Mrs. Rothman

In the 8th grade my favorite subject was home economics.  It was divided up into several units throughout the year—the last one,  sewing, was taught by  Mrs. Helen Rothman. I had heard rumors about her divorced status—but it was 1963 and divorce was only spoken of in whispers—if at all.   She was a tall woman with sad eyes and a brilliant smile who always seemed delighted to welcome our small class of girls—boys took shop during those days—into her room.  I was a bit of a challenge, but  the considerable lack of talent and ability I had in sewing I made up for in enthusiasm.   I loved everything about the large sunny room with its expansive tables and rows upon rows of bright-colored threads and notions.  In May of that year our class was deemed capable of sewing our own graduation dresses.  They had to be white, but other than that we had lots of choices.  I was flustered and unsure I was up to the task.  What if I chose the wrong pattern?  What if I failed and it came out looking wretched?  What if this was too difficult and I simply could not graduate?  I articulated all of this to Mrs. Rothman one bright May afternoon after school when I wandered into the home ec. classroom and found her hunched over her embroidery work.  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she began., “What you have to do is find a pattern that you like, figure out what things you’ll need to make it work, then go about piecing and cutting and sewing, until it starts to come together.  First you follow the pattern.  But if you don’t want to do it exactly the way it was designed—you can always change it.  You just need to practice the skills to do that.  Eventually (she looked wistfully out of the large paned window) you realize that you can make your own pattern.  It may not be to others’ liking, but it will be your own.”  Seeing that I wasn’t happy with my Simplicity Pattern #2427 she showed me how to alter it.  Then she sent me to the massive closet to pick out colors and fabrics to add my own extra “pop” to the dress.  For several weeks I spent every afternoon with her in that bright room, just sewing and learning.  One day she told me about her Experience Box:  “Sometimes I try a new fabric or pattern and really work at it a long time, but it just isn’t right and nothing can save it.  I put those things in my Experience Box and keep it up in my attic.  I’ll look through the box every now and then and remember how very awful some of it was, but how it helped me learn about my next project.“  I was startled to see that she looked terribly sad—like she was about to cry and then I saw her look down at her ring-less hands.  She looked at me, “You learn from mistakes but you keep trying new patterns and making new patterns  and eventually you’ll create something with your own hands that is totally you. And that’s powerful.”  In June I was in a special school show at graduation and proudly wore my own creation with a baby-blue cummerbund and special tiny flowers embroidered in the hem.  It looked similar to the others, but it wasn’t.  It was mine.
Throughout my life Mrs. Rothman’s words resonated with me.  Although still not a skillful seamstress, when our daughter came along I decided to make her christening gown myself.  It took me long hours and I did this without the help of a machine.  Using the skills I had learned, I sewed tucks and smocking and tiny buttons throughout the gown, but not following any pattern—just  creating as I went along.  It looked a little like some gowns I had seen—but not really. I wanted my daughter to begin with something entirely unique, then, as she grew, to follow her own designs—as she has.   And so I’ve continued throughout my life creating patterns, following patterns, and adding to my own “Box of Experience” which I rummage through periodically.  All of it—all of it—has had the power of bringing me here, right now, to this wonder-filled moment—embellished however we choose—with you.