All Because of Maisie

All Because of Maisie

by

Kate Somers

Retirement leaves one with opportunities to pursue a host of choices. Many of us dream of that day. After years of reading, writing, teaching, going to dull-ended academic meetings, with limited to nil time to participate in sports, theatres, and those activities usually reserved for the “ladies that lunch”, retirement awaits with a tunnel of anticipation. Will it be downhill skiing? Will it be traveling? Will it be curling? Bridge with the proverbial ‘ladies who lunch’? But retirement also brings surprises.

Like many retired Canadians, a flight to warmer climates, thus the term Snowbirds, is one of those choices. What that choice brings is not just heat, sun and new landscapes but new friends and activities. The campground where I landed with my motor home, three dogs and a cat, is located in the Ocala National Forest, Florida. In itself, that is not the typical Snowbird, touristy destination. Granted, the campground had the typical activities of card games, horseshoes, campfires, music and dancing, arts and crafts and, of course, bingo night.

Bingo seems to be the national and international sport of retired folk. Maizie was one of them. Unlike the rest of us in our conservative dress and manners, Maizie came to bingo in outfits. I say outfits, not clothing, because if you saw Maizie you would immediately want to hoist her on an American flagpole. Always a hat. Not a sun hat but a brimmed cap with red, white and blue plastic sequins with a quote ‘I LOVE USA’ or some other patriotic insignia. The jacket and pants matched and adorned with even more sequins. All this paraphernalia on the body of a four- foot-nine-inches, one-hundred-pound-soaking-wet, eighty-seven-year-old , seven-days- a- week bingo player. Wherever there was bingo playing in Florida, there was Maisie.

When there was bingo night at the nearby POW Legion, eight of us would pack into my van. Needless to say, Maisie spryly hopped into the front seat. We each had our bingo money collected in jars, boxes, socks and change purses; collected specifically for bingo at the legion since the payouts were the largest in the area. And there was Maisie with her clutch purse. Yes, it was covered in sequins and always placed on the table to the right of her bingo cards. Not just for easy access but as the hopeful symbol of winning. ‘On the right, I win. On the left, I lose’, was her mantra of superstition. Other players in the hall had their symbols of hope for winning; plastic ornaments, the same shirt, the same seat, the same number on the card, or a grandchild’s photo. For Maizie, it was always the location of the purse.

One evening at the Legion, all of us smothered by smokers’ fumes, beer breathes and pot luck cooking, Maisie asked a question that was to become the defining moment of my future retirement years. “Do you make cross-body purses”? She knew I dabbled in sewing since I recently bought a sewing machine as a retirement gift to myself. At that point, I was only making aprons and table runners to give as gifts or raffle items at the campground. “What the hell is a cross-body purse”?, I responded honestly. “ You know”, Maisie described waving her short-handled clutch, sequins flashing under the legion’s lights. “It ’s a purse with a long strap that you can put over your head and doesn’t slip off the shoulder. I’m either forgetting my purse if I place it somewhere or dropping it off my shoulder. When I go shopping, I need both hands to grab something off the shelf but with this purse, it keeps falling in the aisle. I’m surprised some bugger (meaning thief) hasn’t torn it off my shoulder or picked it up from the floor.” With her plea so engaging and mournful, I knew that the next day, a Pinterest and Goggle search would probably give a clue to ‘what the hell is a cross-body purse’. The search was voluminous.

Eventually, with a list in hand of what is needed to make a cross-body purse, off I went to several fabric and craft stores.

First, and obviously, cheap fabric to start with given I had never before sewn anything as complicated as a ‘cross-body’ purse.

“One metre please”, I requested of the sales clerk.

“You mean yards. You must be Canadian”. “Yes, eh”.

Thread. “You mean there are different strengths depending on the fabric?”

A cutting board. “Nope, I just use an old table and ruler. Fifty bucks for a green sheet with numbers on it!” Guess if you want to seem like a professional, you must have a cutting board.

Straight pins. “Nope, already have loads, thank you”.

Strap buckles and sliders. “Sorry, we don’t carry those here. You might have to order them on-line.

And for the grand finale of cross-body purse sewing, in fact for any sewing endeavour, you must have the proper scissors. I bought three different brands and three different sizes thinking my sewing room would really be like a test lab for the next while.

The sliders and buckles arrived a week later from the on-line company.

With the menagerie of sewing equipment laid out before me, including a computer tablet with a You Tube DIY video set at ‘How to Sew a Cross-Body Purse’, I embarked on what was, unbeknownst to me at the time, to become a dominant retirement activity. A far cry from the dreams of international travel, downhill skiing, bridge with the ladies and relaxing at the beach and long before Maisie uttered the question “Do you make cross-body purses”?

Ready-set-go. Turn on video. Measure, cut, fold, baste, stitch, press. Rewatch. Pause. Slow down. My confidence grew with each watching, arrogantly thinking I could now assemble the bits of knowledge into something called a cross-body purse. It was a false confidence. How do you get it to turn inside out? How do you attach a cross-body strap that’s adjustable -the very essence of the purse Maisie wanted? In spite of earning a PhD, the degree was not in how to construct a cross-body purse. After a week of frustration and failed attempts, I almost dropped the project. It was a Wal Mart shopping trip that kept me going.

Although not shopping for purses, I serendipitously came into the children’s clothing section and there, before me, was a rack of children’s purses with cross-body straps. I checked no clerks were hovering around while I examined several of the purses. Mmmmm? I proceeded to silently question the absent and invisible makers of these purses. How did they get the outside and the lining to turn? How did they attached a slider on the strap? The metal hooks? After a grappling with my internal questions, the proverbial ‘aha’ lights went on. Back to my motor home I rushed with a renewed confidence that I could make Maisie her cross-body purse.

A week of late nights and dogged determination, Maisie’s purse was ready. No sequins but a colourful floral pattern. The flair for the dramatic in me knew the presentation ceremony had to be at the POW legion’s bingo night. No drum rolls were required but a moment of silence among the smoke, beer and pot luck clattering to present Maisie with her purse. I wrapped it in plain brown paper. We bingo ladies giggled when Maisie mentioned it probably is an unmentionable item like lingerie or a vibrator. To see children’s faces at Christmas when they unwrap that present that was previously only visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, was surpassed only by an eighty seven year old getting a cross-body purse made by a friend. Thank you, ohs and awes, distracted from the crowd but only momentarily. Back to playing bingo but with one noticeable difference. Maisie’s clutch purse had disappeared. However, on her shoulder was her cross-body-purse. She didn’t win that night but it didn’t matter. We all knew why.

Friends of Maisie and the other bingo players told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend about the amazing (not technicolored) cross-body purse. The word-of-mouth domino effect soon engulfed my life. Could you make one for my mother? For my granddaughter’s birthday? For my relatives in Australia? Why don’t you sell them at a craft fair? Put them in a craft shop Kate. Sell them at a charity auction. Please donate one for our church raffle. On the one hand, when you are swamped by requests, it’s hard to remain humble. Yet, on the other hand, it is hard to refuse. So ten years later, here I sit at my sewing table, making cross-body purses from jeans, jackets, t-shirts and whatever my eye-catching potential sees at the local thrift stores. Almost daily, I make a cross-body purse to place in craft galleries and attend craft fairs. All Because of Maisie.