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Confessions of a Non-Calico Thumb by Carol Wells

A stitch in times saves nine; or so the old rhyme says. Time perhaps better saved by a person who knows what they are doing while stitching. Carol humorously explains her lack of invitations to local sewing circles.

I cannot sew.

"Oh, it's easy," women cheerfully claim when I share my lack of sewing skills.

"Easy for you, not so easy for me," I respond then slightly change topic of conversation to thwart any possible attempts at offering sewing lessons.

I can compare my lack of sewing skills to a person trying, in vain, to raise house plants. Even varieties reputed having magical abilities, enabling it to be hardy, sense when it is in a home of a `brown thumb`, a plant killer. No matter how nurturing the `brown thumb` tries, they will not fool the plant. The `green thumb` person, however, can just glance at a plant and it will grow two inches while sprouting six new leaves.

I do not possess a `calico thumb`. I am a fabric killer. Please do not further this humiliation asking about my house plant, "Brownie".

Oh, I have tried my hand at sewing. It was a requirement, in my junior high school, to take Home Economics. My teacher tried to keep a straight face over my attempts behind the sewing machine. The jump suit mangled before attempting putting in the zipper. Then the project of making pillowcases . . .. I hid the jump suit and pillowcases on my closet's shelf for several years.

My grandmother would have clucked her tongue in dismay. I fondly remember afternoons at her home contentedly watching as she sat behind the old treadle machine. I recall the rhythmic humming clickety-clack sound as she created outfits I proudly wore and boasted that my grandmother had made it for me.

I doubt my grandmother had a jump suit or set of pillowcases hiding shamefacedly in the dark recesses of a closet. In fact, I know she did not as, the week after her passing, I stood near my parents while they emptied out the contents of her closet.

It is disappointing when watching The Simpsons and noticing Marge Simpson can do something you cannot. Marge showed off her flair with a sewing needle in more than one episode. I was jealous of a cartoon character with a 2-foot tall pile of blue hair on her head and whose husband's simplified answer to everything being "D'oh!". She also can wear strapless dresses, another thing I cannot do - so that is two strikes against her.

I did not feel stirrings of jealously while watching Wilma on The Flintstones. Sure, she could knit, had a seemingly unlimited charge card, and kept a microscopic waistline even after giving birth to Pebbles. However, unlike Wilma, I did not have to pedal my car, follow my husband around due to him sneaking out on bowling league nights, or chisel shopping lists onto slabs of granite.

One time, back in 2000, my mother called and sewing managed to become a topic of our conversation. She thought I had a sewing machine so, upon hearing that I did not, she eagerly formed plans to seek out a second-hand one to send my way.

For a few minutes, I got swept up in the euphoria of prospective craftiness. Then I recalled those pillowcases and the jump suit possibly still lurking in the back corner of my old bedroom closet. My mother sold the house in the 90's but the little girl, who lives there now, discovered some of my old toys hidden away up in the attic. What else has she found?

I had visions of picketers from local sewing circles and quilting bees marching back and forth in front of my house. Each one proclaiming angrily to reporters that the woman in the house, a.k.a. me, was abusing fabrics and sewing needles. This news leading to a larger group picketing in front of my home

I also envisioned my husband's face when coerced to take me to the local fabric shops. Hours spent twiddling his thumbs while I sifted through rows of various colorful prints and occasionally asking his opinion about colors or prints. Later he would be hoping having a fertile enough of an imagination to come close to guessing what I was proudly holding up in front of his eyes.

"Um, would be nice, Mom," I said while watching my youngest child innocently seated on the couch looking through a picture book. "But you know, with a 2-year-old in the house . . .. Well, I don't think he would leave it alone...."

"True, but if you were a bit firmer with him," she happily launched into sharing parenting thoughts and tips.

I inwardly sighed, my fib succeeding to divert the conversation away from sewing. I felt guilty using an innocent child as an excuse versus telling my mother the truth. That it was I -the way beyond 2 years in age person- who would be terrorizing the poor machine.

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The dress fits you fine; it's you that doesn't fit the dress.
-- Mother to her daughter in Grace Under Fire