Sparking a Memory

Shiny silver, glinting in the twinkling lights of my decorated tree, those sewing scissors are by far my favorite Christmas gift of 2020. Manufactured in Italy by Gingher, they’re described as “knife edge dressmaker’s shears.” After finally deciding to cut up two of Dad’s flannel shirts for a craft project (he passed in 2012), it wasn’t without swallowing the lump in my throat and shedding a few tears that I was able to do it. Those shears are magnificent! They cut through layers of flannel—even through seams and cuffs—as if they were only red and yellow plaid . . . air.

In trying then out for the first time, my mind turned to another pair of shears, from nearly 50 years ago. Momma’s black-handled sewing scissors were hers. And nobody else’s. She’d allowed me to use them a few times, like the day I sat near her side, creating a new Barbie dress from her sewing scraps. Even the tiny pattern of pink-flowered flannel from Momma’s new nightgown looked huge on Barbie. On that day—the day of my first-ever doll dress design—I hadn’t left a seam allowance, but the pieces were already cut. What to do? Momma had leftover lace, which I stitched up both sides of Barbie’s gown. It was a decidedly feminine look. Sexy even, if I had been old enough to understand what that meant. Barbie liked the dress just fine, and I finished up by tucking her in bed and cleaning up my sewing mess, making sure to put those scissors back in the drawer.
But the next summer, there was a time when I forgot. I forgot to put them away. And I’d forgotten something else—to ask Momma if I could use them. Outside. Where I was once again sewing doll clothes. Did you know that if you set down your black-handled sewing shears—even big ones—they can disappear right into the grass? And that they might stay there in the grass until Momma looks for them and calls out to everyone in the whole house, “Who’s got my scissors? Someone took them out of the sewing machine drawer without asking!”
It was the kind of moment when I suddenly expected a punishment. I feared speaking up. I feared going outside and walking across the yard—feared what I would find there. So I didn’t say anything. But I made my feet carry me out there, eyes to the ground, looking . . . looking. And there they were. Momma’s black-handled sewing shears. With spots of rust.
Now, using those scissors without permission was one thing. Taking them outdoors was something else. And leaving them outside in the weather was another thing altogether. As I rescued Momma’s shears from the grass, I needed rescuing myself. Impending doom—that’s how it seemed, a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hated being in trouble. I wanted so much to be a good girl. But this was bad—so I felt like a bad girl.
What surprises me now is that I can’t remember the punishment. I don’t even know if there was a punishment. I believe that Daddy must have somehow removed the surface rust off the blades, oiled them, and sharpened them up. What I do know is that I miss my parents. Daddy’s been gone eight years, and Momma going on four. Lately, when something like the gift of new sewing shears sparks a memory, I’ve been writing down those stories—stories of my personal history.
Have the recent holidays sparked memories for you? If you’d like to learn about capturing and recording them, please contact me for an option that works for you: a one-time class or a longer-term program to write a series of stories, or even a book. I can transcribe audio files and scan your photos, or we can work with one of my partners to create a video—whatever you like. In the meantime, just be sure to capture those sparks.