Young Marrieds

I should post this now while the memory is still clear. The snowy part of the lingering 2018 winter reminded me of my first bad weather related experience while driving. 

As young married people, eighteen years old, we were hardly a step away from childhood and most definitely not old enough to navigate or cope with life issues without more instruction or experience. Right decisions were iffy.

The year before I married, I traded in my light green 1965 Ford Mustang for an orange AMC Gremlin. Neither car traveled well on Missouri snow covered roads. 

A week or so before we married, in February, a snow storm visited our area. Soon after that, we had another. 

This is clearly not a snowstorm, but shows you

how young we were. Picture taken the summer after

we married. In case you were wondering these

were the longest shorts that we owned. 😏  

The snow fell fast through the early morning hours. My new husband had left our home, located near a cool truck stop, with his carpool buddies and headed to his welding job forty miles away. I worked at a garment factory in a small town five miles from home. In spite of dangerous road conditions, I knew that my attendance was required in order to keep my job.

The first road I pulled out on was the main highway, in front of our house and  snow covered. I traveled slow speeds to the small town where I worked and used the  more traveled streets to get to the final street, leading to my workplace.

That particular street was the worst. No plowing had been done. As my orange car struggled through the snow, the back end slid right and left. I tried correcting, but didn't know what I was doing. When I reached the sharp corner that led up the small hill to the factory, I accelerated, not because I thought it would help, but because I was scared that I wouldn't make it. Once I reached the nearly empty parking lot, I saw that the lot had been plowed, but was still a mess from packed and falling snow covering everything again.

I drive my Gremlin as close to the door as I can and stop against a mound of plowed snow. Feeling weak, sick to my stomach and the need to cry, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. In those moments, I considered just leaving without saying anything to my supervisor, but I'd gotten that far so I trekked through the snow to the building. 

Inside, I found Carol at her desk. I told her that I was going back home, that I barely made it there, and the roads were horrible to travel. Her face showed surprise and I thought that I would be fired for my word vomiting. Instead, she told me to go back home and that I shouldn't have tried coming in. 

Back in the car, I turn around and headed down the snowy hill without much trouble. The next corner was another story. To clear the corner, I needed to find a compromise between slowing down and speeding up. All went well until I cleared the corner and needed to accelerate again. The tires spun some and I gassed it. The car made it a couple more feet before stalling in the middle of the street. 

Out of nowhere, a man showed up at my window and knocked, and I cranked down the window. Snow blew inside the window hitting me and the man in the face.  

“You got it stuck! We'll push you out, but once we get it free, you've gotta gun it." He motioned to another man standing behind my car. Both were bundled up in coats, gloves and hat. "Keep it rolling until you get wherever you’re going.”

I thanked him, rolled the window up and waited until the back of my car rocked. When it moved forward a bit, one of the men  pounded  on the car and I gassed it.  The car moved forward, and I drove on down the street, the lightweight backend still swaying side to side. When I saw the stop sign at the end of the street, I gassed it more, prayed and glanced in the rearview mirror for the men, but they had disappeared. I kept the car going, drove through the stop sign at the end of the street without stopping and up on the next better plowed street. 

Five miles later, I passed the truck stop where several semi-trucks idled in the parking lot, perhaps waiting on drivers eating breakfast or waiting out the storm. Ahead of me, I see the prize: my little  house and its driveway! I remember saying out loud, “When I get home, I will never leave again.” 

In the distance, I also see a big rig barreling down the highway coming in my direction. Believing at that moment that I should not wait on the truck to pass or I would get stuck again in the middle of the highway, my feeble mindset influenced the heaviness of my foot and I accelerate the car to get in the driveway. It was at that moment that my car bucks and slides sideways, in the road. I don't look again at the massive vehicle coming towards me. Instead, I take my hands off the steering wheel in surrender. In that odd moment, a calm filled me. I pressed the gas petal and the car jets into the snow packed driveway and stops. The semi-truck blows its horn at me as it passes which did not make me feel any better.

For a  few minutes, I sat in my car, head on the steering wheel and sobbed. 

Not knowing me, you might think I vowed to never drive on snow covered roads again. In spite of a desperate declaration of never leaving home again, I did leave, and I became more determined to conquer inclement weather driving. Don't get me wrong, I don’t like driving in the pouring rain, icy or on snow covered roads, but over the years I've made myself drive it as needed. 

I don't like feeling a hostage to anything.

I learned my share of lessons that day. God took care of me the entire way in spite of myself and still does. I learned about angels in human form coming to the rescue, my first experience, but not my last. At eighteen, I learned about the fighter in me who surfaced that day. I will need that fighter spirit again and again.

T.

Sewing Part 1: Resuscitation

Back in the day, I was not alone in sewing the clothing I wore. Many of my friends also sewed. To say  that I've sewn a thousand garments, household items and gifts combined, is probably an understatement. I used to sew a lot.

Then I stopped.

There is a new generation of young women who are sewing! This not only loads my heart with happiness because sewing is a great skill, and I feared a lost art, but also inspired me. These particular ladies have YouTube channels and vlog (video blogging) about their “makes” and experiences.

I've started sewing again.

Machines and Things

With my daughter's help, I concluded that I stopped sewing (my clothing) in the mid 1990s. During that time, I was responsible for raising our kids alone and running the household while working a full time job, due to my (then) husband living about two hours away and finishing his degree. My busyness and the fact that I could find clothing for less money at places like Tempo and TJ Maxx, for my family, I stopped sewing clothing.

Then a baby quilt changed my mind! My niece had a baby and I wanted to )make her a quilt. I doubt if she’ll use it. The quilt is rather blinding bright, but my niece seemed to genuinely appreciate the effort. It was a fun project. After that I decided to remake some thrift store buys because I loved the fabric (inspired by my early days). Then  I seamed up a couple of tops, from patterns. Oh and I decided to make another simple quilt. It's cut out and stitched, but not all together.

A couple of Christmases ago, my daughter gifted me with a serger. I didn't really use it until this year. Recently, I replaced my old 1974 New Home model machine  (seen here) with a Singer. 

New Home machine circa 1974

My old machine (see photo) still sews, but oh so slowly (probably needs a new belt). Plus, it’s all metal and super heavy. The new machine makes buttonholes kind of on its own! My old one does not. I haven't used the new buttonhole feature, yet, but if I read correctly, I pretty much place the fabric under the foot, click the heels of my ruby red flip flops, three times, and bam buttonholes are born! Okay, it's not that easy, but almost, especially compared to how I made them in the past.

I'm about to tell you more history of (my) sewing, so, get a pot of coffee, a cup of tea or a gallon of wine, I don’t care. It's your drink. Or if you're bored, you can opt out.

A Little History

I've always felt "creative". I think growing up rural with limited TV time helped me find things to do to fill my creative mind and free time. By the way, I can't ever remember ever being bored in my lifetime. What a great way to live--responsible for my own entertainment. 

My parents worked hard to provide for their family of five, but there was little extra money, for a clothes hungry girl like me. In about fifth grade, while we were still living in Washington, Illinois (Trading Lives), I started noticing fashion and asked my mom if I could pick out my own clothing. She said yes, forked over the money, and let me wander through a huge store until I found what I wanted. It was a magic day. (I did get lost from my parents, but I don't think I ever told them.)

Back in Missouri, during my junior high years, I felt the pressure of possessing lots of clothing, because the other girls did. I knew that sewing my clothes would be the answer. The tides were changing at school and we were allowed to wear pantsuits to school, for the first time ever. Previously, we girls wore dresses to school, rain or shine, hot or cold temperatures. That year, I reconstructed my first garment, from a sleeveless shift dress, opening it up to resemble a vest. I sewed this on my mom’s Sears brand sewing machine, along with some hand sewing. This idea came to mind when I remembered my Grandma Minnie sending me a dress, while we lived in Illinois, made from a hand-me-down. The dress was gorgeous.

There would be a lot of sewing in my future. Come back for additional posts and see my first sewing pattern and what I made. In high school, I made this dress (see below), a very short mini dress.  

This dress was made from a double knit fabric:

With this pattern: 

Coming next post: Sewing Part 2: Good and Proper

What fashion from your day has been worn in modern day? What shoes were you wearing your senior year in high school? Would you wear them today?



T's Carnival Dress

I’ve shown you my carnival dress from my childhood here; now let me show you one of my daughter’s carnival dresses. Although it’s not as old as my other treasures from the past, it is a treasure.

This dress is made of pink satin with a white lace overlay and sleeves. Also made of satin and lace is a detachable peplum, for the waist. The dress has two skirts layers with the top layer forming a scallop hem. The best part? I had a blast making this dress for my little daughter.

 

When you can’t find what you want, make it, I always say. I found the right pattern and recreated to make my rendition of a Cinderella dress.

If I hadn’t sorted my pictures into boxes with the hope of getting them ready for albums, I would have a photo of her in the dress. I will add that photo as I come across it again.

One final note, after chasing the satin around the room while sewing it, I vowed to never sew satin again, and I have not.

Quilts

When my grandmothers were growing up and when they became adults with their own homes, women made quilts to keep their families warm on winter nights.

 

 

 Minnie Pitts Powell, my grandmother, made two quilts as wedding gifts for me and my groom: pink and white squares made of cotton—quilted (see photo below) and a purple double-knit made of squares—tacked.  The purple knit quilt was as warm as any wool blanket even if  it was heavy and I couldn't move under it, until morning. I no longer have the purple quilt.  

 

The pink and white quilt is backed with a colorful stripe.

 

 

 This blue quilt made with some type of star and strips was given to me after Minnie passed.

Up close star.

 

 

My grandmother Sadie Stafford Dugan used (mostly) feed sacks on her quilt.  There are a couple of other fabrics, probably clothing that was worn out.

As with most families of that era nothing went to waste.

 

 

One day I will back it.  

 

Here's one of the fabrics--nothing I would put in a child's room, but so cool.

 

 

This is another fabric on the quilt top--a much more peaceful scene.

 

 

Quilts made by women before me. Quilts made for a purpose and with their own hands. A job well done, Sadie and Minnie--my beloved grandmothers. 

 

 

 

Felling Trees

When you are seven years old, it’s normal behavior to question the concept of death. But, as a well cared for rural child with a happy temperament and lots of natural curl, you don’t entertain the reality of death or the dying process, until you have reason to.

Photo: Little Teresa, Dad (holding the baby sister) and little brother.

I think it was the autumn of my seventh year (although I cannot swear to it) my dad, my brother and I went to cut wood, in the woods, for our wood stove. I suspect my mother sent us off with my dad because she was expecting my sister and needed rest.

My first memory of that day was my brother and I as we hopped out of the pickup. We were going to cut wood just "over the hill" from our grandparent's farm. Immediately, Dad laid down the rules. We were told we had a certain area we could play in and were not to go any farther than the imaginary boundaries he had set in our minds. There was good reason to stay in our assigned area; he would be using a chainsaw felling trees.

Even though the rules had been set, I knew in my mind and to the very core of my seven-year-old soul that I had to keep an eye on my four-year-old brother. He wasn’t trustworthy- then. (Of course he is now and I’m not saying that because I’m sure he’s reading this.) We played. We watched the frantic squirrels gathering their winter’s store. They didn’t appreciate my brother and I collecting acorns- huge acorns. We played on a stump taking turns jumping on and off.

I heard the popping noise and turned to look at the tree that our dad had been cutting on. There was a snap and then a swoosh as the tree fell freely through the air. The next thing we saw, my brother and I, was the tree falling toward our dad and grazing his head. Then the tree fell and our dad fell nearly simultaneously.

On the ground, he lay bleeding. I remember it being from his head. My dad, my brother’s dad, our only dad lay lifeless, on the ground. The world seemed to stop. My brother and I were frozen. The birds weren’t singing. The squirrels had disappeared. The crisp breeze had stopped. The world was still and scary.

Through my fog, I heard the voice of my brother. “Daddy’s dead, Daddy’s dead.” He ran in circles around our dad's body. Around and around he ran screaming that our dad was dead.

I was the oldest and I had no idea what to do.

My four-year-old brother screeched to a stop and looked at me. “I’m going to drive the truck down to Grandpa’s and get help.” He ran for the pickup.

“No, you can’t.” I said running after him. I knew the keys were hanging in the ignition. “You don’t know how to drive.” Experience with my head strong brother told me I might have a difficult time stopping him.

Photo: My brother and I.

It had only been a few minutes since the tree had fallen when we heard our dad groan, saw him move a little, and sit up. He wasn’t dead after all and my brother wouldn’t need to drive the pickup to our grandparent’s house.

Rural Significance
When I was a child, there were things that a rural father would do to support his family that could be dangerous. Necessity would dictate that fathers go hunting, cut firewood, use farm machinery or work factory jobs to provide for their families.  But, sometimes accidents caused by these tasks would result in death.