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TEXIT

Twenty years ago, my life’s journey took me to Houston . . . again. I lived here briefly when I was 9, but that’s another story entirely. In my thirties, I followed a man to Houston. It’s something silly you do as a young woman . . . follow a dude across the country. I don’t have said man anymore, but what I do have is a 20-year love affair with a city that changed me for the better.

When I moved to Houston from California, it was complete culture shock. I erroneously thought everyone would wear cowboy attire, speak with Southern accents, and be conservative in thought and manner. Well, there are some of those folks here, but, honestly, Houston is one of the most cosmopolitan cities I’ve experienced in the U.S. Literally everyone is here. Between the consulates, oil and gas industry expats, the world-renown medical facilities, and amazing art scene, over 400 languages are spoken here daily. So, when I first moved here, it was a lot to take in.

At first, I didn’t know what to do, where to start. Even finding a job here was difficult for me as compared to California. After floundering for some time, I decided to go back to my roots—singing. I auditioned for the Houston Symphony Chorus . . . and failed miserably. While commiserating with a friend about my failure, she suggested voice lessons. Light bulb. After a few months of lessons, my voice teacher suggested opera chorus. Epiphany! I had literally found my voice.

Opera led to theatre, and theatre led to the LGBTQ+ community. Many of my theatre friends are active in the community. Several fundraise for said community, so it was only a matter of time before they got me involved too.

Fundraising is an interesting activity. On one level, you get to show off your talents. On a completely different level, you can’t help but learn more about the folks for whom your efforts are raising money, especially when a lot of them are in the room with you.

I can remember my first fundraiser very vividly. I was scared out of my mind, but it was completely unwarranted. Everyone accepted me—unconditionally. That acceptance was a real lesson in humility. What else could I learn if I was curious instead of afraid?

Theatre led next to radio. For a period of about four years, the hubster and I had a segment on a local public radio station. We highlighted local artists of all stripes (especially musicians), and we discovered that, in the artist community, everyone knew EVERYONE. It wasn’t six degrees of separation; it was more like TWO.

It also seemed like everyone we met was amazing. They loved their art, and they loved the artist community. They were from all walks of life—all ages, colors, shapes, creeds, etc. It truly was an education.

Theatre ultimately led to my business, The Singing Seamstress. (See my blog Origin Story for more on that.) I love that I make magic for a living, but it’s time to move my magician’s studio to a different locale.

Now, my life’s journey leads me to the care and feeding of a parent. Instead of subjecting her to the dubious ministrations of the elder care industry, I intend to have her be a part of my magician’s workshop in whatever capacity she feels comfortable. In effect, I will be far closer to the North Pole, and she will join me in “elfery” for as long as she is able.

I want to thank the amazing folks of Houston for inviting me into their lives and allowing me to be a part of their stories. You will forever be in my heart, and to quote Elphaba from Wicked, “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”

Next time I write will be from North Pole workshop, Washington. Until then, Dear Reader, may your hearts be sated, may you remain curious about one another, and may your bobbins always be full.

Heather

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Post Op Part 2

I don’t do sick well. I’m one of these weird folks who actually likes to work and, if I’m not working, to be doing something in general. So, when my surgeon told me I had ten days post surgery to do NOTHING, I thought I was going to go bonkers!

Thankfully, the first five days, I spent mostly napping, couch surfing, and watching my favorite movies to recover from the anesthesia. Several friends checked in on me to make sure I wasn’t doing anything. (Admonishing me is more like it!) The next five days were spent in San Antonio celebrating my seventh wedding anniversary with my husband; thus, it was exceedingly easy to do nothing since he insisted I be spoiled.

Day 11 was a grand day! I was going back to work! Well . . . sort of. I could only do Santa stuff, no bridal. I could cut stuff out, sort of, but I couldn’t do any hand sewing. Forget writing anything–my scribble was so bad, I couldn’t even read it! Eating . . . well, that was left-handed. Actually, most things were left-handed for the first month, and everything took longer to do. I even impressed myself by learning how to use chopsticks left-handed!

Certain hand and wrist positions hurt, so I backed off and tried something else. Eventually, gradually, I could do the things that hurt. I’m now four months post surgery, and I’m still wondering why I had my knickers in a knot about it. The only thing that still bothers me now and again is writing. Most days, it’s fine, but, sometimes, my hand shakes so badly with a pen that I just have to put it down and come back to it later.

The most important bit is that I’m thrilled there’s no pain anymore. I’m ecstatic that fire needles don’t wake me in the wee hours of the morning anymore! I’m over the moon that I don’t have the numb balloon feeling in my fingers anymore. In fact, I’m so impressed by the results that I want to have the left hand done before the euphoria wears off.

It’s funny how fear keeps us from doing some things that are extremely beneficial to us. If this situation has taught me one thing, it’s that bravery comes in all forms and that I shouldn’t let fear slow me down or keep me from doing something I love.

So the next time something scares you, remember a funny seamstress in Texas who faced her fears and “got ‘R done!” There are plenty of things scarier than surgery … like an EMPTY BOBBIN! Lol!

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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Santa Jay

I love making Santa suits. Most folks are surprised to learn that I make them all year long. In many cases, when I go to build a Santa suit, it has been several weeks or months since the initial consultation. In those instances, I will talk with the Santa the week before to go over my notes and make sure that I’m not missing anything. As I tell them, “We’ve all slept since then!”

In one particular circumstance, Santa Jay (not his real name) indicated that he had lost a great deal of weight and he wanted me to measure him again before I cut anything. So, we set an appointment for that as well as to go over my notes. When he came to visit me, I could tell that he had been sick–really sick. Not only had he lost a great deal of weight, but his skin was extremely pale and papery, there was no twinkle in his eyes, and his breathing was labored.

I am always there to listen to my clients for whatever they may want to tell me, but I never press for information. Santa Jay didn’t want to share anything beyond the fact that he’d been sick, so I stayed professional, taking the measurements and going over the notes. His parting comment, however, was that he thought it might be his last year as Santa.

After he left, I sat in my studio chair at my sewing machine and just sobbed. Working with mostly older folk in the Christmas performer industry, I know losing a client is definitely a job hazard, but I admit that I’m a bit of a sentimental wardrobe elf and I get VERY attached to my clients. Thus, I was determined to make sure that his final season was a spectacular one, at least in terms of his uniform.

When I went shopping for the lining, I found a really awesome bit of fabric to incorporate–same thing with the trim and the buttons. The old saying that the devil is in the details is true, but it’s also the delight as well. Excited about my project, I threw myself into it with more than my usual gusto and sang to it sweetly about all the lives he would touch this season.

As is my habit, I sent him progress pictures and showed him the lining that I had found as well as the trim. His response was that it looked so good he wanted to be buried in it.

Heavy sigh and lots more tears. Dry off face and paste on determined look. Whatever he was going to do with his suit, he would be one spectacular looking Santa. PERIOD.

I finished my project in a few days and invited him back to try everything on. His breathing was still labored. His pallor was still there, but the twinkle had returned to his eyes.

I helped him into the robe and hat, and he smiled at himself in the mirror. I saw a bit of the old spark come back. He turned this way and that, admiring his reflection, and then turned to me with a big smile and asked if I would put him on my sewing list for next year.

In that moment, I felt the balloon of hope inflate inside me. In my head, I was jumping up and down and fist pumping, but the only outward display of said hope was the smile I returned to him. Perhaps he’d found his reason to fight. I don’t know. I’m not going to take credit for that, but I do hope that he’s around for many more seasons to bring joy and magic to children of all ages.

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams be straight!

Heather

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Post Op – Part 1

I am not a morning person–not by anyone’s wild stretch of anybody’s imagination. Yet I still thought it was just desserts that my husband and I had to get up at 5:15 the morning of my surgery to appear on time for my procedure. His hip surgery required us to do the same.

We drove to the medical center in the dark, making it up to the surgery center in time to watch the sunrise. It was a brilliant shade of red as it made its way through the various layers of haze on the Houston horizon.

Unlike my last visit to the doctor, this time I was making jokes. I had a captive audience, and, since I have the same kind of macabre sense of humor as many in the medical profession, I had everybody in stitches.

My surgeon came in–in a very good mood–and noticed that I was in a very good mood, so when he signed my right arm (as they all do to make sure they’re working on the correct limb), he wrote in big bold letters, “YES!” I really liked that sentiment and felt very comforted by it.

My husband, of course, stayed with me until they rolled me down the hall. It’s a very surreal experience watching the ceiling tiles go past you overhead. I thought I would be asleep by the time I got to the operating room. No such luck.

As I looked above me at the lights, I remembered another situation where I was wheeled into an operating room. That was 50 years ago when I fell on a glass bottle at the tender age of two and sliced all the way through my right arm, clear to the bone. I was unwilling to stay still for them to stitch it up while I was awake. I even succeeded in escaping a straitjacket. (Insert cheeky joke here.) So, they decided to put me under in order to sew my arm up. Still, I very distinctly remember those lights and the doctors in their surgical gowns and masks. I even remember that one of them wore glasses. He looked down at me and told me everything was going to be all right.

Well, this time, they didn’t have surgical gowns on, but they did have scrubs on, and they did have masks on, and my doctor even wore glasses. I don’t remember what story I was telling my captive audience, but I can pretty much guarantee that I fell asleep midsentence.

The procedure was short and sweet, and I felt like I woke up suddenly in the recovery room. I looked up at the nurse, raised my bandaged hand and wiggled my fingers. No pain. Other than the surgery pain, of course. I was elated. I started monologuing right then and there. The look on the nurse’s face was a mixture of complete amusement and surprise. When I took a breath, she said, “No one has ever woken up like that. “

I laid there with a silly grin on my face, humming the entire time while the nurse filled out paperwork and went to retrieve my husband. A single thought kept running through my head. I’m going to be OK.

We’re ALL going to be ok. Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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In the Palm of My Hand

All my life, I’ve worked with my hands. Aside from my brain, they’re the best tools that I have in this meat and bone packaging called a body. Back when I was an administrator, there were work-arounds to my not having the use of my hands. However, it’s different now that I am a professional seamstress and designer: unfortunately, there aren’t any obvious band-aid solutions for a seamstress who can’t use her hands.

When my hands started tingling, I didn’t think too much of it. When they started hurting and waking me up in the wee hours of the morning with a pain I like to call “fire needles” (it feels like my hands are on fire and 1,000 wasps are stinging them), I knew something was very wrong.

As I iced my hands repeatedly night after night, I often wondered what I could do if my hands failed me. Many people have gone through the discomfort of retooling for a different career. Some have been forced into it, and some went gladly.

While worrying, I consulted with several friends. One of them suggested a unique brand of physical therapy called the Rossiter System, a method of relieving pain that reminds me of a combination of Rolfing (“a form of bodywork that reorganizes the connective tissues, called fascia, that permeate the entire body,” according to the Rolf Institute) and acupressure. I am eternally grateful to that friend because that physical therapist bought me three more months of use with my hands mostly pain free, but that plateaued out as well. I eventually had to bite the bullet and go see the person I had been dreading . . . the orthopedic surgeon.

I both hated as well as anticipated that doctor’s appointment.

I just wanted to get to the bottom of it. I wanted to hear that there was a solution. I wanted to know that I wouldn’t lose the use of my hands.

I gritted my teeth and smiled as he examined me and told me that I had classic carpal tunnel syndrome. The repetitive motion, plus my small wrists, plus the arthritis in my family, PLUS the general swelling of the joints that comes with menopause made my case very cut-and-dried to him. Apparently, the nerve damage had already started, so he recommended surgery sooner rather than later.

To my credit, I shed no tears until I got to the privacy of my car.

In full panic mode, I called another friend, who, very sensibly, suggested that I talk to other folks who had had the surgery. I’m very good at homework, so that’s exactly what I did over the next few days. Except for one anomaly, everyone had positive things to tell me. The most encouraging of them had his hands done a year ago. They all told me that it behooved me to stop procrastinating and just get it done, that I would be much happier afterwards.

As of this writing, the surgery date has been scheduled. I am currently in the process of cleaning out my inbox, as it were, to make sure everyone is taken care of while I’m recovering. I am cautiously optimistic. I am no longer terrified. I am no longer afraid of losing my livelihood . . . and, let’s be honest, I’m no longer afraid of losing my identity because my tools don’t work.

While I won’t be the bionic woman after surgery, my hand will be better than new. It will be strong again–strong enough to hold the world . . . in the palm of my hand again.

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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Alteration Disasters

As a professional seamstress, I am often called on to fix other people’s sewing mistakes. Well-meaning friends, relatives, and the like are always eager to help; however, they often bite off more than they can chew and get themselves in over their heads in a hurry, especially with bridal alterations.

My entrance into the wild business of bridal alterations came when a theatre friend called me for emergency alterations. The bride in question was the daughter of her best friend, and they had taken the gown to a well-meaning “lady at church.” The gown was a strapless mermaid, and it needed the side seams taken in, the skirts shortened, and a bustle put in. So what had the church lady done? She had only taken it in at the top to about 2” down, and that was it. They paid her a reasonable sum for not much work, and she wasn’t returning phone calls—probably because she knew she’d messed up.

Enter me. I undid the minimal work the “lady at church” had done and proceeded to pin the gown up according to the bride’s preferences. One of those preferences was that it be so tight she looked like a doll in it. One side effect of said pinning was that she was unable to walk. However, she still insisted that I sew it like that. Even at that time, I knew physics was NOT going to be on our side, but I sewed it down anyway.

The fitting went as predicted. She was actually surprised when she couldn’t walk. We eventually adjusted everything, and the wedding went off without a hitch. To this day, however, I STILL hate strapless mermaids.

The second bride had allowed a well-meaning future mother-in-law to take a crack at her dress. Said bonus mom took in the side seams, but very unevenly. She adjusted the straps but didn’t tuck in the extra fabric, AND to add insult to injury, the bustle was in a very unflattering state. The bride told me her nephew burst into the room while she was trying the dress on, took one look at the bustle, and proudly told her aunt that she had “unicorn butt.” I must have laughed until I cried for at least five minutes. To this day, I use that phrase to describe unflattering bustles.

Bride #3 had taken her crepe gown to just a run-of-the-mill alterations person who had little to no experience with bridal but who had assured the bride she could handle it. When the bride sent me her bridal portraits to show what the other person had done, I was appalled. First, the bust darts were in horrible shape. They didn’t do anything to help the bustline at all. They may as well have not even been there. She didn’t trim the hemline, so the skirts were pooling on the floor. This may look cool in pictures, but it’s not practical. She also attempted to take in the bodice seams, but they were uneven. Then she told the poor bride that she didn’t need a bustle—to just carry the skirt around with her.

When the bride came to see me and I got a look under the hood, so to speak, at the actual work done, I was beside myself. To say that it was amateur and messy is being nice. So I undid everything and pinned the dress on the bride. She had tears in her eyes while looking in the mirror–partly out of shame at her mistake but mostly out of gratitude and relief that I knew what I was doing and could make the dress fit her like a glove. Hard lesson learned.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that all amateurs have horrible skills. Quite the opposite actually, as I was an amateur once. What I AM saying is that amateurs of all stripes tend NOT to know when to quit or to ask for professional help. My own mistakes have led me to hiring a web designer, an accountant, a prop maker, and the like. Some things—some big and small things—are just too important not to have a professional handle it.

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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Origin Story

Every superhero has an origin story, and, even though I don’t wear a cape (usually), folks are very curious about the origins of The Singing Seamstress.

I’ve been sewing since I was a young girl and performing since high school. The two did not come together in a meaningful way until I was past my opera phase.

My opera career consisted of mostly singing, dancing, and reacting to scenery. I played everything from a nun to a lady of the night to a peasant and everything in between. Because I am a tall woman—a presence with which to be reckoned, if you will–a lot of costumes didn’t fit quite right. Even after the costumer had her way with things, I would often come in behind her and fix things myself.

I got tired of being in the background, so I switched to musical theatre after five years in opera and started getting juicy lead and supporting roles. Now that I was out in front, I didn’t want to settle for just any old costume, so I started making them myself.

People started to take notice. Other actors began asking me to make their costumes as well. It went from two to four to half the cast and then full productions rather quickly. (Costuming a full production is a LOT of work by the way, and it’s a mostly thankless job, unfortunately.)

Somewhere in all of this, a fellow actor asked me to make him a Santa suit. Compared to my more recent creations, it’s a very simple affair–washable but sturdily made. Eight years later, it’s still in use and still looks like the day I delivered it to him.

He was so impressed that he got me in contact with the Lone Star Santas, the largest regional Santa group in the nation. I went to their annual shindig to hawk my wares and received quite a few suit orders. These folks were so impressed that they got me an invite to the largest Christmas performer group on Facebook (over 10k members). From there, I just posted pictures of the things I created. Between this and word of mouth, my Santa business grew by leaps and bounds.

Sometime after the Santa suit, another actor friend contacted me to help her BFF with his daughter’s wedding gown. They had originally taken it to “a lady at church,” and the gown needed a lot of work still. I had never worked on a wedding gown (unless you count the gown I found at Goodwill and modified to be my Halloween costume as the Bride of Frankenstein). Though nervous, I figured it couldn’t be all that complicated.

Well, I was both right and wrong about the last bit. All the fundamental parts were there, but the only garment more constructed than a bridal gown is a man’s blazer and some cosplay costumes. So, it was a steep learning curve–and I only had a week and a half to sort it out.

I managed to get everything in the right places, but, to this day, I still hate strapless mermaids. I also think I consumed a whole bottle of wine on my own to calm my nerves. After recovering, I realized that I could really make a go of this and decided to start networking in the local bridal industry.

I have since won six industry awards for my bridal work and am in The Knot’s hall of fame. It’s super cool to be recognized for my work when I love it so much.

I am more than blessed to love my life’s work. It has taken me a long time to get here, but the journey has certainly been illuminating. I eagerly look forward to all the new suits, all the new dresses, and all the new friends I will be making in the future.

Until next time, dear reader. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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Horror Stories

Most of the time, my clients are happy folk, excited about the life change that’s the impetus of them coming to see me. Occasionally, though, my Spidey-Sense goes off, and I detect a sinister undercurrent that leaves me wondering how to handle things and remain professional about it.

Couple #1 didn’t initially set off any alarms. They were an “encore” couple getting married.

Both had spouses who had died, and both, as it turned out, were in their late seventies. They were having a casual get together with just their family, so the alterations weren’t the usual taxing affair. About a year later, they came to see me again to bring me several dresses that she was going to wear for a cruise. While she was changing, the husband told me of plans he had to get her plastic surgery. Apparently, she was to have lipo and a tummy tuck–at 80! I was appalled. After that comment, I watched him very closely as he told her what did and didn’t look good on the dresses. He even told me how to do my job. I was having serious heebie-jeebies by now.

I did the work, and they came back to try everything on. According to him, however, nothing I did was right. Not only did he bash me, but he also bashed her throughout the fitting. I got them both out of the studio as fast as I could. I completed the fixes on the dresses, but I neither wanted him back in my studio nor wanted to spark anything between them, so I merely texted her that the dresses were ready, that I wouldn’t be charging for them, that I only wanted her to come to the studio, and that I wouldn’t be servicing them ever again.

The pickup went without incident, but I still couldn’t help feeling like there was something seriously wrong about them.

The second couple was a guy in his late forties and what appeared to be a mail-order bride. He contacted me initially, but when they brought in the dress, I was not given her number even after I asked for it. Again, he nit-picked over her, the dress, and my pinning. Her English was good, but I could tell she hadn’t been in the U.S. for long. She was a waif of woman, perhaps ten years younger than he, and he was three times her size. I looked very carefully over what I could see of her body for bruises, but it seemed that, if they were there, they were hiding in places I couldn’t professionally broach.

When they came for the fitting, he was on the phone, and she arrived first. I could tell she was more comfortable without him there as she answered my questions about the dress with more confidence. Just as I was about to ask her if she was okay, he walked in the door, and she immediately shrank back into herself. She continued to visibly shrink throughout the fitting under his scrutiny, though she did smile readily when he complimented her.

Maybe I was reading too much into it, but I just couldn’t shake the dread when he was present.

The third incident was between a mother and her daughter. The bride came to see me by herself for the initial pinning, but the mother was there for the fitting. I’m not certain if she was present for the purchase of the gown, but she seemed more than surprised that it left her daughter’s arms uncovered.

Apparently, the daughter had a skin condition that rendered her arms unacceptable to view, according to the mother. Personally, I didn’t notice anything. It must have been a discoloration more than a rash of sorts. What really got to me was the tongue thrashing she gave her daughter over it. It escalated to the point that the bride dissolved in tears and I had to ask the mother to leave my studio.

I calmed the bride down, asked about the condition, and assured her that, since I didn’t even notice (being up close and personal to folks, you notice a lot), it was only something about which her mother was worried. The vindication came later when she sent me a pic from the wedding and the dress was exactly as she and I had altered it.

I realize that folks, myself included, have good and bad sides as well as good and bad days, and I still believe professionalism is warranted in all situations from all parties. When someone crosses the line, however, I won’t hesitate to protect myself or my clients.

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams straight!

Heather

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F.A.R.T.

If you’re a quilter like I am (when I can get a few moments away from my other projects, that is), then you are probably familiar with the tee shirts depicting a large pile of folded fabric and the initials FART across the top. They stand for Fabric Acquisition Road Trip. In recent years, quilting has taken off again as a hobby and so has the “shop hop” or “FART” as individual quilt shops get together and offer specific parts to a collaborative project and freebies in an attempt to drum up foot traffic. It works so well that its part of every quilt shop’s marketing plan.

When I travel, I make it a point to go to every quilt shop in the area. I always find something interesting whether it’s a local themed print (like turtles sunning on the beach in Hawaii, orcas swimming with their babies in Seattle, or barnyard animals doing yoga in Wisconsin) or a really cool Christmas print.

If you follow my Facebook pages (The Singing Seamstress –Houston and The Singing Seamstress LOVES Santa), you know I like to make all my Santa suits unique. A lot of what contributes to this are the details–interesting buttons on shirts and vests, distinctive trim and embroidery, and different prints for all parts of the suit.

In my travels, I’ve come across a few interesting quilt shops. One of these is The Sewing Basket in Prosser, WA (www.prossersewingbasket.com). They have a HUGE Christmas fabric section year round . . . AND it also happens to be the next town over from where my mom lives.

It’s always an adventure when I mix business and pleasure on these trips. Mom tends to do her own shopping, while I attempt to video call my clients in the spotty Wi-Fi of the old house and detached garage that functions as the shop. That’s all part of the fun! I think I amuse the owner and her employees as my use for her materials is definitely outside the norm. That and I usually spend over $1,000 adding to my stash.

This year, I had to divide and conquer. I visited the shop over several days to accommodate the number of clients and even met one of the local Santas there. This local Santa brought his wife (still trying to talk her into being Mrs. Claus) and his daughter, who very proudly and precociously introduced herself as “Elf Pearl.” All four of us helped Santa decide on his vest and shirt fabrics, and we even got both employees to help hunt down the perfect candy cane print.

A few years ago, I attended my cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin. While there, I also went looking for materials. I figured there would be plenty of quilt shops in the Midwest, and they certainly didn’t disappoint. In addition to finding all sorts of Christmas fabrics to add to my stash, there were all kinds of fun farm themed prints, including the aforementioned barnyard animals doing yoga. The hubster just had to have this made into a shirt, and it’s still one of his favorites.

Another memorable shop I found was In Ketchikan, AK, called Whales Tale Quilt Shop (https://whalestailquiltshop.com). Mom and I found this one while on a cruise to Alaska. The shop in Ketchikan was interesting in that the GPS showed it as being in the water. It wasn’t until we found the shop that we understood; it was on a pier OVER the water! It is a tiny shop but stuffed full of native prints, Tlingit glyphs, and local fauna. I didn’t find anything for Santa, but I did bring home many prints for the camp shirts the hubster loves to wear and fabric enough to make myself a quilt. Mom and I will be going again next summer, we’re taking the hubster this time. I think I may need another suitcase for all the fabric he will find. LOL!

Traveling and meeting new folks and learning about new cultures is a ton of fun, especially the micro cultures we have here in the U.S. I love how the local quilt shops reflect those micro cultures and how their distinctiveness helps me add magic to my projects.

Until next time, dear readers. May your bobbins be full and your seams be straight!
Heather

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Ghost Stories

Ghost stories . . . usually the stuff of campouts and slumber parties. That doesn’t mean it excludes seamstresses, however, especially when it comes to vintage clothing.

Revamping a vintage wedding gown is one of my favorite things to do. I love repurposing things, especially when grandma wore the dress and then mom wore the dress and now granddaughter is going to wear the dress.

In one particular case, grandma had made the dress for her daughter (now the mom) by hand, in many sections, without the assistance of a sewing machine. Needless to say, it was a very delicate dress and veil. While the length fit the granddaughter perfectly, it did not fit her through the chest and waist, and it was a bit dated in style.

Consequently, we discussed ways to expand the bodice and change the neckline. We also discussed changing the veil into a cape, as that was more the granddaughter’s style. Both mother and granddaughter were happy with the drawings and went away satisfied that I would complete the alterations and make something old and loved into something new and fabulous.

The day I began work on her dress, I felt what could only be called a “presence.” I made an educated guess that it was the grandmother, so I reached out to the granddaughter and asked her what her grandmother‘s name was. I did not tell her why. Armed with this information, I began to speak to the “presence” using the grandmother‘s name and explained each step of what I was going to do. As I worked through the alterations, the “presence” almost became like a hug. I took that to mean that grandma was satisfied with the changes that I was making for her granddaughter. Once I finished the alterations and took the final pictures, the ”presence” went away.

Mother and granddaughter came to pick up the dress, and both were crying joyful tears at the results. I then relayed the story about my visitation. The mother was completely gobsmacked as her mother had been dead for many years, but the granddaughter only smiled. Both seemed grateful that the “new” dress was grandma approved.

My second seamstress related ghost story has to do with the shut down during the initial stages of the Covid pandemic. My mother-in-law had died the previous year and had given us the bulk of the contents of her sewing room. Included in that, of course, were boxes and boxes of scraps. When I decided that it became imperative for me to lend a hand, I started making masks.  It was actually my husband who suggested that we use all the scraps from my mother-in-law‘s stash.

As I began to cut the scraps into the shapes that would eventually become the over masks that would extend the lives of the N95 masks that the hospital personnel were forced to wear repeatedly, I could swear that I felt my mother-in-law’s presence standing just behind me with her hand on my shoulder while I cut and stitched each mask into being.

She didn’t stay the entire time during the lockdown, but I felt her off and on through my efforts to eventually create 2,500 masks.  When I relayed this to my father-in-law, he commented that Jayne would be very proud of me and my creative use of her scraps.

The third story isn’t strictly seamstress related, but it is definitely family related. My grandfather was in the Navy during World War II, so it was important to my mother that we visit the USS Arizona Memorial while we were in Hawaii.

The ferry ride in Oahu was fairly uneventful. It was windy on the bay, and it was a normal warm Hawaiian day. As we got closer to the memorial itself, I felt the temperature drop a degree or so, but I didn’t think anything of it. We wandered along the exhibit, reading all of the materials and eventually coming to the plaque room where the names of all of the service members who perished on Pearl Harbor Day in 1941 when the Japanese attacked are listed.

I entered the room and immediately noticed a drastic temperature change. It felt like I had stepped into a walk-in freezer. I tried to read the names on the wall, but I was having a very difficult time focusing. When I looked up from the names, I noticed all of these men standing in silent, regimented rows gazing at me. Most of them were young, but a handful of them were very old. I recognized the naval uniforms, and I was completely startled by the fact that I could see them at all. I did the only thing I could think of at the time, which was to thank them for their service. Almost immediately, all of them began to sing the naval theme song “Anchors Aweigh.”

To say that I was completely freaked out is putting it mildly. I immediately turned tail and exited the plaque room back into the Hawaiian sunshine where the temperature difference was immediately discernable.

I walked in a daze through the remaining exhibits until I found one entry that described how divers were interring the ashes of the handful of servicemen who were not on the ship when the Japanese attacked to reside forever with their fellow servicemen after they died. This explained the older apparitions alongside the younger ones.

I recounted this experience to my mother. She confirmed that she also felt the temperature difference, but she did not see or hear anything. I could tell by the look on her face that the whole episode was far more moving than either of us had anticipated.

I know a lot of folks don’t believe in ghosts, and I can respect that.  I also know what I experienced. That being said, I always approach “vintage” type items with a healthy respect, as you don’t know what memories and emotions are attached to them.

Until next time, dear reader . . . . Boo!

Heather