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how it works

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By Alice Lewis
01/14/05
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Lalka

I’m laying out pattern pieces on some wool crepe fabric because I’m planning to make myself a new outfit. As per my well established routine, knowing that patterns seldom fit perfectly just out of the package, I measure the pattern pieces to see if they correspond to my body measurements. This one like so many others is going to need some alterations. I smile as I put the fabric aside in order to concentrate on the pattern alterations first. I wasn’t always this good at sewing. Lalka was a good teacher. She provided me with my first sewing lesson.

It happened when I was five years old. The year was l946. We had escaped from behind the iron curtain and were trying to get ourselves established in West Germany. I was left home alone while my parents were working. My father wasn’t very far away. He was in a shed in the backyard doing some blacksmith work for the local farmers, while my mother was helping another farmer plant his potatoes. I had been put down to take a nap in the afternoon and told to stay in bed until one of my parents came in again. I wasn’t sleepy. Five year olds don’t need day-time naps anymore. It was for my parent’s convenience that I was put to bed, not for my need of sleep. My dolly Lalka didn’t do a good job of keeping me company.

Lalka was the only toy I had. She was a homely, handmade rag doll, but I loved her dearly. I played with her all day long. Her hair was made out of scraggly pieces of yarn which stuck out in all directions. I brushed her hair down with my hands to tidy her up. Then I got a bright idea. Lalka needed a cap.

Our room was so small that even our few meager belongings filled it to capacity. The cot on which I slept stood right next to the table which was covered with a tablecloth. My mother’s sewing basket stood on the table. I was too scared to step onto the floor because I knew there would be a boogy man under the bed since I was home alone, so I stood up on my cot, reached over and pulled the sewing basket to myself. It had everything in it that I would need. I must have spent an hour trying to thread a needle. Once that was done, I needed to master the use of scissors. I had seen my mother use needle and thread and scissors all the time but I had never handled them before. "Now what can I do for fabric?" I thought to myself. "I know, Mom will never know if I cut a piece of fabric off from the back side of the tablecloth." That’s what I did. I cut off a piece of fabric from the back of the tablecloth and sat on the cot with Lalka in my lap. "Soon you will have a cap, Lalka," I told her.

A cap did not materialize out of my valiant efforts. I did everything I had seen my mother do. I stuck the needle into the fabric from the topside and pulled it out from the bottom. I repeated that action over and over again. Still no cap. All I had was a ball of fabric with the thread pulling the ball tighter and tighter with each stitch. In frustration I threw the ball across the room, needle and thread dangling from it, threw myself down on my pillow and fell soundly asleep.

Lalka never got a cap. But she awakened within me a desire to learn how to sew. And she taught me what NOT to do. She was my first sewing teacher.

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