The sewing gene kicks in -- with a vengence

Wednesday, March 5, 2008


Before I hit 50, I was more than happy to buy my clothes. The saleswomen at Saks and Macy's all knew me by name, and my closet was filled with beautiful things -- elegant jackets from Ellen Tracy Petite, Gucci's Jackie-O hobobag, you get the picture. But then we left the big city, and life changed.

My father's father, who died before I was born and for whom I was named, was a tailor. He sewed an elegant robe for my father made of burgundy silk, which my father kept until the day he died. My father's sister had married into the family of a famous dress designer from the 50s, Ceil Chapman. And my mother's mother, who once worked in a garment sweatshop and loved to sew, had an impressive stockpile of discarded fabric scraps from Ceil Chapman evening gowns stashed in her dresser. As a child I played with these scraps of velvets and silk and grew up with the crazy notion that fabric was free.

Until two years ago I had made only a few sporadic attempts at learning to sew. At ten I sewed a simple black sheath for Barbie that turned out surprisingly well. At twenty-five, I attempted a pleated skirt with $80/yard imported wool but quickly abandoned the project. In my 30s I made simple home dec projects with a needle and thread. And in my 50s I took up the glue gun, which worked surprisingly well for pillows and seat cushions.

Then two years ago, I asked my husband to buy me a sewing machine so I could retire my glue gun. I never imagined my house and my closets would soon be filled with the things I'd made. And I never imagined that my sewing hobby would become such an important part of my life.