A Foggy Notion

Writing this post makes me feel, at once, ungrateful and sad and euphoric. Conflicted should be added to that list, don't you think? In December of 2003 dear friend of mine began living with the effects of chemotherapy as she underwent treatment for breast cancer. Her hair is really, though it's difficult to explain, an integral part of her personality. After a two weeks of searching, it was evident that wigs were not going to be a very good option as no wig seemed to fit. It was bad. An uncertain future, given the stage of the cancer, was enough to live with on a daily basis. Baldness in the dead of winter was one of those issues that, though from a distant perspective might seem minor, in the moment quite acute. Baldness was critical mass, the tipping point: We were witnessing a meltdown.

It was difficult to consider, as a friend. I think, by and large, those who sew are those also inclined to "fix". We create, we repair, we reinforce. I'm always a bit more aware than most of not fitting the average, the standard. My friend had issues with wigs because her head as not a "normal" shape. Someone actually made the mistake of saying that to her. In all likelihood, that statement was not intended as derogatory, but, given the circumstances...

I totally understood this situation. I empathized with her. I wear a size fifteen or sixteen shoe. The idea of walking into Nordstroms, or anywhere else, picking the shoe I like, and then telling the clerk, "Yes, I'd like to try this in a sixteen." More pertinent to this situation, when I played football in high school my helmet had to be custom made by the same company that provided custom helmets to the NFL. When all the players were getting measured for standard helmets and it was my turn, the guy taking the orders measured the circumference of my head. Then he measured it again. Then he looked at the coach and said, "Pat, this one's going to take a lot of bake sales to pay for it. " He wasn't kidding.

So, being someone else with a not "normal" head, being someone who doesn't take things sitting down but rather gets up and goes to work, I had to do something. At 3:30 am on a Saturday morning, I'm awakened by the dog. He's managed, somehow, to put himself in an awkward position: His head is stuck inside my duvet cover, between two of the buttons; of course consequent duvet covers are designed to ameliorate this unforeseen issue, but then, no. He's barking and whining. I'm laughing. It's quite a bit of hat for even a big dog. Hat, big, hmm. It's, to paraphrase Eudora Welty, the moment of illumination. Hats. I'd made a few in college, in that theater arts class, the class I wanted to take because I wanted to build sets, work rigging, set flies - not the type with zippers. It didn't work that way. I happened to take my jacket off in one of the first classes and someone noticed the free motion embroidered label "James-o 1987". The questions followed, and I was suddenly project leader for costuming and not very happy about it. (And everyone paid for that in pin pricks, sticks, and some selective over fitting.) I could make hats.

Make hats I did, starting at that moment. Floppy hats, tall hats, wide brimmed hats, snoods, rain hats, dress hats, formal hats, holiday hats, hats in calico, hats in ermine from an old coat found at the thrift store, hats from a Pucci dress my mother had kept despite the cleaners ruining one of the sleeves in 1973 - just in case. I put someone in charge of an exhaustive search for every one's "no longer needed" cashmere sweaters and flannel anything - warm, soft lining for the hats. A hat made from neckties provided by the all the guys she worked with, then another made from a pastiche of some bridesmaids dresses provided by the women she worked with - perhaps the best use I can imagine for a bridesmaid's dress; a hat from an exquisite piece of hand worked black linen, and, the one I will never forget, the hat and purse made from the Hermes scarf a woman who I didn't know, who didn't know my friend, who happened to strike up a conversation with me at the fabric store, took from around her shoulders, put into my hands, and pointed me toward the perfect tweed to compliment the design.

All that generosity, people stepping up and doing something because they could, they would, and they should. My machine was enabling more than just the joining of seams, it was facilitating the joining of people. It was making it possible to make it a little bit more bearable for someone who had too much to bear, almost.

The great news is it all worked out in the end. The hats, for the most part, were donated to hospice, given to support groups, sent out to do what they did for someone who needed it. They no longer fit my friend since she had, once again, that integral part of her personality. And the generosity goes on, too. Last night, by surprise, as part of the celebration of the five year mark, someone dropped a wrapped box on my screen porch. Inside was a gift card for fabric and tons of sewing notions: pins, needles, bobbins, hook and eyes, bias tape...name it, it's in there. I was so touched. I wish I knew who to thank even as I love the fact that someone just did it because they could, they should, they would.

Now comes the rub. We're finally getting to the foggy part of this. It took me a while. I haven't bought notions in a long time. I was lucky in finding myself with a pocket full of Christmas money and a mother load flea market find about ten years ago. Schmetz needles, pins in every shape and size, tracing paper, buttons, closures, zippers, bobbins, all good stuff, and all had cheap. It was notion nirvana. I loaded up with this stuff. It's not like pins go bad. This morning I was fiddling around with some silk for a necktie, and did realize pins can, after ten years, go missing. So, the box of loot was well timed, indeed. But the pins, in a Dritz package, aren't the same as the old Dritz pins. They're softer, some of them don't have heads, some of them don't have points, they feel almost fragile when compared to my old pins.

I started comparing items in the box to the items in my stash: Old bobbins so smooth with a nice weight and perfectly symmetrical, new bobbins that look pitted with no weight and a tendency to wobble across my cutting table more than role across the table; safety pins in the stash so sturdy and secure when fastened, new safety pins with closures that actually spin around on the tops of the pins; t-pins in the stash so fine and smooth yet sturdy enough to drive like nails, the new t-pins, perhaps the worst of the new lot, some not straight, some rough, some with burrs, mostly with not quite even t's, t's just begging to pick, snag, and make my crazy. These aren't Wal-Mart notions - I'm very anti-Wal-Mart. Everyone knows that if they know me. These notions were purchased in a specialty shop as a special gift from a special friend. This was a special act. Sadly, the notions, try as they might, just can't seem to be special. I'm left feeling gratefully perplexed. It's a foggy notion, yes, but it's where I am.