The sound of the rhythm circling metal wheels, the continuous swinging back and forth of her mother's feet amazed her. She held a cloth ssupported on a hollow, horizontal fixed arm, with a hole on the topside, which the needle projected through at the lowest part of its stroke. Inside the wooden table like frame armor was a hook that rotated each stroke in order to wrap the thread. It fed from the bobbin onto the hook around the needle at each stroke. The needle then carried the thread back through the cloth with the upward motion of its stroke. This formed the stitches that formed and binded every fiber of that cloth together. And that sound was coming from the power of the foot pedal as she watched her mother use her antique, wood and metal, sewing machine.



She gazed and heeded with eagle's eyes as her mom meticulously weave every intertwining yarn. The balance of connecting hoops after hoop amazed her. The seaming each precise complicated stitch creating a masterpiece in clothing enchanted her. With distinugished interest, she studied how her mother affix every fiber of that clothing turn into a beautiful commodity. Her patient mother was a master artist in sewing. And in her detectful curiosity, she beamed and watch her mom turn old, rugged, used clothes rejuvenate into revamped, perked up fashion of her mother's resourceful, artistic, hand-tailored hands.



As early as age five, she was a sewing enthusiast. Her mother found it surprisingly joyful that she has a keen interest in tailoring. None of her siblings actually found it more fascinating as she did. Her mother's tedious hardwork in producing such lovely garments from old recycled fabrics was magic to her. Sometimes, she would pay attention at how her mother fix and reattach ruined pieces of clothing of their neighbors and friends and after knot here and a loop there, she make it seem like new again.



She hailed from a tucked and isolated, quiet yet quintessential charming barrio away from the loud hustle and bustle of town life. It was an environment where modern amenities such as running water, electrical power are still absent. Food is somewhat scarce. The means of living lies predominantly in rural farming under the blazing heat of the sun. Life was obviously difficult. But it's even harder for humble, uneducated parents raised their brood out of nothing.



Daily diets consisted mostly of whatever is found available in the rice fields and the backyard. Mostly, freshly picked vegetables from the backyard or fresh fruits picked from their own tree or the neighbors. If there was a source of protein, it was either a chicken they raised themselves or caught fish from the nearby river, and little nuts here and there they see randomly on their way home from school or from helping their father from farming. And if there was, it was equally distributed in their growing flock. If you were one minute late from your meals, you lost the oppurtunity to get the best part of the chicken.



As her farmer dad worked in the rice fields, her stay at home mom took minimal tailoring jobs from neighbors and friends to help support the family. Often times, her mother spent countless hours fixing the damaged clothing. She makes every crooks and cranny old clothes look like the new distinctive fashion with endless and laborious tweaking. From her mother's tired hands, the lifeless dull fabrics becomes animated and lively works of art. All paid with minimal pay-off.



One time, she even asked her, "Mom, why do you spend so much hours, killing so much time out of the day to perfectly sew and repair each destroyed clothing from the neighbors and they only pay you a peso or two?" And her mom just look at her quietly, refraining from commenting negative. All her mom could say was, "It just like that. But it's okay. It is better than nothing." But it dismayed her because of the long toll of hours and attention to details entailed to that dressmaking was unrecognized. She feels as if her mother's efforts were not given significance from that one peso coin.



Many years after, she went to college, got married and she, too had her own children. She would teach them how her mother taught her how to sew and tailor. One time, one of her child told her about her interest in learning how to saw. On that child's birthday, she bought her the top of the line Singer electric powered sewing machine. Her child wondered why she nonhesitantly got it for her. But her child was thankful anyway. Basic by basic, she taught her how to run the basic sewing stitches, how to do the running stitches, sew a simple button on the pants, or even fix a broken zipper or patch a little hole. That gave her great joy.



I listened to her tell this story to a church mate this past weekend at the Women's Retreat. I secretly gaze at her as she relates her story and I see tears forming from her eyes. How difficult must it been to watch her mother go through that? I find it difficult hearing her tell that emotional story. You might wonder why.



That enthusiastic child who was saddened and strickened by the poverty and the selfish recognition of her mother's artful tailored creation is my dear mother, Mama Belen and that expert tailor was my grandmother, Lola Bekanf (Rebecca). And she bought me that expensive sewing machine on one of my previous birthdays.



I still have that sewing machine. But I will never look at it the same way. The sewing machine reminded my mother of her own mother. And now, I will remember my mother each time I stitch and sew any piece of clothing. My mother did not only taught me to sew and stitch a fabric, she also taught me how to sew and stitch my life, no matter how damage or destroyed, she always reminded me, I can always patch the hole, change the buttons, and make the ugly fabric be a revamped piece of clothing. Just like her own mother did.



Happy Mother's Day to my Mama Belen. This one's for you.=)

posted by pinay freestyle @ 9:26 PM

---