We hardly ever call a blouse a blouse anymore. In Mrs. Helsel’s eighth grade homemaking class (to which only girls were admitted – boys were relegated to ‘shop), we were required to sew an A-line skirt and a blouse with darts. I remember perusing Sears and selecting a dark-not-navy-blue poplin for the skirt and a simple lightweight bedsheet-white cotton for the blouse, then eagerly combing through P.B. Carroll’s for just the right colored spools of thread while being mindful not to omit the straight pins, pin cushion and the Dritz tracing wheel with carbon paper. For my care and precision, I received a duly protested B-minus at the end of the term. My garments were thoughtfully crafted if not perfect, but the teacher was adamantly unmoved.
I think my grade had more to do with a couple of avant-garde girlfriends rather than with the actual quality of my work, though now of course we shall never know. In those times and perhaps it remains so to this day, I could sense a teacher’s yearning for the occasional student to reflect back to them their worth as an educator, and I was known to provide good grist for that particular mill. Raised Mormon in a heavy-handed household, I knew how to play by the rules. But hormones had begun flowing in earnest, and I had my own trail to blaze which included, still includes, an eclectic choice of colorful companions surrounding me. And though I savored these unique comrades like small victories, each time I donned that skirt, it wore me like a shortcoming and I eventually abandoned it to Goodwill.
Post script:
Forty-five years later with bouts of sewing in between (a Sesame Street Ernie doll for my eldest that was as tall as she, numerous custom Halloween costumes, a neverending stream of sewing and mending), I ventured across Hawaii island to a tiny import store. It was there I selected yardage from a few bolts of lovely welterweight Japanese cotton fabric, and within a few days began laboring over my sewing machine, turning out two aloha shirts, one pair of wrap-around pants and a vest for Christmas presents. All gifts were received with great admiration, and my husband still garners the occasional compliment from admiring strangers. I would wager a bet I’m the only one in that eighth-grade class still sewing, much less enjoying it. (And no, I never went back to church.)
Chris' aloha shirt
