Ever since she was a little girl, my mother loved to sew.
More than just a hobby at which she was extremely talented,
sewing was a very important part of her life.
To be a dressmaker was her dream. But when she left school
during the Depression, she was disappointed to learn that a
dressmaker's apprentice earned almost nothing for the first
two years. Knowing that her widowed mother needed her
support, she bravely swallowed her regret and took a job as
a salesclerk. But sewing remained her greatest love. Almost
every night, she would stay up late, carefully pinning paper
patterns to fabric, cutting them out and finally sewing them
together on her small sewing machine. The outfits she
produced on that machine were amazing. When her older
sisters married and provided her with four little nieces,
she delighted in sewing for them, conjuring up adorable
dreses for every occasion, including Pesach and Rosh
Hashona. Her creations, often with matching hats and
accessories, were the talk of the town.
When she finally married, she sewed her own wedding gown and
those of all her bridesmaids. After she gave birth to me and
then my younger sister, we became the fortunate
beneficiaries of her sewing skills. One of my earliest
childhood memories is selecting my dress for the day. And
what a variety there was to choose from! Bright cotton
flowered prints or checks or stripes or dots, puffed
sleeves, Peter Pan collars... I have a photograph of her
holding me aged two, wearing matching striped mother-
daughter dresses. Although the photo is in black-and-white,
I can still remember the real colors of blue and white
stripes. She often sewed us big sister-little sister
outfits. How I wish we had saved even one of those precious
dresses but we passed them on to younger cousins or friends
when we outgrew them and now they are all gone.
She also spent a great deal of time sewing glorious
patchwork quilts for every bed in the household.
Fortunately, one of these works of creation did survive
which today proudly covers one of my armchairs. Years later,
after I married and produced three sons and my sister did
the same, my mother tried to sew outfits for her beloved
litle grandsons. But, alas, her talents seemed to lie only
in dresses and girls' outfits. Somehow, the small pants and
shirts she tried to sew for them never turned out quite as
professional. This was most frustrating for her.
"Oh, how I wish you had a litle girl," she often said. "The
dresses I would sew for her..."
I fervently shared her wish. But, sadly, it was not to be.
Although she did live to see her only granddaughter, she
never did get the chance to sew anything at all for her. By
the time she was born, my mother had suffered a severe
stroke which had left her paralzyed down the entire right
side of her body and barely able to speak. Confined to a
wheelchair in a nursing home, she was able to cradle her
precious granddaughter in her left arm and smile down at her
with her sweet sad lopsided smile. But her sewing days were
over.
For nine years she remained that way, part of her with us
but the other part gone forever. The capable woman she had
been -- who had loved to sew, to cook for her family, to
tell marvelous stories -- was no longer there.
Her stroke had occurred exactly one hour after the death of
her dearly beloved sister on the other side of the world.
"I loved her so much, I would have given my right arm for
her," she often told us. And in a very real sense, she
had.
And then, one Friday morning, my mother's soul also slipped
away.
"I'm going home today," she told the nurse. Startled to hear
such a complete sentence from her, the nurse glanced at her
in amazement.
But by then my mother was no longer there. Her words had
been accurate. She had indeed, "gone home". For years, like
many women of her generation, she had worn a tight fitting
girdle whenever she went out. But as soon as she returned,
she would take it off and sink down into a chair with a sigh
of pleasure.
"Ah, what a relief it is to take that thing off!" she would
exclaim, smiling.
Now I could imagine her neshoma soaring upwards, free
at last of that confining damaged body that had imprisoned
her for nine long years.
"Ah, what a relief!" I could almost hear her exclaiming
joyfully.
Although we felt sorrow at her passing and knew we would
miss her deeply, we could not regret that her suffering in
this world had ceased.
I flew across the ocean for her funeral and we sat
shiva for her in my sister's house.
I had trouble sleeping every night of that long week. Lying
awake in the three a.m. unfamiliar darkness, I tried to
think of a suitable epitaph for her gravestone. Which words
to choose to sum up my mother's life, to express her
essence? At first, I considered these lines from "A Woman of
Valor" which would reflect her talent for sewing:
"She fears not snow for her household,
For her entire household is clothed with scarlet wool.
Luxurious bedspreads she made herself,
Linen and purple wool are her clothing."
But beautiful and appropriate as they were, these lines were
too long and, out of context, and perhaps would not have
made sense. Then, finally, the right words did come to me,
which I felt more concisely expressed the person who my
mother had been:
"A gentle soul, filled with lovingkindness and devotion."
On the day I was to return home to Israel, a friend gave me
a beautiful dress for my eight-year-old daughter. It had
belonged to her only daughter, Elisheva, who had outgrown
it. Still in excellent condition, patterned with pink roses
and green leaves on a shining white background, it was a
gorgeous, special-occasion dress.
My daughter loved it on sight, but it was a size twelve and
still far too big for her. So I put it away for her till she
grew into it.
Then a few months later, my daughter was invited to a
neighbor's wedding.
She was delighted but, typically female, complained she had
nothing to wear.
Then her small face brightened.
"I know. I can wear that beautiful dress Elisheva gave
me."
"But it's still way too big for you," I told her, holding it
up against her.
"But couldn't you make it smaller?" she asked, her big brown
eyes wistful. "I so want to wear it."
I studied the dress carefully. Sadly, I had not inherited my
mother's sewing talent.
I could hold a pen in my hand and words would fly across the
page. I'd even mastered a computer keyboard. But when it
came to sewing, my fingers were all thumbs. I had struggled
to learn to sew in high school and could still barely stitch
on a button or fix a fallen hem. But to alter a lovely dress
like this... Of course not. It was completely beyond me.
"Please," my daughter implored. "Couldn't you at least
try?"
I looked at her and then at the dress. What if I ruined it,
a most likely possibility... If only my mother were here to
help me...
But strangely, something made me say, "Okay, I'll try."
I took down my small sewing box, containing only a few
needles, a small pair of scissors, a couple of buttons and
exactly two spools of thread, one black, one white. For
emergency use only.
What a contrast to my mother's large, hinged lid, fully
equipped sewing box, filled with spools of thread in an
artist's palette of colors, needles in an entire range of
sizes, an eclectic assortment of buttons, thimbles and a
large sharp pair of "golden" scissors we were admonished
never to use for cutting paper lest it become
dull.
Now as I sat there hesitantly holding that beautiful dress
in my untalented hands, I felt petrified.
How was I going to do this? My daughter sat nearby, watching
carefully.
Then, as clearly as if she were sitting beside me, I heard
my mother's voice.
"First, take the scissors and cut off that big flounce at
the bottom, then fold it up and make a hem..."
Listening to her voice inside my head, I followed her
directions. Amazingly, my unskilled hands cooperated. I
picked up the scissors and carefully trimmed away the
flounce, altered the neckline to make it smaller, formed a
sash out of the part I'd cut off.
Once I made a stupid mistake and I heard my mother's voice
say in irritation, "No, no! Not like that! Do it over."
And I did. Then amazingly, miraculously, it was finished.
I held my breath as my daughter slipped it over her head. To
our joy, this beautiful dress now fit her perfectly. Wearing
it, she looked like a princess. And then I realized what had
happened.
My mother had fulfilled her wish. In a very real sense, she
had accomplished what she had always wanted to do. She had,
at last, made a dress for her granddaughter.
