Sewing

The starched shirt, red tie, black slacks, clothing for meeting new students, is a bit much for my writer’s group. After checking in with my sons, learning how their day went, I went to change clothes.

A button came off the pants.

Since my domestic upheaval I’m recreating a decent sewing kit.

Opening the tin I pick up an envelope with thirty or so needles.

I’ve been making repairs on my clothing ever since I started hiking and hitchhiking. I used to use a spool of thin fishing line. Good for repairs of clothing, tent, backpack.

I’ve grown a little more sophisticated in my approach to apparel repair. Color does matter. Nearly invisible repairs are preferable.

Choices.

Fellas like me have a small disability... Clumsy fingers.

I’m tempted to pick the needle with largest eye, a nice wide opening I can see, thread that hummer with confidence.

My mind whispers: “Wimp.”

Hmmmmmm. I can do better. My fingers waver, back and forth, over the larger than necessary selection... The smallest ones are out of the question. I’m not sure I could even hold onto something that tiny.

I start to select a medium sized one...

I won’t be able to see that tiny hole well enough to thread it, but that doesn’t matter because I can't thread them by sight anyway.

“I might as well make it more of a challenge, I’ll use one a little smaller than usual...”

Threading a needle is a bit of a challenge. I usually bite off the tip of a section of thread, and twist it into a little point. Then I stab at the hole until it goes through.

Most of the time the thread bends over. Many misses in miniature darts.

Once in a while that tiny single strand at the tip goes through, but the rest of the thread hangs up at the tiny threshold.

When I pull on that single strand I create the tiniest snarl in the world just behind the tiny portal.

The needles came with a threader... A little handle with a trapezoid wire sticking out. When I used it one side of the wire broke.

I tried to use it anyway. It bent over, hanging up in the needle and twisting the thread. I’ve had more luck using a wrench as a hammer.

I have a second group of needles to choose from. I thought them pretty cool because they are “self threading”. On one side of the hole is the tiniest of gaps, set to allow a thread passing over it to slip into the hole without the usual hopeful yet futile jabbing

Clever.

Except it doesn’t work. Either the thread passes over the gap, or if it pauses a moment, and I pull hopefully, it resists, and either breaks or snarls the thread.

(I’m sure some of you out there are better at this sort of thing than I.)

I chose a needle a touch tinier than medium; I felt a little pride over my choice. A real man can do it!

The needles are held inside the envelope in tiny sleeves with tiny holes through several bends in a tiny slip of paper. I tug my slightly challenging choice out of its sleeve.

Needle in hand I feel a little dismay at the thought of replacing it in the envelope properly.

OK... Got the needle... now for thread...

I have a dozen colors of thread... None of them come close to matching the slacks.

Dang.

No time to get some... What to do with the pants?

I put the button in the pocket and lay the pants where they'll be in the way (so I won’t put off the repair for too long). I’ll replace the button later.

Now I've the sliver of metal pinched between my fingers and it needs to go somewhere.

Our old sewing kit had a red stuffed thing that looked like a smallish tomato, but I haven’t anything like that here, and threading the needle back into its place in the envelope seems to be a little more concentrated effort than I want to put forth.

Ah! I’ll get a rag, cut off a piece, and stab it with the needle.

Under the kitchen sink is a pile of rags, and in the middle of the pile is a red rag that would show off the needle nicely.

Armed with scissors I snatch up the red rag. The jaws of the scissors hover over it...

...the rag is a tiny pair of red sweats.

I hold them up. There is a tiny stain on one leg. The other, a hole in the knee.


Isaac wore these... When we first got him. He was always tearing around the house in these red pants. They were his favorite. (He liked fire engines.)

Scissors wavering over the leg, I look at the red rag.

I sighed, threw it back on the pile. I can use it to wipe up spills, wash the car, clean a mirror, but I can’t cut it up.

All the other choices are white rags. They won’t display a needle as well.

Snip, snip, snip, a square of white fabric is in the tin, the needle in place.

I need to get to the store, get better sewing supplies.