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She knew times had changed and things were that way anymore, that would would be better off learning SOME of that stuff but not all of it because you wouldn't need it anymore.
Now we have factories to do things like make clothes for us.
Not really. You could buy clothes in the store when my mom was a kid, and people still sewed clothes when I was a kid. I have mom friends now who know how to sew. It is a valuable lesson to learn. And, if she wanted me to cook as a teen, she would have needed to show me how, at least a couple basic recipes. It was the way she talked about it, like she was in awe of how her mom did it, but she didn't make the effort to continue the practice with me.
I'm sure SOMEONE taught me how to walk and talk and put on clothes. Probably the Grandmother who lived in our shack with us. Maybe my Great-Grandmother, too. She also lived there. They hated each other, and bickered all day long. Both were in sad shape, by the time I emerged from the period of Infantile Amnesia.
My Grandmother, if a tortured soul, was very smart. She struggled with her intelligence, in a community where nobody was smart enough to know 'smart' when they saw it. She didn't know the words, but I, in retrospect, can see she had some advanced concepts in her head. We had no television. We had a radio, plugged into an adapter, screwed into the light bulb just hanging by a cord, from the ceiling. My Grandmother would fight to keep the radio set to Mississippi Public Radio. Otherwise, we had to listen to the Gospel preachers favored by Great-Grand, or the smarmy 'Top 40 Hits' my Mom liked.
My Great-Grandmother had had the sense to become pregnant by the only Jewish man who ever came through our mostly Native American corner of Mississippi. Genetic Jackpot. It set my Grandmother and her descendants apart from the rest of the 'community'. For those of us who escaped, it was a good thing. For those who never made it out of that mudhole, it just made them freaks. Smart people, to stupid people, just seem to be crazy people.
My Grandmother's older children had moved away and out of our lives (How many tanks of gas you could buy, or how long your car kept running...that's how far people made it out of Mississippi, back then. They made it to Knoxville and Atlanta). Same racial mix as Elvis, they were smart and gorgeous, and did very well. But that didn't help us any, back in that tarpaper shack with no running water. I suppose they left with bitter feelings, as I would later do. We never heard from them.
Anyway, in my earliest memories, I was already doing whatever washing was done (iron pot, outdoors...), emptying the slop jars... Stirring the Corn Meal or Grits...
My Mom, within whatever consciousness remained in her alcoholic state, was a fairytale princess. She was the 'town wh#$e'...except our 'town' was really just the intersection of two optimistically-named rural 'highways'. All our welfare money, and all the money she earned as a prostitute, went into her booze and pills...or somewhere... The money disappeared.
Anyway, Mom's customers would appear like shining knights...in nice cars and trucks. Some were really beautiful young men. They were sweet to me, while waiting for Mom to come out of the shack, to be driven off to some spot in the woods, where business was taken care of...right there in their vehicles. So, on one hand there was this shack full of crazy, bickering women. And on the other hand, there were these lovely men who'd appear out of nowhere, to take Mom out on 'dates'.
Well, soon, Mom became too bloated for any regular business. She was totally oblivious to me, except when I didn't run her errands well enough. And we were down to the welfare money, which Mom made disappear. Actually, this saved me. My Great-Grandmother showed me a couple of edible plants I could gather. And I started pulling weeds for people 'in town' (nearer the highway intersection), for enough change to buy Corn Meal.
We lived in an abandoned sharecropper's shack, at the back of a plantation owned by an aristocratic 'High Yellow' (black/octaroon) family. There was a creek, which would get dammed-up by their kids, when they wanted to catch fish. There were Water Moccasins which would get dammed-up with the Fish. They'd let me kill those, to eat. They were terrified of snakes. I was not. Actually, Water Moccasins make a pretty good soup, if you boil them long enough, and add Wild Onions and mashed-up Sassafras Leaves toward the end of cooking. I'd strain the soup with worn out lace from my mother's lingere.
So, I learned to cook, and forage, pretty-much on my own. I learned to hunt-up business (weed pulling) on my own. By myself, I figured out that roadkill was a good food-source, too.
There were two 'rich' households in 'town'. There was the School Superintendent, and there was the county's Boss Bootlegger. The School Superintendent's wife got The New Yorker. The Bootlegger's wife got Town & Country. I pulled weeds for both ladies, and would get those magazines when they threw them away. That was part of my pay. Sitting alone in the woods, pouring over those upper-middle-class magazines, gave me early exposure to a better world than my own. A hideous little waif in rags, I was ridiculed for reading those 'weird' things, when I could have nothing in them. Still...
"She just come up an asked if she could pull weeds?" The Bootlegger asked his wife, one day. "Well daaaaayum! That little thang's got some moxy!" Later, he told me he'd figured out, at that moment, who my 'Real Daddy' was (a Sicilian who'd 'owned' the sub rosa gaming operations in much of our state).
So, the Bootlegger took me into his office, and let me start counting change, and putting it into paper sleeves for the bank. Soon, I was riding with him, as he plied the back roads, taking money from underlings. I counted the money, and kept the books. He was a scary and brutal man, and I saw him do some pretty bad things. But I was his little protege. I learned a lot from him. He was the closest thing to a Father that I'd ever known. I probably would have been 'in the will', and probably would have gone into 'the business'. But he had a heart attack, his wife moved to Arizona for her arthritis, and that was that.
Meantime, it was about time for graduation from High School. At school, most of the teachers and administrators rolled their eyes when my name came up. I was the ugliest girl in school, at a school where sports and cheerleading and proms and class rings were the only things that mattered. I smelled bad. I was periodically sent to the office for smelling bad.
But there were a very few white ladies at the school, a couple in the office, the Librarian, and a couple of teachers (the rest of the staff was as dark as me, but called themselves 'white'). They'd noticed I was the first to read classics in the library which had previously gone unopened. They noticed I read periodicals which were otherwise thrown out unread (Mississippi had an excellent Board of Education, which, I suppose, was responsible for stocking the libraries).
So, those few white ladies got together some money, bought me two little suitcases, bought me the things to go into them (mostly at the thrift stores in the nearest town), and one drove me up to college. It was they who had established my 'minority' status, and arranged my scholarships.
Up to this point, I think you can see that a lack of 'teaching' from the dum dums in my childhood world was probably a good thing. Fending and foraging for myself made me more resourceful than if I'd had caretakers. And it made less relevant my Mom's pronouncements on my fitness for college: "You ain't goin' off ta no college. Only place you's goin' is tuh thuh Crazy House. Whut you need ta do is take a dog-groomin' course, an' stay at home with some babies. Ugly little skag." I left without telling them I was going. No goodbyes. Endless guilt, forever, for what I did. But that's how I did it.
So, I'm up at college, and in Economics. The coursework is utterly impenetrable. So many terms! So much math! In my classes are these girls like I've never seen. They're only beginning to know and recognize each other. They are from genuinely aristocratic families in the Mississippi Delta. When I say 'aristocratic', I mean the real thing.
Over the decades, I've learned their lines went back to the Sephardic, Huguenot, Scottish, and Norman English founders of the nation. Their families had been bankrupted by the Kennedy/Johnson "Great Society", and so here they are, with me, at this poor little university in the boonies. Anyway, they're looking at me with curiosity, rather than with the contempt to which I'd been accustomed. And I'm looking at them, and recognizing them as being the same sort of people I'd seen, when the New Yorker and Town & Country did write-ups on the best and oldest families. Well, the course work being scary hard, I propose that we start a study group (not that I knew anything about study groups; but I'd read or heard the word...).
So, suddenly, I have this study group, composed of those classy girls, plus two Gay guys (one of whom would become my PR Man, and the other, my Decorator...both still with me to this day). And the girls decide to make me into their 'Liza Doolittle'. The teach me basic hygiene and grooming (Dental Floss! Hair Conditioner!). The teach me how to use a Steam Iron (Mirabile dictu! There's one in the dorm, and we get to use it!). They teach me what not to do (High Heels, nail polish, cheap little jewelry, makeup...). One is good at sewing, and shows me how to transform a cheap, shapeless sweatshirt into something flattering... all the little tricks that make the Southampton/Greenwich/Ivy League casual look seem effortless.
At the same time I'm enrolled in Bodybuilding 101 (figured this would be the ticket to making myself less hideous: figured right...). I'm in there with all these huge, beautiful blond men...and the ugliest boy I'd ever laid eyes on. He's some sort of Indian mix like me. He's pathologically shy, emotionally-damaged, astonishingly skinny...face like pizza...ringworm-scars in his scalp. And these big blond men, mostly football players...but not mean, like the swarthy ones back home... these blond giants are being really kind to both of us. The Weight Coach, who looked about like the Football players back home...was indifferent at best. But the other students helped us out a lot. Anyway, the hideous boy (whose intelligence and will to succeed shone through his hideousness) and I became a team, then a couple, then expecting parents... almost overnight.
And then my study group and I are renting a van, and heading to Steinmart's Saks Fifth Avenue sale (long gone, alas). DH and I had been working odd jobs around campus, and were just loaded with money. I had seventy five whole Dollars to spend! Damaged and returned merch from Saks, at pennies-on-the-dollar! All those years of pouring over ritzy mags had educated me. I recognized labels most Mississippians were balking at. While they were going for Polo and Members Only and Duck Head and Topsider... I was snapping up Hilditch & Key, Burberry, Armani (radical, back then), Fendi, Pucci... I really don't think most Mississippians knew that 'Made in Italy', or 'Six-ply Cashmere Made in Scotland' meant anything important. But without my mentoring friends, I would not have known about that sale.
And my fledgling Decorator is helping us fix up our first student apartment. Then, when we buy our first apartment building (derelict building near campus/cosigned by a prominent alum), he's there, telling us what to do, while learning his trade. He and we fix up a unit as our first real home. My soon-to-be Decorator and soon-to-be Ad Man/Publicist whip up parties with tiny budgets, and we're entertaining campus big wigs and professors and alums, (all of whom are tickled to be included in something so optimistic on the part of students). Every one of our homes has been professionally decorated. Considering what I might have done on my own, you can see how very much a good Designer has facilitated our rise in the world.
Much of our transformation came about because we poured over any self-help material, and paid attention to our course work...actually taking useful information out of it, rather than just grubbing for grades. But much of our success is due to the kind people who have helped us along the way.
I truly believe that I would not have been receptive to the opportunities available to me, had I had a 'normal' lower-class/non-white upbringing. Basically growing up on my own allowed me to know how to recognize, grasp, maximize, and...yes...generate...opportunities.
That reads like an amazing piece of fiction. If it's "true," my faith in humankind is restored.
She knew times had changed and things were that way anymore, that would would be better off learning SOME of that stuff but not all of it because you wouldn't need it anymore.
Now we have factories to do things like make clothes for us.
It's still great to know how to sew, so you can repair your clothes, sew up a seam in a comforter that's come open, put the button back on your pants, etc.
And then there are the fun things like making Halloween costumes, pillows, dolls, quilts (I like English paper piecing), doll clothes, and all that good stuff.
One great thing about knowing how to sew is that I can alter clothes for my youngest daughter, who still fits toddler sizes but wants to dress like the big kid she is.
My mom taught me cooking, cleaning, and sex education. My dad taught me about yardwork, cars, electronics, how to hang Christmas lights, how to fish, and some basic power tools. I had a long (but not unreasonable) list of chores growing up. My parents both taught me that nothing is free in life.
As an adult I've taught a few of my peers how to use a dishwasher, washing machine, how to check tire pressure on a car, and I recently showed a co-worker how to jumpstart a car.
My mom tried to teach me sewing but I refused to learn. To this day I only sew nets for work.
What I've never understood, is that my mom talked about how her mom made all of their clothes, her grandma baked cookies from scratch every week, her sister was cooking dinner as a teen because my grandma worked (yes, some moms worked, even in the 1950's), yet she never taught me how to do any of that. I don't know if she thought it would just somehow happen by itself, or what.
I've taught myself most of those things. Well, I think my mom taught me some basic sewing as a kid, but I really learned it as an adult. I plan to teach our kids those things.
My dad went to junior high in the mid-60s, and one semester boys had to take home ec while girls had to take wood shop. The school figured it was useful for both sexes to know how to do those things, and that was a good idea.
That reads like an amazing piece of fiction. If it's "true," my faith in humankind is restored.
I know right.
I mean is JK Rowling secretly lurking in our forums?
LOL... I think she was the one that also posted that long story about her college experience-- I don't know if you guys read that yet. It was a strange but interesting read.
What I've never understood, is that my mom talked about how her mom made all of their clothes, her grandma baked cookies from scratch every week, her sister was cooking dinner as a teen because my grandma worked (yes, some moms worked, even in the 1950's), yet she never taught me how to do any of that. I don't know if she thought it would just somehow happen by itself, or what.
My MIL has talked about her mother being a great seamstress and a wonderful cook. Her sisters also said the same thing and would mention that the dresses the mother made were so high quality people thought it was the couture. And yet, she hasn't pass on any of these skills to any of her 3 daughters. The middle daughter was a great cook however-- but that was something she had to learn as an adult. But the other 2 (my MIL and her eldest sister)... sorry, you'd have to kill me before I'd be willing to eat their food, LOL.
I don't think the mother really thought in that perspective that her kids needed to be taught these skills or that these are skills not easy to master. Its really sad when skills are not passed on. My husband is a great chef... so we are trying to incorporate that skill onto our LO.
It's still great to know how to sew, so you can repair your clothes, sew up a seam in a comforter that's come open, put the button back on your pants, etc.
And then there are the fun things like making Halloween costumes, pillows, dolls, quilts (I like English paper piecing), doll clothes, and all that good stuff.
One great thing about knowing how to sew is that I can alter clothes for my youngest daughter, who still fits toddler sizes but wants to dress like the big kid she is.
That's another thing my mom was good at and didn't teach me! I can sew on a button (barely) but that's about it.
I can't even hem a pair of my son's pants - if I try - the stitches are HUGE and can be seen.
I remember - right after she died - my son entered first grade in a new school. First thing - he came home with a pattern and instructions on what fabric to buy and HOW TO MAKE A VEST for the first grade play.
Had she been alive - Grandma would have made that vest and there would have been no problem. As it was, my girlfriend's mother volunteered to make my son's vest. I'll never forget it and still feel grateful to her.
In our home we learned how to cook, clean, paint, put shingles on a roof, change oil, alternators, U-joints, check, regap, change the spark plugs. Use a circular saw, table saw, grinder. Saddle and ride and feed horses, take care of dogs, cats, birds, and a variety of others. Change a diaper, bathe a baby, set up a tent, roll up sleeping bags tightly, grow a garden from seed, make compost. Install drywall, lay concrete, mow a lawn, pull weeds. Tow a trailer and back up a trailer (never got that one down), use a car with manual transmission, add a room, estimate and measure for needed supplies, build a rabbit cage, install a fence. Set a table for special occasions, send thank you cards out, put a worm on a hook and fish, repair a leak in a boat, can tomatoes, pick fruit and make homemade jams, load and shoot a gun, use a sewing machine, knit.
And I've covered all those with my kids.
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