I bought these special scissors with some of the first money I earned sewing for my neighbor,” I told them seriously. “They must stay in the embroidery box and may only be used on thread.” The girls laughed. “Mom, you look so serious.” Unsure how to convey the sacredness of this legacy, I let it go for now and proceeded to teach them the basic stitches they needed to know. I taught them how to hold the clippers and how to separate the floss into individual strands. They eagerly practiced threading needles and tried out the different stitches.

I had a Jack Dempsey “Little Girl” Quilt Block Kit in my embroidery box waiting for such a time as this and when I felt they had practiced sufficiently, I got it out.

“Oh mommy, I love it.”

The older girls were pleased as well. Retrieving my mom’s sewing scissors from my desk drawer where they reside safely, I shared with them once again the story of how Baba came to have these special scissors. I held them how she had when my sewing lessons began, and impressed upon my girls the value of caring for one's quality tools. Though they have now been under my care for almost 3 decades, we all still refer to them as “my mom’s sewing scissors" or “Baba’s sewing scissors.” The girls watched reverently as I cut the squares apart and then we got to work.

It has been over a year in quarantine now and we are getting close to finishing. I think we are all excited about both the completion of this special project and the end of quarantine.

While we have experienced difficulties and deep losses during the lockdown, the gift of time together has been invaluable. The opportunity to cultivate relationships, skills and deepen our connection to our heritage will have a life-long impact on each of my daughters and granddaughters to come. And though Covid has been terrible, I will forever be grateful for the chance to pass on my mom’s love of sewing and one day her very special pair of scissors to her granddaughters.

*****

Thankfully, I have many years before I have to decide which daughter will carry on the tradition of the sacred scissors.

It delights me to share these glimpses of joy with you. If you find beauty or inspiration here and would like to read more about finding joy along life's sometimes difficult journey, look here.