Demolished

You could feel my frustration in the air at that moment. The events before this moment could have prevented it from happening. Of course if I wouldn’t have procrastinated, I have wouldn’t be fought the needle so much. Yet, there I was trying to repair my cheap, demolished shoes. I had brought these shoes on sale and had been using them for everything. This is something I was taught not to do.

I was taught to buy at least two pairs of tennis shoes. One of pairs was supposed to be a cheap pair used in most of my activities and a more expensive, comfortable pair to use for work. Even though, this shoes were comfortable they weren’t made to last. So after least than four months of me wearing these tennis shoes almost every day, they fall apart in the front.

I didn’t realize how much they were fall apart and that my feet were exposed to the elements at first until a rainy day. Wet socks are never fun but these were my only pair of tennis shoes. I had to order two new pairs because I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. However due to my humongous feet, it was going to take awhile for me to find a size 12 shoe that I like. Also I probably would be awhile for to get them. It seemed like there was only one situation.

I had to do my favorite thing, hand stitching things back together. Hand stitching is something I had learned from my decreased paternal grandmother. She used to say “I love my sewing machine but there’s something about pushing the needle through the fabric yourself”. I agree with her and usually would add something along the lines of “And the sewing machine can’t do everything”. She would smile and hand me a project that had to be finished with hand stitching.

It became my routine to stay up during my nap time to quietly watch her lay out her fabrics on the soft, clean carpet in the brightest room in her home. Then she would compare them to make sure they blended nicely together and cut her pattern out. If she had time, start sewing her project together. I would always be amazed by the process of that she had and her finished project.

Once I was older enough and understand the safety rules of using the sewing tools (scissors, sewing machine, needle, etc.). She slowing started introducing me to hand stitching. The first project that she gave me was doing a simple running stitch in a straight line into a piece of scrap fabric. Despite the fact that I stab my fingers with the needle multiple times I fall in love with these methods of sewing.

I became really good at simple hand stitching and would sew on buttons for my grandmother. Then one day, my pants had ripped near my crotch during a rough playtime with my sisters. I was going to throw my pants out but my grandmother stopped me. She brought me into her sewing room and like magic they look brand new. You couldn’t even see the stitch after she cut the thread. I begged her to show me her ways and she eventually did. Like before stabbing myself with needles during this period of learning more complex stitches became normal again.

Once I mastered the new stitches, I started buying embroidery activity packets to practice my technique. I was the odd girl in my school who loves reading and doing “old lady” crafts. I would zone out while working on one of my packets and just losing track of time. If I didn’t have any packets to do, I would tailor and repair my clothing. My siblings started asking me to do the same to theirs.

It is became my addiction, and a stress reliever. I could fix something or make it fit better in the matter of seconds. The sound of my scissor cutting through the yarn or the thread embellishes my thoughts. I couldn’t wait until got home from school to finish my project. Once I got into university, I would bring my projects with me to class. My classmates and some of my professors would watch me complete my projects.

I made friends this way in. In the end, I would teach them how to hand-stitch, sewing, knit, and crotchet while we watched movies. Now that, I work a full-time and taking a break from university I missed those times. Despite the fact that some of us video call and do crafts together. It’s just not the same thing. Maybe it’s the sound of the all of those scissors clipping that I missed, helping the newbies thread the needle, or watching everyone try not to stab themselves with needle. I don’t know.

I still something crave doing a project by myself but at the same time, miss ding them with others. I can’t wait to teach my future kids and grand kids how to create, repair, and tailor objects with a simple hand stitch. As I work through the frustration, blood, and sweat to repair my tennis also I will always know to enjoy to the sound of my scissor.