Over the past twenty some years my mother had hand sewn me many, many articles of clothing, from the delicate, white crocheted baby dress, to the long skirts I wore in high school, to the Phantom of the Opera purse she made for my trip to see the show on Broadway. I am ashamed to admit that as a child, I took these handmade treasures for granted, in fact was at times, ashamed of them. I was carrying my lunch money in a crocheted purse shaped like a bright orange fish long before such things were considered trendy. I liked the purse, but could not understand why many of my classmates thought it was strange and un-cool, unlike their normal, store bought articles.
It was not until my freshman year of college that I appreciated Mom’s impeccable talent as a seamstress. She was born with a degenerative muscular disease called Muscular Dystrophy and as a result had to reluctantly give up sewing. Her hands were just too weak to hold even a needle, much lese operate a sewing machine. It had been almost two years since she had made anything and yet one weekend I came home to find a dark blue skirt made for me, handmade, by Mom. Since then, I have accumulated sun dresses, purses, aprons, even oven mitts and potholders.