My Fiskars

From the moment I was taken under her wing, my friend, my mentor, my idol, Debbie, insisted I use Fiskars. She said, ‘You sew so much, you volunteer so much, you need a good pair of scissors, you deserve a good pair of scissors. Here, use mine!’

Only thing, Debbie is a lefty, and her much beloved pair of Fiskars were Left-Handed Sewing Shears. Not very comfortable for my ordinary right-handed self.

This was about forty years ago, when I was a still struggling graduate school student. Debbie and I, and a few other friends, frequented the same fabric stores in downtown Brooklyn, hoping for serendipity. One day, I was in my favorite, a small storefront a few steps down, where they had overstocks, yard ends, and all sorts of wonders. I stopped after work every few weeks, usually to browse, but sometimes, I had a few extra dollars to spare, and the owner would pull something out of the back that he had set aside, knowing my penchant for velveteen, brocades, and geometrically printed shirting.

‘Robyn! Robyn! I have something special! I got a deal for you, oh my, yes, I do, only for you, my girl!’

‘You got four or five yards of emerald green velvet? A few more yards of the embroidered edge cotton?’

‘No! I got something better! Your friend, Debbie, the tall one, she was in, and she said you don’t have scissors. She said you got some old, clunky, junk scissors, but guess what? I got a deal! I got a deal on the Best Scissors Ever Made! I got you a pair of Fiskars! Look, bent handled, with a sharpening case! I saved them for you!’

He reached under the counter, pulled out the plastic wrapped set, that famous shade of orange, a pair of 8” fabric shears, with a slip case, and built-in sharpening edge. They were $20, I think, as much as I made in a half-day, almost as much as I paid for a month of electric, as much as my monthly subway pass. Even at a steep discount, it was a lot for my budget.

He passed it to me. I touched the handle, the satin sheen of the blades, the case to keep them safe, and from punching holes in a sewing basket or yarn tote. He knew once I touched them, I’d be done. I dug through my wallet, pulled out the emergency twenty I kept hidden behind my library card.

‘I knew you’d love them! No tax, just go, enjoy. Tell Debbie I have some of that brown edging for the thing she’s making for her husband, I got it on the side. Oh, and if you talk to Lucy, there’s six yards of deep blue in the back, a faille. I love you ladies!’

I slipped the Fiskars into my bag, wondering what I had done. I used my emergency money for a pair of scissors. Suppose I had a real emergency … suppose I had my hours cut … suppose something happened … suppose … suppose … suppose …

That week, I got a few extra hours at work, and replaced the twenty behind my library card. That month, I got a small raise, and the emergency twenty became an emergency thirty.

But that night, I undid the ties, released the Fiskars, and the case from their cardboard home, set them on the table next to the piles of fabric, the brown paper I used to create slopers and my sewing machine.

I snipped. I cut. I created. Those 8” shears went on to cut the satin and lace for my first wedding dress, with Debbie to pin and fit. They cut out tents, and tabards, and dresses, and trims. They cut the fabric for my brother-in-law’s AIDS memorial quilt, and seven years later, for my brother’s AIDS memorial quilt. They cut the preemie sized onesies and sweaters for my first-born, from fabric my mom bought me before she died, years before her namesake’s birth. They cut the fabric for my son’s Halloween costume, a ruffled shirt, grey jodhpurs, a sequined vest, when he was four, and decided on Halloween eve, he did not want to be a dinosaur, he wanted to be David Bowie from Labyrinth, and when he was 18, they cut the fabric when I made him the bejeweled tails from the ballroom scene. They cut the fabric for my youngest, when she was born after a series of miscarriages, and I knew she was the last, so i made her a traditional hand-smocked, ribbon embroidered dress for her naming ceremony. They cut the fabric for my second wedding, lavender lace, lined with cream, which had to be suitable for the last twenty miles of a hundred-mile charity bicycle ride. They cut the fabric for the elliephants I made for my youngest every year for Christmas, and hide in the tree: the moosiephant, the dragonphant with its hatchling in a silver egg, the violin-playing elliephant, the rastaphant with its crocheted dreadlocked beret, the Dia de los Muertos elliephant, the angelphant, the Dr. Whophant with its own Tardis, the bespectacled Potterphant, and all the others, sometimes one, more often two or three, every year from when she was four until she turned eighteen. They cut the fabric for the maternity overalls for my first-born and the naming dress for her first-born.

Those Fiskars have served me well, these forty something years. I have bought others as gifts, but only lefties: for my brother, my cousin, my husband. It is love, buying a pair of Fiskars. As for mine? The sharpening stone is worn-down, replaced with a new steel. The handle cracked a few months ago, but I still use them, and they still sit, to the right of my sewing machine, always ready to help me create my dreams.