hemming

One of my least favorite chores is hemming. I was going to call it a pastime, but that is reserved for pleasurable occupations. Not so for me if it involves needle and thread, much less measuring and accuracy.

I decided to finally hem a pair of uber comfortable pants this afternoon. I've generally rolled them at the waistband to clear the floor and my shoes because I only wear them at home, but that makeshift arrangement has worn thin over time. It's become a hassle so it seemed that a one-time effort to correct the problem would save me aggravation down the line. With that I gave in despite my general dislike for the task and pulled my minimal sewing kit off the shelf. I grabbed my mom's sewing supplies as well.

I don't think I've opened her collection of threads, needles, pins and assorted paraphernalia since I brought it all back with me when I closed up her apartment nearly six years ago. Still, I've kept it all.

She sewed, mended, repaired, and quilted. She seemed happiest when her hands were occupied, especially doing something worthwhile. I never knew how she could do more than one thing at a time, but somehow she was able to follow a TV show while deftly negotiating the intricate patterns or straight lines of her needlework.

Maybe it was handling the mundane tools that my mother used so often. Maybe it was the music in the background as I dutifully measured and pinned. Maybe it was the in-and-out repetition of the needle followed by a long drawn out pull of the thread to make each stitch. Maybe it was the quieting of the day as the sun set ever so slowly until dark. Maybe it was my hands resembling my mother's working at that simple chore. Maybe it was suddenly noticing that I was enjoying myself.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that this had been the best part of my day.