I can hear them conversing, comparing, arguing.
Oh, I’ve had quite a life. As befits nobility like me. A golden robe no less. You others all pale by comparison.
Don’t be so sure of yourself. You may date to 1930, but were made for a rather self-centered man who thought himself above all others.
I may not be as old as you, but had a gorgeous mistress in 1951. She had good taste and loved those simpler folk designs like me. Although, well, I’ll let 1952 have the word.
Yes, yes. She studied art. Loved Paul Klee, who is perfect for textile patterns. With all those little dots. You know she was helping her boyfriend at the time paint textile designs. He was a sweet older man and wanted to marry her, but then, and she already had the rings, said he couldn’t because she was German and his family was Jewish.
And how about me with my batik design that she made into a skirt. She did love primitive motifs. Those were the times when skirts were full and pretty long. Although you, 1953, could tell us about her too.
Well, she decided to go to university and made friends with a girl about her age whose father was in the clothing field. So this friend took her one day to the storerooms and they chose a green corduroy dress – yes that was my year 1953.
You forget though that she also had a boyfriend in her art history course and she had found an apartment, a cold water flat, up on 3rd avenue. 1954 is when I was made. One day going home, she passed a shop and saw me – a lovely pink silk blouse with little black horses dancing over it. And she bought it on the spot. Very unusual for her.
But then what happened? 1955 ventured. Oh she went to Europe and there had a dress or two made, but the seamstresses never gave her any leftover scraps.
Your turn to talk, 1958.
We do skip years here and there. Wondered what happened to those remnants of dresses and curtains and pillows she sometimes made. We know she got married in 1957 and was living in Orvieto where, if you needed a new blouse or dress, you went to the seamstress. That’s where I come in. I’m a remnant from a blouse she had made in Orvieto.
How about you 1963? You’re a really pretty piece of pink silk.
One almost forgets. But I was part of an elegant smock she made to wear at a friend’s wedding and she was already pretty pregnant with her second son.
I may only date to 1966, but that’s when she did sewing for her children. 1966. Yes. I was part of a quilt she made for them with Pinocchios marching up and down.
Sure. I know she used to sew a lot. 1967, that’s me. I was part of a couple of leopard suits she made for her kids, As well, I am told, Zorro capes.
She sure loved colors. I date to 1972 and am witness to that. I was an upholstery sample given her by a very creative wood craftsman in Orvieto where she was living, and she could never come to terms with giving me away, although she never did anything with me.
Your turn 1973.
Right. I may not be silk, but cotton plaids like me were used by the farmwomen to wrap their greens and eggs in when they went to the market. And since our lady now had a shop, she figured this rustic material would make skirts for the tourists who stopped every year in her shop. She even wore a skirt like that herself.
Don’t forget me, piped up 1971. I was turned into a green cloth frog – then filled with rice that made me nice and floppy.
5 thoughts on “Fabric Scraps”
Delightful Erika—each of these vivid paragraphs as a prompt for a novel or short story!
I love the image of fabric remnants exchanging life stories!
Clever idea … fun, and so well written!
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Thank you, John Looker. Your poems are more consciously crafted than mine, beautiful. I shall now try to follow them up. Since I’m not all that much of a technological person, hadn’t realized that I could contact you and I’m very glad I did. I feel as if I have a new friend.
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You have Erika, and I’m glad of it!