Sewing with Grandma

by Nancy
(Mobile, Alabama)

Sewing With Grandma
My mother’s mother loved to sew. She’d been taught by her own mother in Russia before the turn of the last century. At age 13, my grandmother was sent to America by herself and toiled in a garment sweatshop until she married a boy who came from the same village where she was born.
One of my early memories is of sitting in the bedroom of my grandmother’s row house in the 1950s. I played with my toys and watched Grandma sew on her Singer treadle machine. Beside the machine was a small tin that held her only notions -- a box of straight pins, a pack of needles and a pair of shears.
Sometimes my grandmother would open the drawers of the dresser to show me her collection of fine silk, satin and lace -- remnants of expensive fabrics far removed from the humble setting. She had received them from a cousin who worked for Ceil Chapman, Marilyn Monroe’s favorite designer. Together Grandma and I marveled at the glamorous treasures.
Once, my grandmother sewed my Barbie doll a magnificent wedding gown with a bodice of silk velvet and a skirt of silk crepe. Grandma had painstakingly hand beaded the tiny dress with iridescent sequins and bugle beads. Although I was just a child, I knew my doll’s “Ceil Chapman” gown was a masterpiece -- a work of art and a labor of love.
I never learned to sew when I was growing up, but I absorbed everything my grandmother taught me about fabric, construction and fit. Patterned fabric should match at the seams, stitches must be neat, and clothing should fit smoothly without pulling. These would be expensive lessons for someone who loved good clothes but didn’t sew.
For many years, I wore only better ready-to-wear because cheaper clothing didn’t measure up. But I always brought my latest purchases back to Grandma who altered them to fit me like a glove. After my grandmother died, I came to rely on alterations shops to get a proper fit -- the fit she would have approved of.
The sewing bug hit me three years ago, and when it did, it struck with vengeance. I was over fifty, and my earliest attempts were hopelessly bad. I made every mistake a beginner possibly could, but I stubbornly kept sewing. Like most women who stick with it, I eventually improved.
Today sewing is my passion, and I make everything I wear -- everything but shoes. I sometimes wonder what my grandmother would say if she visited my sewing room. What would she think about my high tech sewing machine, self-threading serger, and endless stash of fabrics, notions, and books? I can picture her look of amazement.
Often, after I’ve finished a tough project like a tailored wool jacket, I examine it closely. Then I close my eyes and try to imagine my grandmother’s reaction. Her work was so meticulous, I’m sure she’d catch every error. But I like to think she’d be proud and delighted her granddaughter had taken up sewing in the twenty-first century. Grandma, wherever you are, I’m sewing with you now.

Nancy Robertson sews every day and lives with her husband and two Yorkies in Alabama.