a visit to mend land

When Hercule Poirot commented on how much she seemed to enjoy her life, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver replied, “well you never know what is going to happen!” ¹

Such is the delight and curiosity in her tone (for the same could be said with dread and apprehension), that her words have stayed with me for years, ready to reappear when I find my plans heading off in their own unexpected directions. Because you never do know what is going to happen.

This week, for instance, after officially ending the Ninety-Nine Noun project, I instantly pictured doing this:

And this:

And also this:

And though I wasn’t wrong (for here are the drawings and video to prove it), other things happened as well, things I find myself curiously reluctant to talk about—though why I should be shy about a visit to mend land I do not know.

Perhaps because I approach mending as a chore to be completed rather than a project to be relished, and why share things I don’t relish? Or maybe because my visits to mend land are rarely as elegant as I dream they might be—the results neither picturesque nor artful.² Hopefully it’s not because I’ve absorbed the idea that making something new is “real creative work” and mending is—not?

But why any of those when I firmly believe that things do not need to be elegant and picturesque to be wildly important? Why try to keep my mends (woven word notwithstanding), semi-visible, allowing them to appear only casually in comic form if at all? Why is it hard to be proud of my half-assed yet persistent attempts to keep tattered cloth alive in the world?

Well phooey on that. Today I will channel Mrs. Oliver, honor the truth (and unexpected delights), of my days, and include not only the few photos, but also share this, my reluctance to begin.

For begin I eventually did, with two pairs of pants—amazingly not the brown ones I’m wearing in the comic above for they are stable at the moment ³ —but rather some baggy blue store-bought ones in need of simple butt seam reinforcement, and some handmade white(ish) hemp work pants with actual holes.

As I’ve no patience for either the elegantly invisible or the radiantly decorative (as established above), I still aim for strength with a side of subtlety in my clothing, the point being to return to wearing rather than to relish every stitch.⁴ Not that I’m sloppy exactly, for I want the mends to last. Just more utilitarian than fancy.

To this end, I usually hand stitch each patch into place then machine stitch over it, both inside and out, for extra security.⁵

This time neither fix took long and though I could probably have found five more places on the white ones to proactively reinforce, I decided they were good enough for now so moved on to the quilt that lives on my guest bed, for it had developed a fresh tear.

Like the other big quilts I have, this one came to me deeply in need of care.⁶ Too tattered to restore (and quilt restoration not being a thing to which I’m temperamentally suited), I nevertheless took it on because—well, because I just couldn’t let it go to the dump. And I’m glad I did for somehow, against all my minimalist leaning instincts (and because you never know what is going to happen), our relationship has been a wildly decorative affair from the start— as though in coming together, we each have been given the space to be someone we could never be before. And while we were both a wee bit reluctant to change our ways (my first inclination was to only use white cloth for the patches, my second to find matching-ish fabric to honor her history)—we are stronger for what we’re growing into.

At least I like to think so.

It didn’t hurt that when our paths converged I was staying with a generous friend who saves every fragment of cloth that comes her way and who, when she saw both my intentionally tiny collection of scraps and how much of the quilt needed attention (both sides requiring patching to contain the batting),⁷ put her extensive collection in my hands. I’ve been working with those scraps ever since.

This time an early pandemic covid mask (disassembled and pressed)⁸ and one of my husband’s old dress shirts enhanced the general cacophony of color and renewed our combined sense of purpose—me in my studio and she back on the guest bed to await our next visitor (my cousin, as it happens, who is here right now and in the next room as I type).⁹

mending a bulky quilt with a sewing machine can be an awkward affair, especially without reverse, but luckily no seams needed to be straight…

After that, with my sewing machine all warmed up, I decided to end the mend land visit by resurrecting a wee waist purse/pack I’d once made. The zipper had blown out over a year ago and I’d tossed it in the basket instead of fixing it on the spot (or trusting my wallet to its vagaries).

Delightfully, it took but a little time with scissors, pins, needle and sewing machine to remove the old zipper, anchor another in its place and return the bag to its sturdy-if-still-slightly-grubby-even-though-washed-because-I-will-keep-making-things-with-white-fabric self.¹⁰ Not fancy. Not new. But familiar and delightfully functional.

Glowing with triumph, I gleefully crossed things off my list, hoping that somehow my repairing devotion and the emptier mending basket would somehow encourage the next real project¹¹ to show up.

Alas my self-congratulations lasted but a moment, for as I was drawing my sewing machine for the evening cartoon, Beryl reminded me that there was one more mending job I’d clearly forgotten. And who was I to deny my dear dog, even when I wanted snuggle into bed with a book? Snagging a headlamp to better see the needle (for it had gotten late), I found a funny shaped scrap of canvas to slap over the tear (white again because it is what I seem to have), stitched everything firmly closed, put the cover back on the Beryl bed, promised to wash the whole thing properly really soon—and finally hit the sack. Done—for now—and slightly amused by the myriad ways I get in and out of my own way.

For what’s not to giggle over when reviewing my predictable path. First that reluctance to begin a stilted conversation with an awkward object—finding a million things to do rather than sit down with the a semi-clogged drain, that fragile pair of trousers, those ice dams on the roof. Then the actual work which is invariably engaging, at least in part. And finally the delight in donning a freshly useful running shoe or hearing water gurgle down the drain as I revel in having given time and attention to the beings in my world.

Ah well, humans are ridiculous in so many ways (as Beryl knows so well), and I must say I do love to notice my own absurdity if for no other reason than to help me to stir my stumps and let things unfold as they will—be it bringing new life to a cast-off quilt or trusting if I might have something to say to the wondrous people across the globe who are kind enough to read or listen to my words.

Happily, even when I am full of nonsense, Beryl has a fine time no matter what we do. Never more so (apparently), than live on zoom for it seems that while I was occupied with getting my thoughts in order in Nearly Wild Weavingland during our Tapestry In Conversation last Wednesday,¹² she took over the camera a time or two and made sure she got to greet you all, nose to eyeballs. Or so I’ve been told. (The nose prints on my computer screen help confirm it).

Ah well. Beryl is the self-proclaimed Minx of The Gusset, so there it is.

Remember to comment with the button above rather than by hitting reply, for if you choose the latter I won’t see your lovely words.

And if you know anyone who might enjoy these meanderings—or likes to mend— please do click the button below and see what they think.

1. I heard this quote a long time ago while listening to an audio recording of Agatha Christie’s The Hallowe’en Party though I don’t have the book at hand to check its accuracy so this might not be the exact wording.

Another reason it sticks in my mind is that that that when I heard the quote I happened to be wearing a brand new pair of glasses and Mrs. Oliver’s words so startled and thrilled me that I decided to call them (the glasses that is), my Mrs. Ariadne Oliver Good Mood Glasses. Amazingly, they actually seemed to work. At least until my prescription changed…

2. Thinking of the remarkable Celia Pym (also her lovely book), my dear Kerstin Neumüller (not sure why I claim her other than that we’re internet friends and I adore all her work—though in this case I’m thinking of her book Mend and Patch , the English Translation since I don’t speak Swedish), and Katrina Rodabaugh whose two lovely books have opened the doors for so many to visit mend land.

3. A couple of years ago I lined them completely with scraps, so while they are dissolving on the outside, there is a whole extra layer underneath that is slowly emerging. Before that phase however, I was able to mend them in a way that looked almost ordinary…

4. Anything that I wear out enough to mend is probably a thing I love (else why wear it at all), and worth the effort.

5. Once upon a time I did all my mending by hand—not for fancy stitches, but rather for convenience, portability, strength and ease. These days, alas, my hands really do not care for gripping small things like sewing needles, at least for more than a few minutes, so I turn to my trusty treadle sewing machine to do the bulk of the work, and I am immensely grateful for the help.

6. My old blog is filled with posts about mending projects of all sorts from shoes to mittens, sweaters to leggings to quilts. Most are things I either made or purchased, but the quilts all came to me in dire need of repair, and some have been ongoing projects for years and years. This post, I see, is from 2015, this one from 2021. I couldn’t find any about the quilt I was working on this week, but now that I think of it, I believe I began working on it in the two years between ending the blog and beginning the Gusset, steadily adding patches as needed.

7. I’m always interested in which colors dissolve first. Is it the dyes that were used on the cloth, or was the fabric already worn when it was made into a quilt? For this one I assume the former as all the original cloth matches perfectly across the quilt top, but there is no way to really know as it came to me via my sister’s mother-in-law (I think).

8. Wasn’t that an amazing time — sewing machines humming around the world as everyone with (or even without), skill and cloth made masks for friends, strangers, neighbors and family? No elastic to be found anywhere so we used any string that came to hand—or in my case the still-stretchy straps from an old bra to fasten them around my ears…. It was weirdly lovely to give this once beloved and oh-so-necessary object a new life. I did finally toss the bra straps though, as the elastic finally died.

9. I will note that this is the first time in the year I’ve been writing The Gusset (A year! Who knew!), that anyone else has been around while I write. It may be the reason there are so very many footnotes…all of our cousinly chat has awakened my need to elaborate further on… well.. everything.

10. You know— the white felt vest? It is so darn useful and cozy that I fear regular washing will cease to be enough and sometime later this spring I may have to dunk it in an indigo bath so I don’t embarrass myself with my continually grubby-looking clothing.

11. Not that there is anything unreal about mending. It’s important—and certainly elemental— to my life. Who wants to buy, or make (or own) new clothes when I can fix and wear the beloved ones I have for as long as I can? (And I do buy new clothes, just not very often and always with a ridiculous amount of procrastination). It’s just that as you can probably tell from my mending (and everything I write), my heart is in making—that I will choose to weave the word mend long before I actually get out my needle and thread to turn the noun of it into a verb.

12. Thanks so much to everyone who was there, or who watched the replay! It was a blast all around, and though I’m still a little vague about what I said, if anything struck you as particularly important, or raised question about which you like me to elaborate, do let me know in the comments and I’ll try to oblige! If you didn’t get to come but are still interested, you can get a ticket for the replay by sending an email to Irene at irene@nearlywild.org and she’ll set you up.

In the meantime, next month’s conversation sounds fascinating— Ragga/Ragnheiður Björk Þórsdóttir, from Iceland will be talking about her wondrous sounding work. I’ve got my ticket already so maybe I’ll see you there —this time as a fellow audience member.