It seems like forever since I last opened
my mother’s sewing box, a motley collection
of notions she rarely used but kept on hand
just in case.
The strawberry pincushion with its elegant,
pearl-topped stabbers rests there with any
number of threaded needles, their unwieldy tails
proof that they are ready for action. See also
the seam rippers, a measuring tape or two,
safety pins, stray elastic, scissors used only
to cut fabric.
Hooks, eyes, snaps, elastic, interfacing, bias tape.
And my favorite—the palette of thread with colors
so vibrant I wanted to lick them like ice cream
atop a cone when I was a kid.
Why, of all her things, did I bring this sagging,
soiled thing home? Because, like too much else,
I could not bear to throw it away. Though she
rarely sewed and had limited skills with a bobbin,
she taught us how to tack on buttons and whip stitch
a hem. My clumsy fingers did not easily accept
the challenge, but my sister took to the machine
and set it humming,
Look at that bold purple thread, the seagoing
dark turquoise, the strawberry pink, the pistachio
green. How could I not want to preserve that
yummy spectrum of possibility?
How could I ignore the notion that so much
can be made from bits and bobs, that these colors,
aged but so vibrant, still live, waiting for
someone to finish what was long ago begun?
Güd wrtr 
OH my, Jan. ( Hey, that’s fun. To think of you as MY Jan!) Wonderful reflection on your Mom’s sewing basket. And the photo! I know someone who paints “vintage” things, and this looks like a perfect subject for her. May I pass it along?
And where is my seam ripper anyway?
XO,
Susie
Thank you! You certainly can pass it along, Susie! (And I’m delighted to be “your Jan”!) I can send it to your email as a pdf or a Word document, if you like. Just email me and let me know.
And yes, where’s the seam ripper when you need it?!
Jan, wonderful and thanks for capturing the thrill of the sewing basket–the yummy colors, the waiting needles with their unruly tails ready for action! Mom’s tools of the trade. Loved beginning with bone needles as it feels like, though I rarely use them, the longing to create with these tools is ancient in me as well. I have my own basket but nearly everything in it was Mom’s.
Love, Tx Jan
Transformational Coach, ICF ACC Certified Deep Coaching Practitioner Affiliate Amherst Writers and Artists Writing Group Leader Wildasswriters http://www.janetjohnstoncoaching.com
Thanks, Jan! That’s helpful. I was later thinking that the first two stanzas were a bit of throat clearing (about the bone needles, for example), so I removed them. Now you’ve got me rethinking that. I appreciate your observation!