Learning curve
I was asked a funny question last summer when I was addressing students at the Stonecoast Summer Writing Conference in Freeport. I’d been talking about the DIY nature of my one-woman show, My Mother’s Clothes Are Not My Mother, and how I had written, directed, choreographed, booked, promoted and acted it pretty much all on my own. This was not by design — I didn’t know what I was doing, it just happened that way. But one of the attendees, apparently impressed by my seemingly endless ocean of wonderfulness, asked, “Is there anything you can’t do?”
The question stunned me. Not because I didn’t have anything to offer. I just didn’t know where to begin.
Of the many things I can’t do, the one people find most amusing is the fact I can’t type. Well, I can type, but it’s more a matter of slapping keys and letting autocorrect do the rest. See, back in high school, when we all took typing, I was terrified that if I learned the skill I’d end up in a steno pool for the rest of my life. So, I cheated. While Miss Trask thought I was diligently hammering away from touch, I was actually tilting my head back so I could see the keys. I really felt like I had pulled a fast one — that is, until I wrote my first college paper, made a mistake at the end, and had to type the entire page all over again. (Children, this was back in a time when there was no delete, no cut, no paste. Horrifying, I know.)
For similar reasons, I can’t cook. When I was growing up in Bath, women disappeared into kitchens and, like something from a horror movie, never came out. I figured the best way to safeguard against such a fate was to avoid the room altogether, unless I needed to nab a Ring Ding or a box of Cap’n Crunch — or, these days, something with a little more kick.
I also can’t play a musical instrument. I did take guitar lessons in high school and even wrote a couple songs: “Farewell to People,” for one. “Farewell to people/I’m taking my leave/I’d like to stay on here/But you see I can’t breathe.” (If anyone from Vicks VapoRub happens to read this and would like to use the song as a jingle, I’m all ears.) I also tinkered with the piano in our living room. The problem was, I wasn’t interested in the basics, like scales and reading music and placing your hands properly. What I wanted was to lean over the keys and pound out all that classical gas, like Liberace could. I wanted to play “Yesterday” with my face tilted up and my eyes closed like Paul McCartney when I sang (which I can’t do, either). I wanted to be on the Ed Sullivan Show. What I didn’t want to do was practice.
I can’t administer first aid. Good luck to you if you have a crisis in my presence. I’ll just stare at you. Which is also my technique for home repair. I’m hopeless with a paintbrush, a spade, an iron, a bottle of Windex, nail polish. And please don’t hand me a broom. (How, exactly, do you “corral” dust and dirt?)
Some of you might be wondering, Where was this girl’s mother, and why did she let her go out into the world so ill-equipped? Isn’t that the role of parents, to guide and mentor, to light the way ahead, or at least show their kid how to boil an egg properly, so the shell doesn’t take off half the white when you peel it, so she’ll have something to eat as she stumbles into her future? (Lunch today was something of a disaster.)
Well, I’ll tell you where my mother was: in the next room, pulling her hair out after a “session” with her only daughter. See, Mom was proficient at so many things; teaching just wasn’t one of them. Not that it was entirely her fault: I was a fidgety, distracted, impatient student — not unlike the fidgety, distracted, impatient adult I grew to become. Still, Mom and I worked our way through her entire repertoire — the piano, the cooking, the sewing, the knitting, the typing, the cleaning, the tennis, the gardening, the grooming — hoping something, anything might take. The one success we had was snapping gum. (Yes, my proper mother snapped gum.) When she had a piece of Beechnut peppermint and her knitting going at the same time, she produced a symphony of cracks and clacks. And though I only chew gum maybe once a year, I can still rally a series of mighty pops that would annoy the hell out of anyone in proximity. Hi, Mom, I think, when I do so. Thanks for the legacy.
But unlike my resistance to cooking and typing, I actually wanted to learn some of this other stuff. Mostly, I wanted to use her magnificent Singer sewing machine. She was a demon with that thing. She made curtains, my clothes, my dolls’ clothes, and doodads to be sold at the church fair at Christmastime. I loved the whole process, from start to finish. First, you purchased your supplies: patterns chosen from a big book at the back of a department store, cotton or wool wound around cardboard bolts, needles and notions. When you got home, you had to spread the material on a flat surface, usually the floor. Then you had to remove the gossamer pattern from the envelope, unfold and place it on top of the fabric without tearing it. (And what faerie fingers could’ve folded that thing and gotten it into the package to begin with? Surely ones accustomed to handling moth wings.) Then came the pinning down of the pattern and the most taxing part of all: cutting around all those darts and tabs. One miss, and the thing was ruined. My mother explained all this with pins pressed between her lips that made her look like a character from a Tim Burton movie, but I understood enough to keep out of her hair during this crucial stage.
Once the panels were cut, the assembly began. Out came the sewing machine. The side latches were flipped up — clack, like a suitcase — and the upper shell removed. The foot pedal’s cord was unwound and placed on the floor. On went the lamp, a Christmas bulb under a half shade. The bobbin was dropped into a secret hatch. She’d slide the material under the needle, snap down the guide, and the sewing commenced. Mmmm-mmmm, the machine growled as Mom goosed the pedal and worked around the darts and corners. Then she’d hit a straightaway and floor it, making that machine sing like an express train.
I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the Singer, which is why it was such a disappointment when my first attempt was nothing short of a disaster. My project was simple enough: a marble bag. I’m not sure what went wrong. All I remember is that I broke enough needles to force Mom into retirement as a sewing instructor. Besides, seventh grade and home ec. were coming. She must’ve thought, Best to leave this to the professionals.
Although, I have to say, I fared no better there. One assignment required me to make a beanbag frog at home. I somehow managed all the pattern-cutting and sewing around his bends and curves, leaving a small opening into which I filled him with split peas. What I didn’t know, or figure out, or care about, was how to finish the job and close him up. Instead, I used a safety pin.
My home ec. teacher, Mrs. Farnham, and my mother would howl with laughter every time they saw each other in the grocery store over the next 30 years. “And that frog,” Mrs. Farnham would exclaim. “Flat!” my mother would finish. “Completely flat!” While I walked to school with my beanbag creation, he must have been leaking peas the whole way. By the time I got to class, he was just two pieces of fabric with a safety pin in his lip. A punk frog. Secretly, I’m sure my mother took added delight in the fact it wasn’t just her — even a pro couldn’t teach me.
I think most of us, after we crest 50, start thinking legacy — not unlike a second-term president. The legacy question is extra daunting for those of us without kids. What will we leave behind? What, I wonder, do I have that I can pass along? How to snap gum, make a flat punk frog? No, really, the only things I know how to do are to tell my stories and help others tell theirs. And if it seems like I’m doing the backstroke through my own wonderfulness while I’m at it, add pulling a fast one to the list.
For a menu of the few things Elizabeth Peavey can do, visit elizabethpeavey.com.
