Let's Get Sewing

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Summer Sewing has ended and I am on break until the end of September.
New classes start the first week of October. Sewing After School is either October 6th or 7th from 4:00-6:00 (door opens at 3:30) and continues each week. Adult Sewing will be on Tuesdays from 6:00-9:00.
Please call to register. 509-217-7049
Tuition for new students is for 5 weeks of class =$163.65 ($150+ tax@$13.65). Continuing student’s rate is $130.92 ($120+tax@$10.92) per 4/wks.
Summer camp students special rate ends the last day of August. Call if you have any questions.
I do have times available for private lessons and am interested in forming a daytime group for homeschool students( min4/ max10)

My Learn To Sew camp scheduled for August 10-14 will probably have a change of venue and be at my church hall. The address for that is 1725 E Bridgeport-St Gregorio’s Orthodox Church. Please call me if you have any questions. 509-217-7049

Science and Stuffies sewing camp was a success. We had a lot of fun sewing on sew many different machines. There are still heart pillows to be stuffed and a few stuffies to finish up but fun was had by all. Sometimes it’s better to go at a slower pace and plan a bonus day to finish up. Finding the flow-state balance is important to cement learning.

This week is Science and Stuffies. We are hand sewing small stuffies and learning about how sewing machines were invented. Tomorrow we will sew on the treadle and hand crank machines and make heart pillows for Vanessa Behan- the local crisis nursery. Then, the last 2 days of this week we will make a stuffed creature (still TBD).

Next week is Crafting week. There are still a couple of spaces left.
On the docket is: painting dragon eye rocks, needle felting, polymer clay creations, sharpie tie dye, …. And more.

Don’t miss Learn to Fit Yourself Part 2 on June 10th!

Sew clothes that fit YOU! Learn how to easily and accurately adjust patterns for a beautifully comfortable fit.

Feel like a Princess in your own custom fitted clothes!
Learn all the steps to altering a princess style pattern to fit various challenge areas – round backs, sway backs, full and small busts, full tummies, abdomens, and booties, and other common adjustments. Participants will learn by watching a live demonstration as well as practicing making alterations hands-on with practice pattern pieces. This class teaches skills essential to every fashion sewing enthusiast.
Click the link below for more information.

Feel like a Princess in your own custom-fitted clothes!

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/learn-to-fit-yourself-part-2-princess-designs-tickets-1988049917821?aff=oddtdtcreator

My daughter takes the bus to school. Every morning there's a crossing guard at the corner who helps the kids cross safely. I drove past that intersection twice a day but never paid much attention until last week when I had to walk my daughter to the stop because my car wouldn't start.
The crossing guard was a woman, maybe seventy, white hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing the bright orange safety vest and holding the stop sign. She smiled at every single kid who crossed. Not a polite smile, a real one. She knew their names.
"Morning, Sophie! Nice backpack." "Hey Marcus, how's your mom feeling?" "Ava, did you finish that book you were reading?"
My daughter, Emma, who's usually shy around adults, ran right up to her. "Hi Mrs. Dotson!" The woman's whole face lit up. "Emma! Your dad's walking you today?" Emma explained about the car. Mrs. Dotson looked at me. "You must be Emma's father. She talks about you all the time."
I was surprised Emma had talked about me. More surprised this crossing guard knew enough about my daughter to have conversations with her. "How long have you been working this corner?" I asked.
"Eight years," Mrs. Dotson said. "Started when my husband passed. Needed something to do with my mornings."
After Emma crossed and got on the bus, I thanked Mrs. Dotson. She waved it off. "This is the best part of my day. These kids, they're wonderful."
My car was in the shop all week so I walked Emma to the bus stop every morning. Each day I noticed more. Mrs. Dotson didn't just help kids cross. She checked on them. One morning a boy showed up with a bruise on his face. She knelt down to his level. "Tyler, what happened?" He said he fell off his bike. She looked at him carefully. "That true?" He nodded. She made him promise to wear his helmet next time.
Another morning a girl was crying. Mrs. Dotson pulled her aside while the other kids crossed. Talked to her quietly, gave her a tissue, made her laugh somehow. The girl got on the bus smiling.
I asked Emma about Mrs. Dotson that night at dinner. "Do you talk to her a lot?" Emma nodded enthusiastically. "Every day! She asks about school and my friends and she remembers everything I tell her."
"What do you tell her?"
"Just stuff. Like when I was worried about my math test she asked me how it went the next day. And when I was sad about Grandma being sick, Mrs. Dotson told me her husband was sick before he died and she understood how I felt."
I hadn't known Emma was worried about my mother being sick. She hadn't mentioned it to me. But apparently she'd mentioned it to the crossing guard.
"Does she talk to all the kids like that?" I asked.
"Yeah. She knows everyone. She even knows which kids have allergies in case they need help."
That seemed above and beyond for a crossing guard. The next morning I asked Mrs. Dotson about it. "Emma says you know which kids have allergies?"
She looked slightly embarrassed. "I keep a list. Just in case. We had a situation a few years ago, a boy had a reaction to something, couldn't tell us what was wrong. His mom wasn't answering her phone, there was confusion. I thought if I had the information written down it could help in an emergency."
"Did the school ask you to do that?"
"No, I did it myself. Asked parents when they'd talk to me. Made a little notebook." She pulled it from her vest pocket. Showed me pages of names, allergies, emergency contact numbers, medical conditions. Detailed information about maybe sixty kids.
"This is a lot of work," I said.
"It's important. These kids matter."
I thought about that all day. This woman had compiled a medical reference guide for children who weren't her responsibility beyond making sure they crossed the street safely. She'd done it on her own time, with her own resources, because she cared.
The next morning I got there early. Watched Mrs. Dotson before the kids arrived. She was sweeping the crosswalk clear of leaves and debris. Not part of her job. She just did it so the kids wouldn't slip.
When the first bus pulled up, she positioned herself carefully, making sure she could see around the bus to check for cars. She held the stop sign high and firm, didn't waver even when impatient drivers honked. Each child got her full attention as they crossed. She watched them until they were safely on the bus.
After the buses left, she stayed. Picked up trash from the curb. Straightened the school zone signs that had gotten knocked crooked. Checked the crosswalk paint markings, made a note about a section that was fading.
I approached her. "You do all this every day?"
She looked at what she was doing like she'd just noticed. "Oh, this? Just keeping the area safe. The city's slow about maintenance so I do what I can."
"Do you get paid for the extra time?"
"No, I'm only paid for the hour in the morning and the hour in the afternoon. But I'm already here, might as well make myself useful."
Over the week I learned more. Mrs. Dotson had been a teacher before retiring. Fourth grade. She'd taught in the same district for thirty-five years. When her husband died eight years ago, she felt lost. "Teaching was my life. I wasn't ready to just sit at home."
The crossing guard position became available. It didn't pay much but it kept her connected to kids. "I missed them. Missed being useful to them."
She told me about some of the children. A boy whose parents were going through a divorce, who she made sure to compliment every day so he'd have something positive. A girl with anxiety who Mrs. Dotson taught breathing exercises to when she seemed stressed. A boy who struggled in school who she encouraged constantly.
"Do their parents know you do this?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Most parents drop their kids at the corner and drive off. Or the kids walk by themselves. I don't blame anyone. Everyone's busy. But it means a lot of these kids, I'm the only adult they talk to in the morning."
That hit me. I'd been one of those parents who drove past, barely noticing her. Emma had been having entire conversations with this woman, telling her worries she didn't tell me, and I'd had no idea.
"Has Emma talked to you about anything I should know about?" I asked.
Mrs. Dotson hesitated. "It's not my place to say. But maybe ask her about the new girl at school. She's been worried about making friends with her."
That night I asked Emma about the new girl. She seemed surprised I knew. We had a long conversation about friendship and inclusion that we wouldn't have had if Mrs. Dotson hadn't mentioned it.
My car got fixed but I kept walking Emma to the bus stop. Started talking to other parents who were there, mentioned what Mrs. Dotson did. Most had no idea. They dropped their kids and left.
One mother said, "I just thought she was the crossing guard. I didn't know she talked to the kids."
Another parent said, "She helped my son? With what?"
I explained. The medical list. The emotional support. The way she knew every child's name and something about their lives. The parents were shocked.
We organized something. Collected money, bought Mrs. Dotson a gift card and a plaque thanking her for eight years of service. Presented it to her one morning with maybe twenty parents there.
She cried. Actually sobbed. "I don't deserve this. I just do my job."
One mother said, "You do so much more than your job. You love our kids."
Mrs. Dotson wiped her eyes. "Of course I love them. How could I not? They're wonderful."
A father asked, "Why didn't you ever tell us what you were doing? We could have helped."
She looked genuinely confused. "Tell you what? That I talk to your children? That's just being kind."
That was the thing. To her it was just being kind. Basic human decency. But it was more than that. It was dedication. It was love. It was choosing to see children as individuals worth knowing instead of just kids to wave across a street.
The school board heard about what happened. Called Mrs. Dotson in for a meeting. We were worried she'd gotten in trouble for keeping medical information without authorization. Instead they gave her a commendation and a raise. Small raise, but something.
The principal told me later, "We had no idea she was doing all this. We just thought she was a crossing guard. But she's been the emotional support system for dozens of kids over eight years."
Mrs. Dotson still works that corner. Still knows every child's name. Still keeps her medical notebook updated. Still sweeps the crosswalk and picks up trash.
But now parents stop to talk to her. Thank her. Ask about their kids. She's not invisible anymore.
Last week Emma came home upset about something at school. Before I could ask what was wrong, she said, "I already talked to Mrs. Dotson about it. She made me feel better."
Part of me felt a little hurt that Emma went to the crossing guard instead of me. But mostly I felt grateful. Grateful that my daughter has another adult in her life who cares. Who listens. Who shows up every single morning rain or shine.
I asked Emma what Mrs. Dotson said. "She said sometimes things feel really big but they get smaller when you talk about them. And she's right. I felt better after I told her."
Simple wisdom. The kind teachers are good at. The kind Mrs. Dotson has been sharing freely for eight years while most of us drove past without noticing.
Thank you, Mrs. Dotson. For seeing our children when we were too busy to stop. For learning their names and their worries and their dreams. For being there every morning with a smile and a kind word. For doing so much more than your job required because you believed they deserved it.
You taught me something important. You taught me that the people taking care of our kids aren't always the ones we notice. Sometimes they're standing at a street corner in an orange vest, holding a stop sign, loving our children in quiet ways we never see.
I see you now. We all do. And we're grateful.

I had exactly two days to find my daughter a dress for her school talent show, and I had exactly no money for one.

That was the kind of week I was having.

My car needed a tire. My phone bill was late. My kitchen light kept flickering like it was tired too. And my daughter, Lily, had decided at the very last minute that she wanted to sing in the talent show at school.

Not just sing. Perform.

She wanted to stand under the gym lights in front of all her classmates and do her little song with confidence.

“Mama,” she told me that night while brushing her hair, “I want to look pretty.”

The words hit me harder than I expected.

Not because she was asking for something fancy.

Because every mom knows what it feels like when your child wants a special moment, and you are trying to pull it together with the last bit of strength you have left.

I smiled at her and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Then I spent the next morning looking through thrift stores, clearance racks, and one box of old church donations I had been too embarrassed to touch before.

Nothing.

Everything was either too small, too big, too stained, or too worn out to make Lily feel like the bright little star she wanted to be.

That afternoon, while I was picking her up from school, I saw a flyer taped to the bulletin board near the office.

FREE DRESS REPAIRS
FREE ALTERATIONS
COMMUNITY SEWING ROOM
TUESDAYS 4 TO 7

Under that, in smaller handwriting, it said:

If you need a hem, a button, or a little confidence, come in.

I stared at that flyer longer than I should have.

Then I took a picture of it with my phone before I could talk myself out of it.

On Tuesday, I drove Lily and me to the community center with one dress in a bag and a nervous feeling in my stomach.

The sewing room was down a hallway with old posters on the walls and a smell of coffee and fabric softener in the air. There were two long tables, a row of sewing machines, baskets of thread, trays of buttons, and stacks of donated dresses on rolling racks.

It looked like a place where people fixed more than clothes.

A woman with soft gray curls and a red cardigan looked up from her sewing machine and smiled at us.

“You must be here for the dress closet,” she said.

I nodded, suddenly shy.

“My name is Marlene,” she said. “Come on in.”

Lily stood beside me holding her school shoes in one hand because she had taken them off in the car. She looked around the room with wide eyes like she had walked into a magic place.

Marlene asked Lily what color she liked.

“Blue,” Lily said right away.

Marlene pointed to a rack in the corner. “Then let’s find your blue.”

We went through dress after dress. Some were too formal. Some were too plain. One had sparkles that Lily loved but the sleeves were too tight. One was beautiful but long enough to trip over twice before she reached the stage.

Then Marlene pulled out a soft blue dress with tiny white flowers stitched around the collar.

It was simple.

It was sweet.

It was perfect.

Lily held it up and gasped like she had just found a treasure.

But when I helped her try it on, it was a little long and needed a small fix at the shoulder.

Marlene noticed me looking worried and said, “Don’t worry. That’s the easy part.”

She led us to a machine by the window and handed me a pin cushion.

“Do you sew?” she asked.

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Good,” she said. “Then you get to learn.”

I laughed a little because she said it so kindly.

As she pinned the hem, I noticed something tucked inside the pocket of the dress. Just a little folded note.

I pulled it out carefully.

It said:

If you found this dress, I hope you need a little courage.

My mama made me wear this to my first recital because I was scared to be seen. I stood in the light anyway. So can you.

Wear it proudly.

— Hannah

I read it twice.

Then I looked at Lily, who was spinning slowly in front of the mirror, and I had to swallow hard so I wouldn’t cry.

“What is it?” she asked.

I handed her the note.

She read it out loud, very slowly, and then smiled in that quiet way kids do when something feels important.

“Can I keep it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, you can.”

Marlene watched us with a soft smile on her face.

“These dresses come from women all over town,” she told me. “Some are from moms. Some are from grandmas. Some are from women who wore them once and knew somebody else might need them more. Every dress has a story.”

I looked around the room again, and it hit me that this wasn’t just a sewing room.

It was a kindness room.

While Lily tried on the dress one more time, Marlene showed me how to fix the shoulder seam.

She handed me the needle, showed me how to hold the fabric, and talked me through every stitch like I was not a lost cause but a woman learning something new.

“You know,” she said, “every woman should know how to make something fit better.”

I smiled. “That sounds wise.”

“It is wise,” she said, threading the needle again. “My grandmother taught me. Then I taught my daughter. Now I teach whoever walks through that door looking tired.”

That made me laugh.

Then she told me why she started the dress closet.

Years ago, after her husband lost his job, she had no money for clothes and no room left in her pride. A neighbor fixed her daughter’s dance costume for free, then left a few extra dresses and a box of thread at her door.

“I never forgot how that felt,” Marlene said. “Like somebody saw my stress and didn’t make it heavier.”

I nodded because I knew exactly what she meant.

By the time we finished the hemming, Lily looked like she had been made for that dress.

She stood in front of the mirror, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Mama, I look nice.”

Not “pretty.”

Not “cute.”

Nice.

Like she knew she belonged.

The talent show was two nights later.

I dropped Lily off at school in the blue dress, her hair clipped back with two little white barrettes I found in a drawer at home. She walked into the building with her chin up, and I stood in the parking lot for a second just watching her go.

At the end of the show, when she stepped onto the stage and sang, her whole face lit up.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t hiding.

She was just there.

Shining.

And I cried like a fool in the back row.

Afterward, while Lily was still buzzing with excitement, I noticed another mom near the gym doors looking worried. Her daughter’s costume bag had split open, and a seam on the costume had come loose.

The little girl was close to tears.

I heard myself say, “Wait. I think I can help.”

I ran to my car, grabbed the sewing kit Marlene had given me, and came back with thread, pins, and a tiny pair of scissors.

The mom looked surprised. “You know how to sew?”

I smiled. “A little more than I did on Tuesday.”

We fixed the costume right there at a folding table while the little girl watched with big eyes.

When we finished, she twirled once and grinned.

Her mom hugged me so fast it caught me off guard.

“Thank you,” she said.

And all I could think was: Marlene would be proud.

The next Tuesday, I went back to the sewing room with a bag of buttons, some fabric scraps, and a box of thread I had bought on sale.

Lily came with me.

She carried the box like it was something important.

Marlene saw us walk in and smiled like she already knew what we were bringing.

“Looks like someone came back,” she said.

“Yes,” I told her. “We did.”

Lily set the box down and said, “I want to help other girls look nice.”

Marlene looked at me, then at my daughter, and her eyes got shiny.

“Well,” she said softly, “I think we can do that.”

Now we go back every month.

Sometimes we hem dresses.

Sometimes we sew on buttons.

Sometimes we sit with women who just need a quiet room and a kind face.

And every time I watch a mom leave with something that fits her child just right, I think about that little note in the dress pocket.

Wear it proudly.

That one sentence changed our whole week.

Maybe even more than that.

It reminded me that help does not always look big and dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like a needle, a spool of thread, and a woman who says, “Come in. We’ll fix it together.”