The joy of cre­at­ing some­thing for some­one, says our colum­nist Lori Borgman, is al­ways a good elixir.

Lori Borgman finds the funny in ev­ery­day life, writ­ing from the heart­land of the US. Now, if she could just find her car keys…

Friday - - Front Page -

She’s al­ways been the kid deliriously in love with life – the one that flies out the door, looks up at men­ac­ing clouds dark­en­ing the sky and bursts into song, “Oh, it’s a beau­ti­ful day! Oh, it’s a beau­ti­ful day! Beau­ti­ful, beau­ti­ful day!”

She’s the one whose eyes dance, whose arms and legs dance and who is al­ways in mo­tion be­cause that is the na­ture of joy over­flow­ing.

And then her daddy started to travel for work. Not a lot, just a few days ev­ery few weeks.

She grew quiet. The colour drained out of her face and she got this sad, far­away look.

Her eyes stopped danc­ing and she quit singing. Oh, to be a fa­ther so deeply loved. They told her cry­ing wouldn’t help. She cried any­way. One day she cried for two hours.

He got her a special night­shirt to sleep in when he’s gone. She still cried.

He called or Face­timed with her ev­ery day when he was gone, but her eyes still didn’t dance and she still didn’t sing.

Then one day I asked her momma to hem some­thing for me. It was only fair, since her momma had pos­ses­sion of my sewing ma­chine.

She watched her mother at the ma­chine and an­nounced she wanted to learn to sew. She be­gan sewing straight lines on fab­ric scraps. Then she sewed the scraps to­gether and made pat­terns.

Her mother found a child’s sewing ma­chine safe for her to sew on by her­self. She was off. The cry­ing be­gan to ebb.

She asked if I knew how to make an apron. I spread tis­sue paper on the floor the same way a great-aunt had done for me years ago and had her lie down on it. Then I traced her and showed her how to pin the pat­tern and cut the fab­ric.

She took it home, stitched the edges down, sewed on rib­bon ties and added a pocket. The colour came back to her cheeks.

The last time her daddy was gone, she sewed a skirt for her lit­tle sis­ter. It’s so tight her lit­tle sis­ter can’t walk when she has it on, but they’re both proud of it.

When I left home and moved 2,000 miles away, my mother em­broi­dered a cov­er­let with beau­ti­ful red roses and then quilted it by hand one stitch at a time.

When I had my first two babies and was still far from home, I hooked a rug. I’d never made a rug. I worked on it at night when the babies were asleep and my hus­band worked evenings.

It’s funny how your hands can take your mind off your heart, how do­ing some­thing for some­one else is al­ways a good elixir.

The seven-year-old seam­stress is work­ing on a Paris pil­low­case. It’s pink fab­ric printed with the Eif­fel Tower. Her dad is out of town again, but she’s so busy she hardly no­tices.

Her lit­tle sewing ma­chine is hum­ming and so is she.

It’s funny how your hands can take your mind off your heart, how do­ing some­thing for some­one else is al­ways a good elixir.

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