Next reading & A letter to my mother

My next public reading of "Objects of My Attention" is TONIGHT in Salt Lake City, Utah. Please join me and poet Natalie Taylor, who will read from her chapbook Eden's Edge.

Literary Reading by Mary Craig and Natalie Taylor
Little Chapel (not the main sanctuary)
First Unitarian Church of Salt Lake City
569 S. 1300 East
7:30 pm

As for blogging ever forward, I've had a busy couple of weeks since the posts about Simon's birthday.  I was in my hometown of Oberlin, Ohio May 20-27. I saw friends from my growing up years and friends from my college years and enjoyed visiting with my parents in their house. It was perfect "porch weather", and I held a private reading for my mom and dad the last night I was there, out on the semi-outdoor brick porch with the tree frogs bellowing.

My ongoing project when I visit my parents' house is cleaning out the drawers, shelves and boxes of my stuff, sent there or dumped there over thirty years of excuses like being too far away to deal with it or take it with me. I blogged about the process in January in a post called "Returning to Tennis". This time I got my old desk completely cleared out. The biggest find was a "narrative paper" from 10th grade English about babysitting with a scary wind outside the house. Another piece about windows... It's called "A Dollar an Hour". I enjoy finding evidence that, although I think I'm pretty new to writing, I have been doing it for a long time.

While in Oberlin, I asked my mother for her permission to post the letter I wrote her this year on Mother's Day. I wrote the letter and sent it via email because my voice was too hoarse for a phone call. I appreciate her willingness to share. The letter prompted sewing memories of her own. For those who don't know, Julie (mentioned in the letter) is my older sister and an excellent seamstress.

A letter to my mother
May 11, 2014 

Dear Mom,

This Mother’s Day I am remembering that you taught me to sew. The age that sticks in my mind is seven—that I sewed my first garment (under your supervision) when I was seven. I don’t recall what the garment was. Since I only remember sewing in Oberlin (not in Berkeley), I wonder if my sewing life began after we returned from California when I was actually eight.

Remember the reversible wrap skirts Julie and I made in twin? Red on one side and mustard yellow on the reverse. A four-button panel across the abdomen held the skirt together. There were eight buttons in all because each side needed four. We used the flattest buttons we could find because they were doubled up. (It might very well turn out that you made that skirt for me, and I simply remember it.)

We spent hours paging through pattern books in the Towne Shoppe basement. We checked all the books: Simplicity, McCall and Butterick. Much later, I also looked at Vogue. We opened the beige-painted wide steel drawers to find the chosen pattern in the right size among all those neatly filed, tightly packed envelopes. Then we wandered the aisles of fabric bolts, fingered the materials, tugged them out and opened the cloth to see the right side of the fabric and watch it drape.

Following the tiny writing on the pattern envelope, we searched out zippers, elastic, buttons, hooks, and sometimes even decorative trim. In my general memories of these activities, I am doing these things all on my own. Sometimes I know someone is there helping me read hard words or reach things on high shelves, but I’m not being told what to do. Instead it feels like being the blindfolded person in Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Kind hands of an unseen person send me off in the right direction.

When I was nine or ten, I made a skirt and top that turned out to be more challenging than I expected. It was the age of the interlock knit—how thrilled we were at this fabric that wouldn’t fray or lose shape. I picked out a red and blue paisley print on white. The skirt: four gores, four seams, an elastic casing at the waist, and it was done. The top was a simple pullover (for s t r e t c h knits only, the pattern said). It had a topstitched scoop neck and a small gathered cap sleeve set into the top of the armhole. The double row of topstitching may have been the part that did me in. But my recollection is that I lost all hope while setting in a sleeve ruffle. (Was my stitching crooked? Did the bobbin send up a tangle of thread?) I wadded the maddening thing up and stuffed it into the trash basket by your desk. (I am sure I hoped you would see.)

What happened next? Did you pull it out of the trash and fix my problem for me? Did you convince me to pull it out myself with clever arguments about how much work I’d already done and how close I was to finishing it? I only know the result: here I am wearing the top in my fourth grade school photo.

School Picture - '73 - '74
(4th grade)

As you know, I turned out to be a pretty good sewer. It’s one of the many things you’ve taught me. And it’s the one I’m feeling satisfaction about and gratitude for on this Mother’s Day. Thanks, Mom!

Sorry not to be calling on the phone today, but I’ll see you week after next!

Love,
Mary