Threading the Needle

Before COVID, I was a hospice volunteer at Spring Oak Assisted Living in Berlin. One of the women I enjoyed spending time with was named Marie Bonfiglio. The first couple of times I went to see her, she was glued to a religious television show, so I sat with her quietly to not disturb her while she watched.   

One day before I left, I complimented her on a beautifully beaded purple pillow that was sitting on the foot of her bed. “I made that,” she said, turning to look at me for the very first time.   

“You did?” I asked.

‘Yes,” Marie said proudly.

“When I was a little girl, about 2 years old, I sat at my mother’s sewing machine table and asked her to show me how to use it," she added.

Her mom agreed to do it, and Marie became quite proficient, but the warnings continued: “Marie, don’t hurt your fingers.”

Marie was 95 years young at Spring Oak, so she was recalling memories that were over 90 years old.    

For decades, her kids, neighbors and friends brought her their clothing or other items that needed to be mended, and they also purchased material for her to make curtains, bedspreads and pillows.

She said she was known as the woman who could fix anything…because she did. 

“I could fix things better than my husband,” she said with a smile and added that she climbed ladders and painted the house and made lots of home repairs, "more than he did," too.  

Every time I saw Marie from that time forward, she shared a new layer of her story, such as the kind of outfits she designed, the material she chose for clothing, and all the home improvements she made while her husband was at work. 

A few months after I had last seen Marie, my 27-year-old daughter Amy told me she ripped her comforter and was upset about it, because she liked the design and didn’t want to buy a new one. I suggested that she take it to a local dry cleaning store post COVID because there might be someone in-house to take care of it.     

She said she did not want to wait because she feared the tear would grow.

I could feel it coming, and I was dreading it…and then I heard it: “Mom, will you do it for me?”   

I immediately thought…Who does she think I am, Marie Bonfiglio?

Attempting to remedy this problem was the last thing I wanted to do or felt I’d do well, and I was annoyed with myself that I hadn’t taught Amy to sew. What kind of mom doesn’t teach her daughter to sew...like Marie’s mom did for her...like my own mom did for me too?!?!  I remember sitting with my mama while she sewed holes in our socks. I was her needle threader, as she had a hard time seeing where to slide the thread in. Now I would need a needle threader.

Some 35 years ago, I loved to sew. I had a pair of jeans that I sewed 100 patches on to, primarily from my brother’s old shirts – it was a work of art – and I also made denim handbags and pillows too, like Marie 😊.

But I botched a sewing project from my junior high home economics class which left me in tears – thank goodness for my sweet Aunt Fran who completed the jumper for me – so I was kind of nervous about working on something Amy felt was so valuable. What if I ended up ruining it?  

She assured me that I wouldn’t mess it up; the damage was on the underside, so it didn’t matter what the fabric looked like, as long as she could use it. I was proud that she was being so practical, and she wasn’t asking me to do something crazy for goodness sake, just do some magic with needle and thread…something that a mom should be able to do…so I said OK.

Over the next few days, I strategized about how to tackle the 1-foot-long rip.  I ended up doing what I thought was a good job; I utilized part of an unused white pillowcase to create a patch to cover the area. When I returned it to Amy and told her about all the steps I took to save her beloved comforter, I could tell she was v e r y impressed (although she is a teacher so maybe that’s the positive reinforcement tone I heard).   

She even asked if I could teach her how to sew, because had she known how to do it, she would’ve taken care of it herself. I believe she would have, too, because she is always pleased to make her own repairs with the toolbox David gave her when she moved out. 

We decided that once we can sit close together again – after COVID – we will have a sewing date.  

A couple days later, she told me she was snuggling with her comforter when, all of a sudden, something sharp poked her. As she tried to feel around to see what it was, she realized it was coming from the area under the pillowcase patch.

Turns out that I left a needle and thread in there.

Marie would not have been happy.