Nancy Adams
Jul 10, 2017 · 4 min read

Mending

Last week classmates piled in to our house and cabin and farmhouse. We talked and ate and talked some more. One classmate has worked to conserve old, really old museum textiles. She told me when she mends an oriental rug that she has bought for herself, she uses iron on patches. My Mom would have been thrilled. She loved iron on patches.

Mom’s mending was more of a geologic age than a to-do basket. Dresses I had grown out of, Dad’s pants, jeans I had grown out of, Dad’s pants, tablecloths, dresses one sister had grown out of, sheets, Dad’s shirts, towels, blouses Another sister had grown out of, Dad’s slacks. The pile had expanded out of one basket and into another.

The way Mom would put the thimble on her long elegant piano-playing fingers and then thread the needle announced a competence, a control, a vast experience. The warp, the woof, the button box, the tear, the unraveling were helpless against that armament. Thread a needle! But Mom didn’t thread a needle. She heated up the iron. She took an iron-on patch. She cut it to size with the sacred, pinking shears. She ironed the tear, snipped the loose ends, positioned the patch, covered it with a pressing cloth, and placed the iron on top. No steam. The modern way to patch.

I hated those patches. I hated the way they rubbed on my knees. The patches would hit the scabs. The same fall that ripped the material tore open the skin of my knees. They were positioned to collide forever after the event, the patch and my knee. A bandaid stood no chance against those iron on patches. It would catch and rip off. The bandaid would rip. The patch was forever. The patch would stick out like the little tough square it was, never falling into a nice fold or crease again.

My Dad was a lawyer. He sat on old benches a lot. His patches were on the seats of his pants. And when we were little, all his pants were patched but one pair, the good pair, the pair that went with his only suit coat. The one Mom made sure was pressed ready for going to court. Sometimes court was a justice of the peace in a town nearby. Sometimes court was in Chautauqua’s county seat. But sometimes he had to deal with judges and juries in Buffalo. A big court room. A jury. A client in great need of a good attorney. A prosecuting attorney of fame and success. Vinnie Doyle. Vinnie was a smart lawyer who knew his law and how to lay out a case and prosecute. When he described the crime and the accused, the juries listened thoughtfully and seriously.

Dad’s suit jacket hung on the downstairs coat rack, along with his rain coat that must have seen better days from the moment it was bought. He came downstairs in his patched pants. “Lee,” Mom said as he was swallowing his v-8 and his quarter of a piece of bread and jam, “You have the wrong pants on.”

The client’s case was poor. The courtroom intimidating. The jury stern. Dad summed up the case. He explained he was a poor country lawyer from the hills of Chautauqua County. He held up the jacket flaps as he turned around to show the jury the tell-tale patches on his pants. The jury sympathized with him. They sympathized with the poor defendant, who after all, deserved another chance. Not guilty.

Generally Dad’s clients were in dire need of a good lawyer. And Dad’s patched pants got good use in the Buffalo court room. Until Vinny Doyle said in his closing arguments “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the counsel for the defense will turn around. He will show you the patches on his pants. He will tell you he is a poor country lawyer. But I tell you he went to an ELITE college, a fancy PRIVATE college.” Vinny sneered. “University of Rochester. And he was graduated from Yale Law School, YALE LAW SCHOOL! This man” and he pointed his finger at Dad, “Is no poor country lawyer.” Dad was guilty as charged. The patches failed him.

I met Merv’s Mom’s mending months before I ever met her. Merv and I were both poor students 49 years ago in a Portuguese rooming house. He asked me to sew a button on his old faded blue work shirt. The collar had been mended. A small rectangle of matching material had been top stitched twice around and from corner to corner. The frayed material beneath was well secured. The patch was more than serviceable. And more than ornamental. It was a work of art.

I will use a piece of patterned cotton. I will cut the patch an inch bigger than it needs to be to cover the tear. I will press down a quarter inch to the inside all round the rectangle of the patch, and turn it over and press again for good measure. I will pin it securely to the right side of the sheet. I will sew close to the edge of the patch all around, and then another seam just inside the first. Finally I will sew a big X from corner to corner. A good patch is something to be proud of.

Nancy Adams

Written by

Journalist covering old news of the day

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