By Ann von Dehsen, July 2, 2020 — Except for sewing on a button or taking up the hem my mother had no interest or desire to sew. She claimed she got a headache just walking into the fabric store. So, when I was in high school, I decided to take sewing in Home Ec, hoping to discover I had a talent for it. Well on the first day of class while taking role, the teacher, Miss Alice Strickler, paused when she got to my name. “Von Dehsen? Is your father named Paul?”
When I said, “Uh, yes” she just rolled her eyes and went “Huh” and continued on with the class.
So my first attempts at threading the sewing machine were unsuccessful, and Miss Alice Strickler seemed to ignore my raised hand for help, as long as she could. By the time I was ready to stitch, the class was over. That night at dinner, I asked if the name Alice Strickler rang any bells. He had no recollection at all, but I kept pressing him to jog his memory until he finally said, “Oh, I was friends with John Strickler in high school. And yeah, he had a sister named Alice, and I think I took her to a dance once. But I had no real interest in her.” And there lies the reasons for her eye-rolling. Apparently, Miss Alice Strickler definitely had an interest in him.
So there I was each day, forty some odd years later, reminding the spinster Alice Strickler of her lost love as I struggled through the class. It turns out I had no flair for sewing at all and spent many afternoons after school in the Home Ec room tearing out crooked seams and poorly placed zippers. Miss Alice Strickler gave me minimal guidance, rarely looking at me. I finally finished my skirt, which was made with a really poor choice of fabric. In order to receive a final grade, students had to wear their finished clothing to school and then show Miss Alice Strickler how it held up at the end of the day. Right away, I noticed my skirt had a lot of static cling and was constantly sticking to my tights. Then just before lunch I looked down and saw the waistband was slowly pulling away from the main part of the skirt, leaving a big three to five inch gap. I went to the nurse, who luckily liked me, and she helped me use her large stash of safety pins to make the repairs from the inside.
When school ended, I went nervously to Miss Alice Strickler for my critique. Somehow, she didn’t notice my pin waistband but did notice still crooked seams and zippers and gave me a C. I think we were both just very relieved to be done with each other. And now, following in my mother’s footsteps, I too get an instant headache when I walk into a fabric store.
