If you were a baby boomer girl child growing up in middle class suburbia, chances are you learned how to sew. As in your own clothes. As in go to the fabric store, pore through the Simplicity pattern catalog, choose a pattern, then the fabric, the thread, buttons, snaps, trim, and any other notions needed to complete the project.

This was not a chore. This was a joy. At least it was for me. From the ’70s into the ’80s it was all Laura Ashley-style dresses, sweet calico prints, puffed sleeves, lace trim and tucks and ties. My granny glasses and long straight hair completed the look.

I sewed, crocheted, knitted, and embroidered my way through my early thirties, as I graduated from high school and college and started teaching in a series of different island schools. Being on an island forced a certain simplicity of lifestyle, especially in the winter when the ferry schedule was greatly diminished.

I remember one Christmas on Vinalhaven my parents made the journey to spend a few days with my husband and me. My mom was finishing up a sewing project of her own, hand stitching a length of ribbon around the neck of a voluminous flannel nightgown.

Three small heart-shaped buttons closed the gap in the front, white eyelet lace trimmed the sleeves. The fabric was a paisley design with teal flowers and vines on a cream background. She said it was a gift for my sister-in-law.

On Christmas morning my mom handed me a package (talk about simple – mom never gift-wrapped – the wrapping usually consisted of the bag from the store), and to my delight, it was the nightgown she’d been working on. Nearly 40 years later, I still have that nightie. It’s big enough to wear as a top layer over another gown. Mom was 6-foot-2, so she knew to make sure the sleeves were plenty long and that it would go to the floor. I’ve had to re-stitch the neck ribbon a few times, and I do it with reverence.

Mending by hand is about all the sewing I do these days – I don’t think I could thread a sewing machine if you paid me. What with moving back to the mainland, going to graduate school, entering the computer age, commuting a half hour to school instead of the five-minute walk when I lived on the island, the time and spaciousness for being creative largely disappeared.

Do I yearn for those simpler times? Do I wish I had made different life choices? Yes and no.

There’s nothing to gain by wishing I’d done things differently. And now, in retirement, coupled with being in a pandemic, I have returned to a simpler age. Life is slower, I’m content to rattle around the homestead, I choose time with friends carefully. I appreciate what I have more fully than ever before. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll relearn how to thread that sewing machine.

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