Sewing Lessons from a Canoe

For some reason, I took Home Economics in 7th grade, and that's where I really learned how to sew. My mom certainly owned a sewing machine, but I don't remember using it before that point (I do remember that in order to shoot my dad's bow, I had to be able to lift 40 pounds, which was supposedly the equivalent of that sewing machine).  Far more memorable was mom's sewing box, which I loved to organize (I alphabetized my books as a child, too.  And had a tidy bedroom).  The clear plastic sewing bin was the size of a small microwave (you old timers can compare it to a bread box); the spools of thread fit neatly onto the specially-made plastic spindles affixed to the removable top tray; buttons and other notions fit neatly into the square bins; scrap fabrics were folded into the bottom of the box. Everything had a place.  And I adore that concept enough to (a) repeat it: "Everything had a place" and to (b) again request God to put it in His next edition of the Bible (I've not heard back on that). 

My first sewing project.

But I digress. In Home Ec, I learned how to thread a sewing machine and use its basic knobs and buttons and foot pedal (yes, they were electric machines, you sassy reader). We then learned to use patterns by making a stuffed animal.  (To this day I hate patterns: horrible rippy tissue paper with strange symbols and way too many lines and options).  I chose to make an octopus, for which I bought green gingham fabric (I don't know why), and followed the 3-legged pattern as closely as I could (why did it have 3 legs? A google search for today's patterns show tons of cute 8-legged versions and a few 4 legged and even 5-legged ones, but never 3. Ever.).  I vaguely remember my parents leaking snorts and giggles upon first seeing the creature.  Perhaps because the seams weren't very good and the stupid Styrofoam pellets leaked out for years hence.  Or, in retrospect, because it had three legs and looked, well, like a weird male creature.

Upon completion of that project (nightmare) I had earned Expert Seamstress Status.  At least in my own mind.  I next made a Totally Cool vest from off-white linen that was even reversible (I pause here for your admiring gasp), but ... this extra work was totally pointless as BOTH SIDES were the same fabric and color.  All the work I did to hide seams, yet utterly failed to think ahead about oh, say, DIFFERENT fabrics on the two sides. And I bought a cute buckle for the back (one side only), but it was cheap, tarnished quickly, and the stupid thing never stayed together. And the cute little pockets were so stingy as to barely admit a quarter.  But I wore the stupid thing because I am proud. Which brings us to the theme of today's essay.

I love organizing; I love weeding gardens; I love editing.  But when I get into "blank slate" kinds of situations (whether it's sewing, being a dean, or any other creative endeavor), I freeze.  I veer wildly between "The Expert is In the House" and "This is Impossible," which leads to piles of projects in various stages of not-being-done. Once I actually decide to start a creative project, I often quit in frustration, blaming the infuriatingly vague project/plan or the inadequate tools or the intrusive children or even the weather for being so...stupid. 

Nick & I on the Eleven-Point River (southern Missouri)

We must turn momentarily to the illuminating Canoe Incident of 1994 that was important in my mental, marital, and spiritual development. Nick and I went on a canoe tip with friends to southern Missouri. Now, I had canoed rivers PLENTY as a kid, thanks to my dad. Therefore, of course, I certainly knew how to canoe: Stick paddle in water, pull it back, canoe goes forward. Easy peasy.  What I did NOT know, however, was that I was never on the business end of the canoe. All those years of sitting in the front, on a slow backyard river, paddling away and imagining myself to be a Canoe Master, my dad (in the back) assessed the river and constantly made adjustments to our speed and direction.  But I didn't know any of that before our Missouri trip, where we were on a fast, winding, rapid-filled river in the middle of NOWHERE (an outfitter agreed to pick us up 4 days downriver, in Arkansas). Further, and to my imminent shame, this Canoe Master believed her husband, who had some vague experience canoeing in swamps or something (!), was a Canoe Moron.  

For the sake of time and embarrassment, let us just say that after a certain number of hours of intra-canoe tension, Nick took me to a quiet part of the river downstream (well away from our friends) and taught me how canoeing is actually done.  Just pulling a paddle does not make a canoe go straight. Instead, you have to correct for the pulling force by making more of a J or L pattern with the (stupid) paddle  And you always have to read the (stupid) river to judge its current direction and speed, etc, and make adjustments all the time.  To sum up:  Canoeing had always seemed easy not because I was so skilled, but because, well, someone smarter had quietly paid attention to all the details and had done most of the work.  I wasn't a master at all; just a prideful child with grand visions and too little motivation to pay attention to learning the basic skills.  Ouch.   

Back to sewing (you thought I'd lost the thread there, didn't you?  And hey - a sewing pun!).  Today when I was internet surfing and greedily pinning away (I shall not name That Site of Evil Goodness) I suddenly realized just how many Undone Projects I had going.  And some part of my brain quietly but quite firmly said, "ENOUGH.."

Oh. So I drafted a list of all the projects I already had underway (organizing again enables procrastination) and decided to tackle the stack of sewing, mostly involving tailoring clothes for Elisabeth.  

This was a mighty fine machine 30 years ago
(8 whole stitch options!)

As you know from above, I was An Expert Seamstress, and therefore knew how easy it is to sew: set up machine, sew, and away you go with your beautiful curtains or clothes or whatever.  But, if you're paying any attention, you already know I have a wee little problem related to assumptions. To add to the fun had by the devil on my behalf today, let's add my 30-year-old sewing machine that was roughed up in transit to Korea last year (the tension knob broke off and empathic sewing friend Tracey took me to a place to get it fixed; the guy didn't have the exact part, but he built one out of spare parts - very impressive, but temperamental (the knob, not the guy)).  Listening to that part of my brain that had said "ENOUGH.," I sat my backside down and worked on sewing.  I tried to be open to new lessons and googled my questions often, looking closely at pictures and consulting lots of "how to" sites. Along the way I may have stomped about and grumbled and perhaps even swore, and I certainly had to do a lot of things over (and over) again, but I learned a lot.  Of pretty basic stuff.  For example: 

(1) Cheap. Thread. Breaks. Often.  (And using scraps of thread gleaned from hotel sewing kits? Not worth the hassle on a machine.)

(2) Tension knobs actually do matter (oh, sure, you can ignore them if all is well, like canoeing in the front with an experienced partner in back, but if all is not well, what a snarled MESS). Corollary: testing on scrap fabric is actually worth the extra time and the "cost" of thread.  Yup. Took me a few times to learn that little lesson.

(3) Reading glasses are very useful for threading needles and picking out snarled messes.  (I'm sorry, eyes, just face it; you're not what you used to be.)

(4) Google and Pinterest are very patient teachers (though they really slowed me down from that strong inner drive to be DONE already). Careful and frequent measuring; pinning and basting; and even ironing (horrors) are keys for successful sewing.  Even if they ARE time consuming and drag the simplest project out forever, these new practices did help me feel good about my work. 

Elisabeth was incredibly patient with me, even when she got poked with pins or tried on the same thing for the tenth time.  Today I had to learn (AGAIN) that life isn't about just sticking your paddle in the water and expecting that minimum contribution to guarantee smooth sailing (just to mess with the metaphors).  Nope: good canoeing and good sewing (and probably a ten ka-billion other things) require time spent gaining lots of basic knowledge; constant attention to current conditions and needs; and the patience to deal with troubles.  

Arg.  It's so much work to be prideful and then have to re-learn everything.  Why can't I remember that?

P.S. I saw this sewing manual advice on Facebook today and had to include it here.  The first paragraph bowled me over given my above reflections; the second paragraph made me want to slap somebody.  :)