I've picked up and then cut up a few pair of old jeans and a few other blue fabrics, and today I am ironing them onto interfacing and then backing them with a kind of tissue paper. That's what you call book cloth. Later, on another assumbly line day, I will cover book boards with them to be used on books with exposed spines.
Same with dish rags picked up for a dollar at a thrift store along with a couple of vintage handkerchiefs.
The smell of steam on fabric takes me back--since every garment I ever wore was made by my mother, Carlene.
On the night before she made a dress or a skirt for either of us, she enjoyed cutting out the patterns--McCalls, Simplicity, and Butterick.
Then she'd iron and neatly fold the fabric the long way, selvages together. On each pattern piece, there was an arrow indicating straight of grain. So she'd pin each pattern piece, sleeves and skirts parallel to the grain. She then cut each piece with pinking shears and pin matching parts together.
My favorite part was sitting beside her as the fabric slid under the presser foot of the machine and watching the parts come out the other side connected.
While I've made a few garments in my life, I find making small pieces like book covers more satisfying at the moment. When machine stitching is called for I love using her old Bernina to stitch the parts together.
Memories of my mother are woven into everything I make. To her--and then to me, and then to Day--handmade gifts were the best gifts.
No comments:
Post a Comment