Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“Stop,” Clara said, her fingers already reaching for my wrist.
I let the heavy iron shears drop onto the cutting mat. The tear was five inches long, jagged and fraying at the edges where the fabric had grown thin from years of my father leaning against the basement sinks.
“I just pulled the needle through that seam three times,” I said, my voice flat. My pinky finger found the silver signet ring, twisting it until the metal pinched my skin.
Clara pinned three safety needles to her collar, her quick fingers already smoothing the ripped chambray flat against the green cutting board. “You went against the grain, Nicole. Blue chambray has a stubborn weave. You have to coax it.”
She threaded a smaller needle with dark blue cotton thread and held the two torn edges together. Her thumbs held the fabric taut, showing me how to slip the needle back through the previous stitch before moving forward.
“A backstitch holds when the rest of the seam wants to give up,” Clara said, her voice dropping as she worked. “Your mother used it on the pockets of his work coats. It takes twice as long, but it does not run.”
