Ghosties and ghoulies, (and lizards)

 And from things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.

I learned to sew on a machine at age eight and did hand sewing before that. Doll clothes, as I recall, and simple embroidery. My mother and grandmother both did a lot of sewing; my mother could tailor, even, and made my father’s sports jackets. I remember wearing blouses cut down from old shirts of my father’s, for one thing. Because not only did they sew, they were, politely, frugal. And I learned that too.

It is Hallowe’en, and on this day, many years ago, I had costumes for my daughters, and later for my granddaughter that I made to order. Or ordered them to wear what I made, depending. I looked up a few photographs for this post as illustrations, and am amused all over again at the first one I found. The ED (elder daughter) was a clown 

in a costume made from old curtains. There were a lot of costumes like that – I regularly rummaged the ends and scraps bins in the local fabric store and received, joyfully, donations of clothing not needed that could be adapted, either for regular wear or costumes.  

I wish this photo were colour – the dragon is a pale spring green with a red ridge. Later the granddaughter got a much more elaborate dragon costume as I was rummaging in a more high-end store – her deep green and golden scaled fabric had a shiny gold ridge. 

But the best ever costume required both father and me – first the ED and then, because she saw the photo of her mother’s wings, the granddaughter, got to be a monarch butterfly.

Father bent the wires into shape and I sewed old sheets onto the wire. I then painted the fabric, using a reference book to get the markings positioned correctly. One set of wings was donated to the school; the second was used by the ED and partner at an adult party as shown.

Sewing costumes was a lot of fun as they did not require finishing the way a proper garment did. No buttonholes, hemstitch or binding required. Measure, cut and sew. Once, when I did not measure carefully enough, the costume just barely fit. Luckily it was worn on a warm for October night. Tonight bids fare to be much colder. A prepared parent makes the costume big enough that lots of sweaters can be stuffed underneath. However, I did make ‘real’ clothes. For myself, and for the daughters until they rebelled and wanted clothes like their peer group; i.e., jeans with a label. For her last costume with me, the granddaughter sewed it herself under supervision. As shown; a long dress with a collar, puff sleeves and a yoke made from fabric she chose herself.

And I mended, our increasing affluence having allowed me to purchase a brand new sewing machine with a ‘drop arm’. This fine invention allowed me to patch a leg without unpicking the whole [censored] seam to get to the worn spot. And thereby hangs a tale. I wish my aunt, a marvellous raconteur, were here to tell it, but you will have to put up with me. This aunt, my mother’s youngest sister, lived near us and was actually closer in age to me than to my mother. Her children, two boys, were only a few years older than my girls. And my aunt and I did a good few things together. At one point, soon after I got this marvellous sewing machine, she arrived with three or four pairs of her son’s jeans, all with considerable worn patches, rips, and wear. She was, she said, tired of the boy (he was in his early teens) looking like a tramp and could I mend the jeans. I could. I sacrificed one pair to make patches and I reseamed, invisibly patched and trimmed the others into respectability. Son, receiving these garments, was devastated. The fashion in his high school was that the jeans be ripped and worn to pieces. My mends had wrecked his sartorial splendour and, in fact, he was now a laughing stock. His mother was most amused.

I am now on my third sewing machine, this one an all-singing all-dancing Scandinavian monster. On which I mend. And do not, alas, make costumes any more. However, there is a bowl of chocolate bars at the ready, should a costumed child appear out here this evening. And I hope for the full spooky moon.

October Song

Well, it's a long, long time
From May to December.
But the days grow short,
When you reach September.
And the autumn weather
Turns the leaves to gray
And I haven't got time
For the waiting game.

And the days dwindle down
To a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days
I spend with you.
These precious days
I spend with you.

 We had our first snow this morning. I woke up to a white world, a beautiful world, but since it is the second last day of October, it was rather a bit of a shocker. And I found bits of the lyrics above running through my head. “And the days dwindle down to a precious few”.

  My days, certainly, have done that. I am eighty-one (“and a half” in my granddaughter’s eight-year-old treble). Nothing I am works the way it used to – eyes, spine, digestion, fingers, skin, brain. I spent some time this morning “downsizing”, as they say. I tossed out maps and information pamphlets from trips we have taken – Virginia, Newfoundland, Utah and the rest of the southwest of the USA – and, as I tossed, knew, sadly, that I never would go to those places again; there was no use keeping the information. JG and I took a lot of long and fascinating trips in the day, but we have no ability to do that any more.

 And, I thought, I have no ability to do much of anything, really. Except, maybe, write. The fingers, lumpy as they are, do work. The brain, cranky as it is, does spin out words. And, maybe, the things that flutter around in my head will be amusing to me, at least, to write down. So, the intent is to do a diary for November. For anyone interested enough to keep reading all of this. "These precious days, I will spend with you."

If I am honest with myself, I have not done a lot with my life. Scraped through university, taught, briefly, took a variety of part-time jobs when my two daughters were very young. Took a full-time job when they were in their early teens and got fired from it. Supported my husband in the life he wanted, including a quarter century making maple syrup every spring. I also did a lot of community and committee (much the same thing) work, mainly because there seemed to be a need to get something done. I found I did that rather well. An eight-year stint as a trustee on the school board of the city where we lived is probably the high point. I got elected quite easily, probably because one of my skills is public speaking. I did and do care about how children are educated. And about what opportunities are open to them. But that is not really an outstanding resume, for eighty-plus years.

I can’t wait to see what Grammarly makes of all those sentences with no subject. Too bad, Grammarly. That is the way I write. It is a lot like the way I talk. (I set up Grammarly a few weeks ago, because I have a tough time typing on my iPad and an even tougher time typing on my phone, using one digit. (Here I am using all ten; I took typing in high school and have never lost the main part of it, although I have to look at the keyboard to put numbers in. Is it not a Fine Thing that proper writing requires writing out the numbers as words. “Here” being the computer with a full=sized keyboard.) Grammarly took my sentences with no subject. I am informed that my "clarity" is good, but that my "engagement" is "a bit bland". And, as for "correctness", I am "looking good". This analysis thing is actually fun, although "bland" is a slap in the old kisser.

What I find is my main source of pride is that my daughters have done extremely well; they both have Very Important Work. My avatars, out doing good for the world.

And now I have to go and make supper. The meat is in the oven, but the rest of it is awaiting my paring knife and organization. This may be Day One, or I may come back to reread and edit. Depends. The days grow short, after all.