Hobbies Proceed According to a Pattern

I sew. It is an ancient art, first practiced by Adam and Eve using leaves. God’s animal skin versions were undoubtedly a giant step forward, though He sadly left no pattern (I have never subscribed to the bitten-off-the-back-of-a-wild-beast version you see in Sunday school pictures. Look at a sunset; He does not do things halfway).

I would say sewing is my hobby, but my family would protest. My “hobby” has its own room. Not that it can be confined. I once removed all of the furniture in the living room to cut out the train for a wedding gown. 

My son understood my obsession before his fifth birthday—and learned to turn it to his advantage. He came home from kindergarten one day and told me, “There was a boy in my class who had pants and they came up here and had buttons up here!” He added hand directions and hopeful hazel eyes for emphasis.

“Those are called ‘overalls,’” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I bet you could do that,” he replied confidently.

Fortunately, there are patterns for overalls.

I think there is something in us that keeps us from self-regulating our hobbies. Fishermen always need one more lure; carpenters borrow from one another’s others scrap piles. Whole basements are dedicated to music production. My hobby naturally veered into fashion. I have books, note cards, artwork, and saved calendars devoted to fashion. Eventually, I decided to replicate fashion.

To replicate fashion, you need models. I wanted 18” models, as Barbie is impossible with her teeny waist and neck. I found dolls at a discount store, finally. I bought them—and hid them in the trunk of my car, lest my family go into their mom-is-doing-it-again routine. As fate would have it, the next time I opened my trunk my youngest daughter and my husband were there. Up came the trunk lid, and I jumped back, wondering how to hide the bodies now evident.

My daughter looked at my husband.

“She found her dolls,” she sighed.

I now have eighteen dolls dressed in various fashions. I show them to school students, Girl Scouts, whoever has a better attitude than those with whom I live. I tell them how the zipper came to be, with its long history of being ignored as utilitarian, how long skirts disappeared with the discovery of bacteria and the news that mothers were spreading germs by swishing around in their long hems, and how the bustle disappeared from America.

Paul E Boller, Jr. tells that story in his book, Presidential Wives. Frances Cleveland was the much younger, beautiful wife of rotund Grover Cleveland. She had become his ward after her father’s death, and in 1886, surprised the public by becoming his wife. Frances wore the exaggerated version of the bustle—until bored reporters needed a little fake news. They reported that the First Lady had ordered her new dresses without the bustle. Frances saw the article, was in quite a quandary about it, and decided she would, in fact, order her dresses without the bustle. The bustle was dead. 

And we think fake news is new….

In addition to fashion and sewing, my other pastime is writing. I called that a hobby until I started getting paid for it. I thought it was less annoying than my sewing—I only need my desk. Then, someone asked my husband what he wanted for Christmas.

He shook his head and said, “A piece of paper Sandy hasn’t written on.”

It did explain why he seldom opposes my fabric purchases.

Whatever your hobby, I hope you can enjoy it during these times of distance and quarantine. And I hope your family is as understanding as mine, even if you take the occasional ribbing from those who do not understand how you can love sitting silent in a boat or blind, getting your fingers messy with paint or dirt, or otherwise engaging with focus and zeal in your art-turned-obsession.