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.
" 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.
posted by minniepeckham at 4:08 PM
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