Still Life

Let me start by telling you that this is my mom's "sewing table," upon which sat, for years and years, her Pfaff sewing machine.  I don't know if she bought the sewing machine when we all lived in Germany, or later on, when we settled in Silver Spring, Md.  I wanted to write about it--more about the memories it inspires--because of my recent conversation with a certain someone about her own mom's lovely sewing cabinet, which also has some very cool hardware.

When Mom moved to Antique Village three years ago, she insisted on taking the sewing machine with her.  As her room there is not very large, I tried to talk her into letting me store it for her at our house.  Initially, she agreed, and I took it home with me.  Soon, though, she angrily demanded that I bring it back to her and told me that she would set it up for use in one of the common-use rooms at Antique Village.  Since she hadn't used her machine in years, even though repeatedly asking me to re-thread it and get it operating during the years leading up to her move from home, the notion of her using it at Antique Village was pure fantasy.  It's a classic dementia symptom, where the person believes they still possess the skills and the ability to do the same things they always have done, and, in fact, believe they actually are still doing said things.

So, it stayed on her closet floor until quite recently, when I was able, again, to persuade her to let me "store" it for her.  Now it sits on my closet floor.

(When I checked online to make sure I was spelling "Pfaff" correctly, I was astonished to see that sewing machines are now computerized, with digital displays where stitch size and type can be selected, among other things, at the press of a symbol on a tiny screen.  I had no idea, not having sewn anything in a very, very long time.  It seems I am just as much of a relic as my mother's Pfaff.)

Ah, sewing!  Who out there remembers the home economics classes in school?  I learned to arrange the fabric correctly, pin and cut the patterns, and sew some pretty basic stuff--some sort of apron, I think, was one of the projects.  Then there was cooking, where we learned to operate a stove, boil hot dogs and beans, follow recipes and make one or two gooey concoctions.  I believe I once made cream puffs there, but I couldn't say for certain.  I vaguely remember learning to manage a checkbook, too.  I'm sure schools no longer devote classroom space to fitted-out kitchens or rows of sewing machines (relic alert!), but all that strikes me as charming now, in a Mayberry-esque kind of way.

Those were the days when home economics and shop classes were strictly segregated by sex.  If you happened to be a girl interested in changing spark plugs or building bookshelves, you were out of luck.  Same for any guy who might have preferred the mysterious, domestic arts.

My childhood was spent at Highland View Elementary School, wearing dresses.  Always dresses, or jumpers (my fave!) or skirts and blouses.  I'm not sure if we were allowed to wear pants in class, but I know that it just wasn't done, unless it snowed heavily.  During my years at Eastern Junior High School, things changed pretty rapidly.  Suddenly, there were pants.  And not just any old pants, but hip huggers, and halter tops and, then, one or two pregnant classmates!  Man, oh, man.  While I was busy fretting about the fact that my build was ill-suited to these latest fashions, my future husband was serving a tour of duty in Vietnam.  By the time I was in 10th grade at Montgomery Blair High School, any and all order had flown out the window.

But, I really want to talk about those early, innocent years--before the chaos.

Back then, a fun Saturday (Sundays were out.  Blue laws, you know.) involved going to the "center of Silver Spring."  I remember, I think it was, McCrory's Five-and-Ten, the movie theater, Hahn's shoe store, the Hecht Co., a drug store (probably People's), Casual Corner, a sewing goods store and a few more little places I don't clearly recall.

Usually, we'd get a ride there and home from somebody's mother, but we'd sometimes walk the couple of miles, down along Colesville Road from the YMCA, crossing over Sligo Creek Parkway, and up, passing Mrs. K's Toll House, the public library and a fancy-at-the-time hotel, where I once attended a magical, office Christmas party as the guest of an employee's daughter.  I remember being enthralled by all the adults, the food, the twinkling, holiday lights, and the totally free rein we were given to ride up and down on the elevators and, generally, have the run of the place.

When I was a very young teenager, I took sewing lessons at the Hecht Co. one summer.  The lessons were held on the top, never-seen-by-the-shoppers floor, where seamstresses did alterations, repairs and pressing.  That summer, I learned more complicated sewing stuff, like making A-line and dirndl skirts, sewing "darts" and "putting in" zippers.  I remember that the atmosphere was hot and stuffy, but I liked being in there, among the professionals.

I made a few dresses on my own, one of which I wore to a dance at St. Bernadette's church, where the nuns came around with yardsticks, slicing them down between the dance partners, from their heads to their knees, making sure there was appropriate distance between the slow-dancing, mortified teenagers.

Anyway, back to Mom's sewing table, which is really a desk.  It's a desk that now resides in our living room and serves only marginally as a desk and, most often, as a flat surface upon which things collect, are removed, and collect, again.  It's quite small, too, suitable only, really, for a lady to use to write her letters upon.  I can't imagine how Mom sewed the heavy, floral drapes in the living room and dining room on the small surface.

On the sewing table/desk today are two phones, a lamp, my camera case, an Ecphora (the Maryland state fossil), a brass dish in the shape of a Maple leaf in which is coiled a string of black, glass beads (Mom's), a brass letter caddy from Ireland (gift from Mom), a framed, black-and-white photo of Mom and Dad in Paris in the 1960's, a stack of papers and books, including design brochures from Benjamin Moore, a diary and a book that some, who know me, will laugh at!  There are also scads of paint color samples, which I look at and become overwhelmed.

Leaning against the wall is a very favorite thing of mine.

I saw this little picture (click on the photos for a closer peak) about 10-12 years ago in an antiques market in St. Mary's county.  I fell in love with it when I saw it, but didn't buy it right off, instead, "visiting" it a couple of times before knowing for certain that I had to have it.  It wasn't terribly expensive or anything, but I wanted to make sure my need to possess it wasn't just a passing fancy.

It's a print of some sort, I think--black, gray, white and shiny, hand-painted gold, which shows up much better in the next picture.  Such a lovely and serene Japanese landscape, with Mt. Fuji in the distance.  I just want to jump right through the glass and into the picture, like Dick van Dyke did in Mary Poppins.

 

My parents are only in their very early 40's in this picture, much, much younger than I am now.  When I look at them, married for just 12 years, I think about all the sadnesses they had already endured and of the tragedies to come, about which they were blissfully oblivious.

When I saw Mom last Saturday, we talked about doing some de-cluttering and housecleaning in her room at Antique Village.  To get an idea about the state of things, I opened drawers and closets and rummaged around a bit.  In the process, I found that string of diamond-shaped, black glass beads.  I pulled it out from the tangle of other necklaces and what-not, admired it, and asked Mom if I could have the beads.  (It's been many years since Mom has worn any jewelry, except her wedding ring.)

Mom said, "Oh, yes, by all means.  I won them at Bingo."  I was pretty certain that this was not the case, as I have a distinct memory of Mom wearing this necklace with a certain ivory and black print dress of hers.  But, since she doesn't use the necklace, anyway, I didn't correct her.

Thanks for stopping by!

 

Comments

[Pam Jones]

I remember those sewing rooms at Hecht's! Not sure why I remember them... maybe I took a class there too. And such a sweet picture of mom and dad. She looks so much more mature than someone in her early 40s -- not old, just more mature. But in those days, that was the look wasn't it. One day a teenager, the next day an adult. These days people linger in some odd place between teenage and adult years for a long, long time. And some never graduate from one phase to the other (Geo W. Bush being a good example). I just read the first chapter of his book on my Kindle. That's probably all I'll read. I'll give him this: he loves his parents and makes it abundantly clear that they tolerated a lot from him. He still was a miserable president but at least he's not blaming his parents.

[The Complaint Department]

Pam--I think you're right about the look (the clothing fashions, the hairstyles, the eyewear, the hats) seeming so mature, more formal than today's look. I don't really have a memory of my mother ever even wearing pants until those awful pantsuits came into vogue in the '70's.

And, yes. We hardly expect the youth of today to take on adult responsibilities until they're 30 or so. I don't think my mother really had those teenage years, either. She lived an impoverished, rural life, the only one in her family to finish high school, having to board in a nearby town to do so. After high school (there were only 3 or 4 others in her graduating class), she worked as a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse for a year to earn enough money to enter nursing school. During nursing school, her mother became sick with cancer, dying the last year of Mom's nursing training. She went home (about 60 miles away) every weekend, and then missed much of her last term when she returned home to stay in her mother's final months. She was allowed to graduate with her class, but had to make up her missed coursework the following term. She earned her R.N. at age 23 and moved from Canada to Boston a year or two later.

She was driven, ambitious and adventurous.

I heard a term recently for those in-between years. Wish I could remember it--something like pre-adulthood, but catchier, like the "tween" word.