Hetty's Mending

Hetty loves to mend. It's another one of those art forms that has passed away. Once a part of survival, a weekly chore. Stitch up a seam, sew on a button, darn a sock, patch a hole. Now it's just throw it away; buy a new one.



" Such a waste," Hetty would mutter whenever she saw evidence of this throw away society.



"I have lived too long, " she'd say, "Too too long."



Hetty lived in a little half Cape , down a half mile drive, back in the dunes. She had lived there as long as anyone could remember and before that. People used to see more of her, but now you didn't see her as often. The pressures of modern life disturbed her mental balance too much.



Twice a year you would see her, when she came out to the bi- annual church rummage sales. Spring and fall. She would come in the hall with her radio flyer wagon.



"Hello Hetty" the old timers would say. "How was your Winter- or Summer?"



"Oh I got through it."was her reply.

It wasn't that she didn't like people. In years gone by she had always been a good neighbor. Lending a hand when a person needed it. That's how people survive out here at the end of the world, surrounded by seawater.



She would spend four or five hours at the sale, patiently going through piles. She'd pick out things that needed mending, or a button. She'd take a break at noon for a bowl of chowda and maybe a homemade brownie or cookie; then back at it.



There weren't too many faces left she even recognized now. Some people, remembering a kindness she had made to a parent or grandparent, would speak and say "I'm so and so's Granddaughter or son." Hetty would smile and nod, but wouldn't waste too much brain power on trying to remember the person.



"Momma who's that?" children would ask hiding behind a leg.

" That's Miss Hetty dear. She lives out off Beach Rose Lane. She's always lived there."



Hetty, hearing this exchange, would look at the child in such a way as to make them scream and then she'd laugh.



Around two o 'clock or so she'd pull the flyer to the cash out table. By now the stuff was real cheap, even tho she'd been there picking since nine. All you could stuff in a shopping bag for $2.00. They didn't mind because Hetty didn't pick the good stuff. The expensive sweaters and blouses and skirts that the yankees with money about ran each other down for at opening.



No Hetty took the stuff that had seen better days. So she actually did them a favor, taking it away.



"$8.00 Miss Hetty." That meant she had four bags full.

"My husband sure would like to have that flyer Miss Hetty."

"Well maybe I'll give it to him when I can't pull it anymore." Hetty opened her ancient brown leather coin purse and handed over eight one dollar bills. One was mended with red thread.

"Thank you Hetty. See you in the spring."

Hetty's kitchen was more of a sewing room now. She ate just enough to keep herself going. Old people can't be bothered with cooking and eating. So slowly, over the years, all the shelves in the pantry and the kitchen cupboards had been emptied of cans and pans and dishes and stacked with piles of cloth. The garments she brought home were taken apart and cut up. The usable sections were washed and ironed and folded. Then stacked on the shelves in the right color group. There were bits of fabric there that represented a whole textile history. Calicoes and plaids. Madras and tartan. Every type of print you could imagine. Swatches with big gay flowers from the sixties.

Hetty didn't care much for the blends. She would feel out the real cottons and wools and silk. Garments that were too good to cut up she would mend and patch. Sometimes she would really get going and make a real piece of artwork; almost entirely constructing another piece of clothing on top of the original. She spent her days sewing and mending, humming to herself and listening to the waves roll in.

When one of her "special pieces" was done, she would put it on a hanger and take it into the parlor. She would find an empty spot on the walls and hammer in a nail. Then she would hang up her new creation. There was barely any wall space left. Then she would sit in the rocker and admire what she had made.

April 15th, the date of the spring rummage sale came. It was the usual bustle and scramble for the good stuff. Everyone happy with their buys. A chance to visit with each other over the chowda lunch and catch up after being holed up all winter.

As the volunteers were packing up the leavings around 4 o'clock one woman remarked, "Know what I just thought of?" "No Hetty."
"Oh you're right- oh that can't be good."

The next day after church, two couples rode out Beach Rose Lane to see. Sure enough, there was no sign of life at the cottage. The kitchen door was unlocked, although a two foot sand drift was banked up against it.
They opened the door and called in, "Hetty? Hetty?"
All was still as they gingerly stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh my Lord will you look at this. Look at all this cloth."
As the wives were fingering the piles of cloth, agog; the two men went ahead towards the front of the house.
The short hall beside the steep stairs led them to the parlor. They saw a figure in the old rocker facing the front windows.
One let out a low whistle as his eyes tried to take in the dizzy array all over the walls.

"Hetty?"

The men inched into the room and came around the side of the rocking chair. Hetty's skeletal remains sat in the rocker with needle and thread and a crazily patched blouse in her lap. There wasn't even a bad smell. It was like the salt sea air coming in the open front windows had mummified her.

The two women were calling from the kitchen. They were afraid to go in.
"Well--see anything?"

"Oh yea" came the reply.

After the coroner had taken Hetty away to her final rest, some of the women from the church sewing circle went out to the house to see what to do.
On the kitchen table they found Hetty's Bible under a stack of neatly pressed squares. On the family entry page they found her listed in weak brown ink.

Hetty Almstead
daughter of Matthew and Hanah White Almstead
born April 2 1872

"Geeze--- I knew she was old..."

A piece of paper was tucked into this same page. It was a note from Hetty saying she wanted her creations sold and the money to go to the Ladies Sewing Circle coffers at the church.
And give the Radio Flyer to Harry Wilson, Mary's husband.

Through some contacts with summer people who attend services while in town, a show of Hetty's "Outsider Art" creations was held at a posh gallery in New York City in the fall.
The 274 pieces garnered the Sewing Circle $190,800.00. There would be no more to come from Hetty's needle. The Ladies Sewing circle established a charity fund in Hetty's name for families of fishermen who were down on their luck, or lost at sea. Or anyone else who lived in town year round for that matter. Hetty would have been surprised at the amount her love brought....and pleased.

"How about some stewed tomatoes for camouflage? Yes that's nice." She lifted the spoon to her lips for a taste as she was immune to her own cooking.

"O K Tabby------Go!" Thump onto the floor from the counter and bounding out the door, Tabby ran with a live one in her jaw. Stealthy as a- well- cat, she wove through the sea of people and chairs. She darted across the street and into the bushes behind the camper. Unseen she ran up to the beer keg and stuffed the little body in the pump hole. A couple of days ago a special feed had been put down in the basement for the rodents. Enough poison to sicken them but not kill them... just yet. This would taint the beer via the body. It would make the partiers feel very under the weather, to say the least.

Momma Bubba was in a lawn chair at a folding table stuffing bologna and egg salad sandwiches and piling them into a cooler behind her. She was in slo-mo so it gave Tabby plenty of time to hop into the cooler and relieve herself, plus have a slice of bologna for a snack.

Dash! back across the street unseen.

"10:30 A M !" The old woman announced the time to the air. "The parade is stepping off!" The day was growing hot- nearly *% degrees already. That's how it has been these last few years, cool late into June and then bam- 80's and 90's with little chance for the body to adjust.

"About an hour and a half to go and we'll be in the thick of it."

Across the street the bubba crew was taking a little break.

"These egg sandwiches taste funny" a couple of the little bubbas said. A sharp backhand from momma was the reply. The musical selection was now rap at warp 8. Clara's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene from behind the curtain. She looked left and right of the camp site. None of the other expectant parade watchers seemed to be bothered by the bubbas - even when their stray hoop shots landed on them. Swearing- yelling - carrying on was just expected behavior apparently. Clara's eyes were slits by now and the Connors of her mouth turned down. "I don't know whats wrong with people; no respect for anyone else."

People napped, babies cried, over heated dogs panted and snipped at the heels of the constantly milling crowd. Back in the kitchen, Tabby was catching a nap herself after her busy morning.


"Go ahead, nap my pretty. You'll be busy soon." Clara gave the stew on the stove a sniff and a stir. The boiling had reduced the mixture to a thick red froth. She took a slotted skimmer and pulled out clumps of hair and little bones until the stew looked more normal.

"Whew! smells bad! Hope the neighbors are good and drunk by after noon."

2:10 The parade is making good time. Sirens are heard in the distance down Hope St. People rouse from their snooze in the sun. Newspapers and paper bags slide to the ground as they hoist themselves out of their lawn chairs. People step into the street and peer towards town to see if it's in sight yet. A little longer.

Across the street it's more beer and sandwiches; a little jack when no one's looking. Momma bubba is slumped in her lawn chair with baby bubba's head in her lap. Suddenly baby bubba's head sprang up and a projectile vomit spewed forth covering momma bubba who flew out of the chair, dropping baby bubba into her own puddle. "CRAP!" shouted momma and crap baby did- "the egg salad must have turned. " Clara just happened to be at the window in time to see this little display and howled with glee. "Did you see that Tabby? That was perfect!" Short of jumping in the bay for a wash, the bubba's were going to spend the afternoon smelling pretty bad.



Clara snuck out on her porch to watch the parade pass. Tabby was on her lap but didn't last long before the loud noise of the guns sent her to her retreat in the basement. For the two and a half hours it took the parade to go by, everyone on both sides of the street was pretty much taken up with watching it. On her side, Clara managed to relax a little and made herself a long island ice tea. On the bubba side Momma and baby; in a fresh change of clothes; napped between canon shots. The men got drunker and louder and told each other war stories. The kids continued to run around the street getting in the way of the marchers. Weaving in and out and cat calling the girls in their band outfits.

3 PM Now it's over for another year. The parade portion anyway. Now it's GRILL TIME!

The bubba men are so drunk they nearly set themselves and the camper on fire with lighter fluid. When Clara saw that she said to Tabby, "now that would have saved us some work." But whoever watches over Yahoos was on the job and cooking got underway.

"O.K. Tabby Showtime!" Clara had heated the stew back up to warm. She carefully ladeled it into a save lock container she'd bought special. She took the nice loaf of Portuguese bread she'd bought at Baptista's, straightened her apron and at 4 o'clock carried the stew across the street.

"Hello folks. I see you're back again this year. How Many is it now? 10 years? 20?" "I thought I'd be a good 4th of July neighbor and bring you this stew and bread for your meal."

Tabby was rubbing back and forth between her ankles, looking like a sweet kitty. The men just stared at her slack jawed. Mumma bubba and a couple of the other wives looked surprised but managed to say thank you and put the container on the table.

"That was so nice of you- would you like a hot dog?"
"Oh no- no thank you. I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm worn out! going to go back and take a nap." "Don't worry about the container!"

Tabby and Clara hightailed it back across the street and up the porch steps and into the house. They sat behind the curtains and watched. The stew sat on the table untouched during the first round of hamburgers and hot dogs. "Drat" More loud music, more basketball, whomp whomp yell.

"Don't these people ever wear down?"

Around 6 o'clock Clara passed by the window and saw one of the bubba men licking some stew off his fingers.
"Damn this tastes kinda like my venison stew." "Kind a gamey" "Here LLoyd have some."

"Yes! Finally!"

As dusk drew on the music was still going full tilt, but otherwise it seemed somehow quieter. People were packing up and moving out on their way home til the next 4th of July.

9 o'clock the bubba encampment was the only one left but that wasn't unusual. They usually stayed late annoying the neighbors til near 11.

The camper door swung open and Momma and baby bubba stepped down the folding stair.
"Where is everybody?" "They must have gone for more beer."

Over at the picnic table and some on the folding chairs were a bunch of little mice burping and holding their stomachs with their little claw hands.

Back at the house Clara sat rocking on the porch in the cool night air with Tabby on her lap. "Well girl... I don't think we'll be seeing them next year."

"Happy 4th of July!"