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14 august 2002

BIG, FAT NEWS! My next one-person play, Return of the Girl Next Door, debuts at the Artistic Studio Theatre in Winston-Salem on October 4, and will run for two weekends. Show information will soon apper on the site, and tickets will be 10 dollars. In particular, Saturday nights were super-sellouts, so reserve tickets early when you see the info. For more early information, you may e-mail me at info at lionessden.com.

chinatown delicacy, or something

the drive

Want to see photos of Wildacres Writers Workshop? I built a photo gallery site for everyone who went, but you Denizens are certainly welcome to partake. Just click here.

The Drive takes about an hour. It doesn't bug me too much. I like driving. I feel fortunate to be able to, and will until the day I'm not.

And so.

Between point one and point two are lots of radio stations that I don't want to hear. A few, I do. My favorite, and the one I've kept quietly to myself, is 98.1. I don't generally listen to it with the car windows open when I think I might drive by people I know. They would undoubtedly laugh. They would guffaw at the sounds emanating from the green Holzer Honda. They would blow pop out of their nose with every tap of my finger to bluegrass. And old-time country. And commercials for livestock feed.

Yeah, I know. We all have our vices.

So I'm making The Drive one night, half-oblivious to the familiar scenery, when my favorite song begins to play. Like, the very favorite one. That Song.

It's Dolly Parton's Coat of Many Colors, from her album of the same name. For those of you who haven't heard it, Coat of Many Colors is an autobiographical song from Parton's childhood, from the autumn in which her mother sewed her a coat of multicolored rags. Having been raised on Bible stories as she was, she naturally felt quite lucky to have a coat such as Joseph's. Upon arriving at school in the coat, however, the other students ridiculed it. She steadfastly told them the Joseph story and continued to wear it, oblivious to their sneers.

How times have changed, huh.

We seem to have forgotten how to make stuff. Stuff that you touch. Stuff that you wear. Stuff that holds the memory of its creation, where stitches write its history.

Sometimes, I sew. Not often, but I have a practical need to do so: I don't like to shop, and it's difficult to find pants and skirts that fit me. Between all of the relaxing and super-sizing corporate clothesmakers do, I can't find waists that actually touch my waist anymore. The butt floofs out like extra storage, the thighs could hold a couple more legs, and...agh. Jeans companies still make slim fit pants. That's about it.

Anyway, I like to sew. I grew up having things sewn for me. I remember liking the sound of the machine whirring in the kitchen, and the smell of hot fabric as it ran under the presser foot, kicking up fiber dust.

For my first communion, Mom sewed me a white dress. It was simple, even elegant, for a seven-year-old. She sewed a tiny veil for it. It was as white as Crayola pours the color, a short-sleeved, knee-length dress in which her kid would march up and have her first Last Supper. The dress was a lot like me. No frilly stuff. No extraneous hoo-ha. Just streamlined. Practical.

I wore a skirt the other day that I'd made. It's one of my favorites, just a knee-length cotton a-line with a subtle red print. It's comfy on these summer dog days, just letting the uncertain breeze hit me where it will. Whenever I sew, I usually crack open a few beers and rent a movie. This skirt, it was the 1970 version of The Out of Towners. The hem probably isn't as straight as it should be, since I had a little buzz and was laughing so hard, but whatever.

It's a good reminder. It feels good to wear content moments, when your drive has a good playlist, and everything quietly aligns to remind you--yep, you're pretty lucky that way.