On Sewing, and the Art of Waiting

In 1922,

she sewed

three little dresses,

with pinafores

and hand-stitched

underslips,

to dress her

three little daughters

in layers of

fluffy white.

In those days,

she washed clothes

and linens

for the family

by hand,

at night

in the bathtub.

Her husband

helped her

to wring out

the heavy sheets.

They'd freeze solid

on the clothesline

through the Prairie winter,

and then would

stand about

indoors

in corners

until they thawed out.

In those days,

money was

scarce as hen's teeth,

and her husband

traded accounting work

for bags of coal,

or anything

that he could use

to provide for his family.

Grandma Julie

sewed too,

mending tears

and darning socks:

always a lot of socks

with four,

and soon five,

 active children.

The house on Lorne Avenue

was a beehive

of

noise and

activity.

"Can you curl my hair?"

Grandma Julie

would call

from upstairs.

And then,

"Oh, I know:

no time, no time, no time!"

My Grandma,

when she was old

and sitting in her red chair

in the "Home"

that was never her home,

felt sad remembering that.

Now it was her turn

to wait for family

to have time,

and everyone was

always

so busy.

When she was invited

to their homes

for dinner,

the Waiting

would begin

right after breakfast,

her cane ready

on the bed,

hat on her head,

eyes trained

on the doorway,

such a long wait

till four o'clock,

to be with

family

again.

I remember

when she'd walk down

Ethel Street

to visit,

sitting under

the grape arbor

watching me

weed the garden,

and how,

when I walked her

slowly back,

to the tap tap tapping

of her cane,

I'd see a tear

roll down her cheek,

grief

for all she had lost,

and this life

she no longer wanted,

which was

only, now,

all about

Waiting.

Sewing

was never

 my forte.

The sewing machine and I

had one encounter

from which it never

recovered.

I had no clue,

and never cared to learn

its intricacies.

So when I think of sewing,

I remember my Grandma

and my mother's Grandma,

lovingly

hand-stitching

all those layers

of petticoats and lace,

far into the night

so they'd be ready

for Church

next morning.