The Green Jacket by Joanne Culley

I admire the kiwi green jacket from all sides in the three-way mirror in the showroom as clothing designer Angela Mark hovers around me, pins at the ready, tucking in darts here, pulling in shoulder pads there, making sure it fits me perfectly. I have made an impulsive decision to splurge on some designer clothing. Suddenly, in my mind, Im back in my childhood home, where Im standing on a dining room chair, while my mother is pinning the hem on my new taffeta dress with the full crinoline. It takes all of my patience as a seven year old to stand still. Can I get down yet Mommy? In a minute Im almost through, just the back to do now, she says through the pins in her teeth. I try not to move so I dont get poked like a voodoo doll by any of the multitude of pins that are holding the bodice together. The sleeves arent on yet. Finally shes done, and as she pulls it off carefully over my head, I can hear some of the pins falling to the floor like icicles from a tree in the sunshine. Gingerly stepping over them, I get back into my play clothes and run outside to jump in the leaves with my brothers. My mother Helen was an expert seamstress she made dresses, skirts, blouses, and shorts for me, shirts and pyjamas for my brothers, and suits for herself. Shed have several projects on the go at a time - the dining room table was covered with fabric and patterns, spools of different-coloured threads, zippers, and buttons, ready for the sewing

machine in the corner. Every day, it was my job to clear it all off in order to set the table for supper, and in the process, not mix up anything. My mother loved sewing for and dressing me, the only daughter of three children. Every season we would go to Eatons to pore over the Vogue and Simplicity catalogues, to select a pattern in the latest style for me to wear to the family Christmas party, to church at Easter, or for the holidays. Then, wed pick the fabric velvet, satin, gingham, poplin, cotton, or linen. I loved imagining what the new dress would look like. Helens talent was born of necessity. As a child during the Depression, she helped her mother sew diapers and shirts from 50 lb. cotton flour sacks on a Singer sewing machine that had to be pumped by foot. Her mothers old dresses were made over into new clothes for the 11 children. Any leftover scraps went into the quilts that kept them warm during the long prairie winters. Each child had just two outfits one to wash and one to wear. Because they had little money, Helen and her mother had to share a winter coat, so they could never go out together. When Helen wore it, she basted in the sides so that it would fit her. She made over an old suit of her fathers into a dress for her, and asking him what he thought of it, he said Itll do, a comment that deflated her pride at her sewing prowess. Helen did her best to impart her sewing skills to me, and while I didnt do too badly with embroidery and knitting, I didnt inherit her skill as a seamstress. In Grade 7 Home Economics, they called me the terror of the sewing machine. I hated sewing so much, that I would race through whatever project I was working on, an apron or a blouse, just to get it over with. Inevitably, I would sew the inside to the outside or the sleeves the wrong way up, and have to rip it all out. At the end of class we were to fold up our

pattern pieces neatly, and stow them away in paper folders in our cubby holes, ready for the next class. Instead, I would surreptitiously roll them up and stuff them into my binder, to bring home to my mother. I would look at her pleadingly. She would sigh, figure out where I had gone wrong, and make it right. Then, voila!, I would bring the completed article back to class. None the wiser, Mrs. Moore gave me an A for my efforts. Not very honest, I guess. I never took Home Economics again. As I got older, my mother continued to make my clothes - two satin blouses in high school, one navy and one white, which were the envy of the other girls. I only wore my uniform one day a week on the other days I wore a different outfit each time. My classmates remarked on my extensive wardrobe. When I started my first job in publishing, she made me two crisp woollen suits and numerous skirts and blouses to help me portray a business image. When she died in 1997 at the age of 78, I was faced with the task of clearing out her closets. I was astounded to see how many blouses, skirts and dresses she had accumulated over the years and kept in immaculate condition with soaps and sachets to give them a fresh scent. Once I got over the initial shock, I started counting them: there were 76 blouses, 20 nightgowns, 17 housecoats, 13 skirts, four pairs of pants, and three dresses and several suits. I guess she was making up for the lack of clothing in her childhood. I dont know what I was thinking when I brought her sewing machine home after she died. It stood in the basement corner for a long time, and I made some half-hearted attempts at getting it to work. I couldnt remember how to thread it properly or get the

tension right. When I did try to sew the most rudimentary of items, the stitches would be too loose or the bobbin would run out. The last straw was when I was hemming my husbands jeans and the needle broke. While I was installing the replacement, the new needle slipped out of my fingers and dropped down through the hole under the sewing foot, difficult, if not impossible, to retrieve. I realized that I couldnt sew without her help and guidance. I like to think its my mothers way of telling me not to waste my time doing something I dont enjoy and will never be good at, but to focus on what makes me happy and gives me satisfaction. The following week I returned to Angela Marks design studio to pick up my new jacket. As I left, I had the nagging feeling that I had worn it before. When I got home, I realized that its remarkably similar to a suit jacket, albeit several sizes smaller, that my mother made for me thirty years ago. I think she is looking down on me, smiling.

Joanne Culley is a writer and DVD producer whose articles have appeared in the Globe and Mail. Her documentaries include Be My Baby, Put the Brakes on Bullying, and Breaking New Ground: Contemporary Canadian Architecture. She was the winner of the Media/Television Award for "In Celebration of Women" in 2001.

Submitted by: Joanne Culley 455 Albertus Ave.

Peterborough, ON K9J 5Z9 joanne.culley@sympatico.ca