As a child, I thought Mother’s red and cream sewing basket was a treasure chest waiting to be explored. When I thought she wasn’t looking, I’d sneak into her bedroom and remove the basket from its hiding place atop her closet shelf. “Open Sesame!” I’d say, lifting the lid, revealing a trove of sewing notions. Haberdashery, she called it. Thimbles, spools of thread, buttons of all shapes and sizes, a sock darner, scissors, pinking shears, bobbins, tape measure, pins, and a tomato-shaped pincushion scarred from past needle pricks. As I rummaged through the contents, I dreamt of being the kind of woman who would one day know what to do with all the odds and ends inside.
I hadn’t thought about that wondrous basket in years, but one weekend while rifling through my linen closet, I came across it neatly tucked in the corner of one of the shelves. I retrieved it from its resting place and lifted the lid. “Open Sesame!” I said, releasing an unseen magic—childhood memories of sitting next to Mother on the couch, watching her darn socks or putting the finishing touches on a garment she’d just sewn.
I combed through the basket’s contents, reveling in how the colorful threads, rickrack, sharp scissors, and even elastic (still stretchy!) were waiting for me like old friends delightedly surprised to see each other at a high school reunion. I closed my eyes, traveling back in time. Another memory emerged.
I remembered being in Mother’s sewing room and sitting close to her, fascinated, as I watched her pin the pattern to the fabric, cut out the fabric, and then sew the pieces together. On one such occasion, she handed me a copy of her favorite childhood book, Adventures Among the Thimble People–a book her mother had given her when she was about ten years old. The timeworn book had a simple earthy-hued cover, was soft to the touch, and its edges had a similar look to some beloved antique teddy bear. I loved reading the crease-worn pages, imagining that I was like the main character, Mary Frances—a lonely little girl who spent summers with her grandmother. Much to her delight, Mary Frances finds that the tools in her grandmother's sewing basket are alive. These "thimble people" talk to her, teaching her how to sew for her doll, how to work diligently, have patience, obey her grandmother, and how to clean up after herself.
While I never actually saw or talked with these "thimble people," I took their sewing lessons to heart, eventually learning how to sew for my dolls and myself. I suppose, in some way, they’re the reason I’m a patient, diligent woman who, to this day, doesn’t like a messy home and who always cleans up after herself. On another note, I also became the kind of woman I dreamt of being—one who knows what to do with all the odds and ends inside Mother’s sewing basket.
