This morning, like many other mornings, I take the long walk from the parking lot to my place of work. The air is crisp and my stride purposeful – get out of the cold! This march is well thought out, if I cross the street before the first intersection I can avoid the heavy smell of fried meat permeating the air.
Challenge accepted and conquered; I now walk by numerous businesses buzzing with activity. One in particular always beckons my attention, the fabric store. You see, it looks different now but the memories are the same.
As a child, I accompanied my mother to this store many times, some willingly and others begrudgingly. Once inside of this establishment, I walked up and down the aisles touching each piece of chiffon, cotton, lace silk, toile, sequence and wool.
I scoured the glossy fashion magazines and excitedly pointed out my favorite designs. This was all a part of cataloging and creating an encyclopedic tactile memory bank.
Here, in this place, I bore witness to my mother’s creativity and command of a skillset foreign to me, even today.
Short in stature but mighty, she feverishly pointed to bundles of textiles that reached the ceiling, spat out measurements and proudly eyed her prizes.
From the sidelines, I watched as neat bundles of fabric were unfurled, cut and folded, corner to corner. Descending through the air were discarded, wispy featherlike pieces of thread. The exodus from this shop was accompanied by a white translucent bag, it’s content fabric, buttons, thread, zippers and a sewing pattern.
On some days, we sauntered over to McCrory’s for lunch – delicious pizza and juice. Not yet able to reach the countertop, each attempt to rest my plate on the wooden plank above was a balancing act.
This excursion into downtown always concluded on mass transportation, the 27 bus to be exact. Once home, my mother busied herself with house chores and ultimately turned her attention to creation.
Every artist has his instrument, my mother was no different, hers was the sewing machine.
This piece of Good Ol’ Americana required the strength of a trained arm to behold, it had weight. In order to enjoy the fruits of her labor my mother had to lift the hinged cover up and lay it down, wrap her hand around the neck of this contraption and scoop it up onto the carved-out piece of wood and let it rest atop. I watched this exercise of will and determination take place more times than I can recount.
More often than not, my sister and I were the beneficiaries of my mother’s creations. We stood still, like mannequins as she hemmed, pinned, tucked and stitched. Unbeknownst to us, this was more than just a hobby, it was an act of love and a sense of pride every time we waked out of the door and anyone remarked, “what a beautiful dress.”
My journey to work every morning is no ordinary walk, there are memories tucked away around every bend of these four corners. So, while the air is cold, my heart is content.
Cheers to the memories that warm us on blisteringly cold days; the ones that brighten the gloomy ones; those we cling to, and the ones that escape us only to return at a glance.
Did You Know? McCrory’s was a chain of five and dime stores that sold a variety of items, including clothing, shoes, housewares, fabrics, toys, cosmetics, and penny candy. The stores often had a lunch counter or snack bar.