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Joe and I were lucky enough to spend last summer together. I found an internship at EarthShare of Missouri. He found a great job (which he'll repeat this summer, teaching reading classes). We saw the time as a practice marriage. A bit of suspended reality, when we could forget that we were in a largely long-distance relationship.

One day, I dropped a red pen onto the slipcover of Joe's loveseat. I had spent the larger part of my first week there cleaning, preparing, stocking and straightening the apartment. I looked at this stain on the cushions I had smoothed only moments ago and realized that I had no idea how to remove the stain. I had no fabric cleaners. It wasn't practical to make a special trip to the laundry mat for this one spot. There had to be something I could do.

I tucked the ink spot into the creases of the couch, the folds of the slip cover that keep the couch's shape. I started to think about how many things in our married life we didn't yet know how to handle. Joe can't fix his socks or buttons. I can't cook any carbohydrate that needs to boil. I always leave the rice and pasta for Joe.

If I had a child and they wanted to plant a garden, I wouldn't know when to plant, how to water, what to harvest. If I had a child and they decided to pick up knitting, my clumsy left hand couldn't offer assistance of any kind. I started thinking deeply on the traditions of domesticity--not within gender boundaries, but within family history. My generation has stopped learning familial skills. We've traded many pieces of our heritage for part-time jobs at fast food restaurants or spots on the varsity bench.

I wanted to learn how to provide for my family. I wanted to know the answers to my children's questions. I wanted to sit with my grandmother, mother, father and learn what they do best, learn how to take care of myself and provide for others, to get by on limited means.


I've  been learning to sew for years. I can make a mean blanket in any pattern that can be made with straight lines. I can fix all of the buttons that fall off of everything that I bought at Target. I can adjust thrift store finds and make them work for that college second-hand fashion.

I cannot work with a pattern. I cannot use numbers or math or puzzle pieces to assemble my clothes. The thought of the button-holer on my mother's sewing machine starts a cold sweat on my wrists and neck. I'm conquering it.

More than a year ago, my mom got me a pattern for a vest. I'd been anxious to build my professional wardrobe, but I wanted it to be fun. One day, I opened the package and looked at the tan, crinkling paper. I didn't unfold it; it looked too much like a map.

I didn't look at the pattern again until this summer. I saw it, thought of the basil I have shooting toward the sun on the deck, basil that I started from seeds with horrible Muncie, Ind. tap water. I thought, What's a pattern, really?

With some sizing help from Mom, I set to work cutting the Bible paper into sheets that resemble a vest. I then spent 20-odd dollars on purple lining, gray suit material and the notions for my Style A Simplicity vest.

Here it is. The Vest-to-be.

They tell you it's so easy. It's Simplicity. Mom tells me it was once cheaper to make clothes than buy them. I say that the effort is worth it. The struggle is worth it if just once, a neighbor needs their shirt stitched up or a friend would like a homemade Christmas present or my child wants to learn how to make really good blankets with patterns that are all straight lines.