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Historic women
March is Women’s History Month. As I wrote last week, when I try to understand myself, I am reminded who my mother was. I’m not sure Mom ever understood the celebrating of International Women’s Day or of Women’s History Month. She was the kind of person who did what she had to do. If a barrier was in her way, she pushed through it, walked around it, or climbed over it. In short, barriers- schmarriers. The word “can’t” wasn’t in her personal vocabulary. As gritty and as down-toearth as she was, Mom had this deep, abiding love for beautiful clothing. No, she didn’t swan around in a dress, and I rarely saw her wear an apron to protect her clothing. As a matter of fact, we hardly ever saw her get “dressed up”. But when she did, it was a glorious sight. When I was a kid at home, I loved to dig through the family photographs. I remember the day I realized Mom had been quite the fashion plate in her younger days. In the dozens of photographs of her as a young unmarried woman, rarely was she captured wearing the same outfit. From hat to heels, it was obvious she had an impressive wardrobe. My mom, like the rest of her siblings, had a trade. She was, originally, trained to be a secretary, but if you knew my mom you’d know that wasn’t her style. Eventually she found work at Simpson’s, and there she learned to be a seamstress—a pattern maker and cutter, to be specific. I suppose most of the outfits she wore, in those photographs, were handmade by herself. In fact, most of what my sisters and I wore were handmade by Mom, and usually not from a commercial pattern.
As a youngster, I loved to tinker with her ancient treadle sewing machine. Her sewing machine was her prized possession and we weren’t supposed to touch it. But when she realized how much I loved the art of creating clothing, she saved scraps from her projects for me to create outfits for all of the toy dolls four Durning girls could amass. My first “human person” sewing project was for my younger cousin. In my mind’s eye I had created the most beautiful skirt ever. I’m sure it wasn’t, but Mom smiled at the finished product and my cousin twirled around the living room wearing it. I was bitten by the sewing bug. Mom let me experiment and eventually taught me how to create my own patterns. By the time I was a teenager, I was making most of my own clothing and occasionally branched out, once in a while, piecing together an outfit for my older sister. My older sister had a keen eye for fashion and I had the know-how for putting her ideas together. In the ’60s, sewing was an inexpensive way to be instyle without spending all of your part-time job or babysitting dollars on an outfit. It was a great hobby and an excellent escape from the world of homework, chores, part-time jobs and a noisy household.
In my adult lifetime I have owned two sewing machines. The “new” machine is well over forty years old—I will probably continue to refer to it as the “new” machine until I buy a “newer” machine. And, buying a newer machine will only happen if the “new” machine completely broke down or blew up. Whenever I embark on a sewing project, I think of my mom and wonder how many projects she undertook over the years. How many Hallowe’en costumes, costumes for school plays, special occasion outfits, Christening dresses, wedding dresses, prom dresses and everyday outfits did she put together? Mom owned three sewing machines in her lifetime, the last was “too fussy” for her. It had too many dials and attachments. “Who needs an attachment to make buttonholes? If you can’t make them by hand, properly, you shouldn’t be sewing.” Indeed. Many of the projects undertaken on the “new” machine frustrated her and were abandoned before they were finished. Often, when I was visiting, she’d tell me to feel free to finish one of her projects, thinking the “new” machine would flummox me. Later, over a cup of tea, she’d suggest a swap. My “new” machine for her “new” machine. I am grateful she shared her love of creating and sewing. It is one skill I’ve often used throughout the years. One thing which always reminds me of her and her story.
In this, the month of Women’s History, share your story. Encourage other women and listen to their stories. It took a long time for me to realize I am exactly who I am. I am my mother’s daughter.
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