memories

The Sewing Machine

Rae Spencer6 Comments

Sewing Machine Dec 23

To my knowledge, my grandmother never purchased a single item of clothing. She made everything by hand, including many of the patterns for her clothes. Mother continued this tradition, except she felt more comfortable using commercial patterns. I have fond memories of our trips to the sewing store. I loved the tall stools set in a row before thick catalogues of Butterick and Simplicity patterns. I loved flipping through the books, admiring line-sketched dresses and pantsuits and cloaks. Mother often let me choose patterns and material, though she steered me away from the complicated constructions and animal-themed prints that captured my young imagination.

I was the youngest of five children (two boys and three girls) so my closet was the final stop for most of our clothes. Every so often, a coveted item landed in my wardrobe, and then I was thrilled with the arrangement. But for the most part I resented being “forced” to wear shirts and skirts made from patterns and material chosen by my sisters. Additionally, I was pudgier than either sister, so my memory is dominated by clothes that were a pinch too tight.

Mother began teaching me to sew when I was in elementary school. We started with handkerchiefs and headscarves, then moved on to simple patterns for pillows and stuffed animals. Eventually, I was making some of my own clothes, and I quickly discovered why Mother preferred simple patterns and prints. I also discovered that it was easier to wear something made for my sisters, even if it was too tight, than to make something new for myself.

When I graduated from ninth grade, I got my first “store bought” dress. Mother let me pick it out, and I ended up with an ill-fitting froth of thin cotton, itchy lace, and uneven elastic. I loved the idea of my dress, but hated the reality of it. I don’t believe I ever wore it again, after our graduation dance.

Life sped up in high school. My parents divorced. Mother started working and went back to school for her master’s degree. My sisters went to college and worked and dated. I got better at picking out store bought clothes, and the sewing machine grew dusty with disuse.

Several years ago, Mother gave her machine to one of my sisters. Then she helped me load Grandmother’s old Singer into my car, even though it no longer worked. I put off getting it repaired until I almost forgot it existed. Last month, in a frenzy of cleaning up and clearing out, I called the closest repair shop and took Grandmother’s sewing machine to be fitted for a new motor.

A few weeks later, new motor in place, it’s ready to go. I have a list of projects in mind, but, for the moment, I’m happy just looking at it…

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Christmas Decorations

Rae Spencer5 Comments

2012 Ornament

I adore Christmas decorations, and therefore own far too many of them. But each ornament and figurine, toy and trinket has it’s own story. Each represents a memory or wish, a moment or emotion. They sparkle and spin on the tree. They march across shelves and perch on the mantel. For a single season, the house sprouts a glorious clutter of nostalgia and peace.

Next week, I’ll spend a quiet day packing it all into boxes and stacking it in the attic for another year, and the house will resume its usual routine. My memories, wishes, moments, and emotions will scatter, untethered, into the nebulous ether of experience.

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The Pirate Cats

Rae Spencer4 Comments

“Silver had two guns slung about him–one before and one behind–besides the great cutlass at his waist, and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat. To complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his shoulder and gabbling odds and ends of purposeless seatalk.”
from Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

In 2005, Mother signed up for a class about pirate literature. The course focused on Peter Pan and Treasure Island, as did most of our telephone conversations at the time. She shared bits of trivia regarding the authors and texts. She followed tangents of memory sparked by Peter’s exploits and Jim’s adventures. And she read from her notes, teaching me how the books fit into the history of literature.

A few years later, when she met a pair of orphan kittens named Captain Flint and Long John Silver, I was tempted to call it fate.

Captain Flint, 2007
Captain Flint, 2007
Long John Silver, 2007
Long John Silver, 2007 (photos provided by my brother and sister-in-law)

These two kittens arrived at Challenger’s House in the summer of 2007. Captain Flint was found, malnourished and abandoned, in front of a local business. Long John Silver was thrown from a car and rescued by the driver who witnessed it. As they were about the same age, and both too weak to keep up with healthy kittens, they were placed in a foster home together. To be exact, they were placed in my brother and sister-in-law’s home.

Flint had trouble gaining weight. Long John needed surgery to repair his broken leg. And Mother talked about them for months, calling with detailed updates after every visit. It seemed to me as if she visited my brother and sister-in-law more often, while the kittens were there, and her attachment to the little pirates grew with each week. All the while, she denied any desire to adopt them.

Then she called one day and said, “Guess what I just did…” She claimed that her decision came from an urge to keep the boys from being separated. They had finally been declared healthy enough to go to the adoption center, and she feared they would not find a home together. So they went to live with her, and our telephone conversations were soon filled with the antics of Long John Silver and Captain Flint.

2010

Long John Silver is a charismatic troublemaker, a bit like his namesake. (Right down to the bad leg, which healed stiff because the joint was too damaged to repair.)

Long John Silver

Long John

Long John

Captain Flint is both buccaneer and parrot, sometimes starting the trouble, and sometimes following Long John’s lead.

Flint

Flint

Flint

Last year, when Mother died, the pirate cats returned to my brother and sister-in-law’s home, which means I get to continue following their adventures. And their misadventures, because they are often very bad boys. A pair of mischievous rogues, well named and well loved.

Long John Silver

Flint

How We Stayed Warm

Rae Spencer5 Comments

Warm 01s

I grew up in a house with a wood burning stove, so all of my winter memories are tinged with the scent of smoke.

Warm 12s

Mother ordered the first load of wood mid-summer, which gave it time to cure. She ordered a cord at a time, requesting a mixture of kindling and longer burning logs. It arrived as a tumbled pile at the end of the driveway, and we hauled it off by armfuls and wheelbarrow loads, stacking neat rows under the tin roof of our open-sided pole shed.

Warm 06s

Starting in my teens, I claimed the wood as my own domain because I enjoyed the physical activity of hauling and stacking. Plus, it gave me an excuse to be outside with the animals, who followed me back and forth as I worked.

Warm 11s

Mother disliked storing firewood on the porch, so she rarely wanted more than one day’s supply brought down each afternoon. However, she relented when we had snow or ice storms. Then I would carry wood until my shoulders and back ached.

(This photo is from Mother's archive, not mine.)

Or until I got bored and wandered off to explore the pasture and woods.

Warm 14s

Warm 15s

The stove was undeniably harder to maintain than central heat, but it was also undeniably warmer.

Warm 09s

Warm 07s

Except it didn’t heat the entire house. Our den was a smoky, sleepy haven, but my bedroom, in the opposite end of the house, stayed so chilly that blankets were not sufficient for a comfortable night’s sleep. Even so, I didn’t suffer. I had plenty of furry companions to keep me warm.

Warm 05s

One Year Later

Rae Spencer8 Comments

A week after Mother’s accident, I met Vanna. I had seen glimpses of her before, darting through doorways or disappearing under a bed, but I had never really met her. She was a fearful, shy cat who rarely ventured into the open, even around Mother.

When Vanna finally allowed me to pet her, I discovered that her hair was dry and loose, falling out in handfuls. She had not been taking care of herself, and her matted fur felt like a physical manifestation of my own distress.

For the first time in days, I knew exactly what to do. Here was something that I could actually fix. I found Mother’s cat brush and went to work, laughing at Vanna’s ecstatic response to my grooming efforts. She purred and drooled, rolled and kneaded the air. And I fell head over heels in love. Three months later, when I announced that I would be taking Vanna home with me when I returned to Virginia, no one objected.

The drive was too long to cover in a single day, so we stopped at the Holiday Inn Express in Emporia. Mother would have laughed herself to tears over the thought of Vanna sleeping on a hotel bed.

Now it’s been a full year since our long drive together. Vanna has settled in and taken over the house. Her two housemates are too lazy to protest as she claims the warmest pools of sunshine and the softest pillows. They move aside as she bolts past them in the hall, as she chases her favorite toys or races to get there first, wherever she is going. They are patient, gentle cats, amiably dodging her jealous swipes and ignoring her touchy temper.

Some of their ease is rubbing off on her, and she is learning to share food bowls and favorite perches. Best of all, she rarely hides anymore. I seldom find her in a closet or under a bed. Instead, she sleeps in front of the windows and sprawls across the beds.

Every so often, usually after a poor night’s sleep, I catch myself indulging in a moment of grief as I watch Vanna. She is Mother’s cat, not mine. Or at least, she should be Mother’s cat. What if Mother had survived her injuries? Would she have consented so readily to my taking her neediest cat?

Such moments are lessening in frequency and intensity. I’m learning to file these questions in the unanswerable category, alongside a litany of other questions that start with “why?” and “what if?” I may as well ask why is there sunshine. Or why are there cats to enjoy the sunshine…