THE LESLIE SLIP
"Maybe because she’d suffered life’s big blows, she rejoiced in life’s small gifts."
When my husband's grandmother moved to assisted living and we found this handmade slip among the things she left behind, I couldn't wait to show it to my friend and mentor Leslie. Not just because Leslie loved all things sewing, but because of what the slip represented. The words Cash Laying Mash—laying mash is a kind of chicken feed—are faintly visible on the back of the slip; it must have been made during the Depression, when women who couldn’t afford fabric created clothing from sacks. Out of less-than-ideal circumstances, my husband’s grandmother had fashioned something beautiful. That was the story of Leslie’s life.
Her father had died by suicide when she was in her early teens. Her first marriage had ended abruptly, leaving her devastated. Maybe because she’d suffered life’s big blows, she rejoiced in life’s small gifts. She delighted in new things. Whether I was telling her about a teaching approach—we both taught business and technical writing—or introducing her to a happy-hour drink, she was always enthusiastic.
When I showed her the slip, Leslie admired the tiny stitches, the even French seams and the hand-crocheted trim attached to the hem. She ran her hand along the slip's curved side and said, “Look how this spectacular cut adds flair.” She asked if she could use the slip as a pattern for a dress. Unlike me, for whom it was always a chore, Leslie viewed sewing as an art. And she was a master. She’d created an entire wardrobe, exquisite and unique. The black dress she made based on the feedsack slip was simple and elegant and fit her perfectly.
About five years after making the dress, Leslie got cancer. One very short year after her mastectomy, the cancer returned. When I called to make plans to go see her in the hospital, she said she’d be out in a few days and we’d meet to drink Blue Moon with orange slices. Then a doctor stepped into her room, and she said she’d call me back. She never did. Three days later, I called and she had died.
That was in 2009. To this day, I miss her cheery hellos, her hearty laugh, the way she clapped when something delighted her. I miss hearing her call hummingbirds hummingpigs because of how they jostled at a feeder. I miss the full-body way she’d pet our dog, burying her face in his fur. I miss how she encouraged me to love and respect every single one of my students and not be afraid to try new things in class. If something didn’t work, she told me, I could just say, "This isn't going as well as I thought it would, let's start over." I wonder if that’s a lesson she learned from sewing, carefully ripping out seams and stitching them again.
Sometimes I ache for the sorrows in her life. Her father. Her first marriage. The novel she dreamed of writing but never did. But that last phone call—the only word to describe what was in her voice when she said “I’ll call you back” is joy. Joy at the thought of planning a date to catch up. Joy with her whole being. I was reading a Mary Oliver poem recently with the line “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” That is the lesson Leslie taught me!
—Faith Tibbetts McDonald
Faith Tibbetts McDonald teaches writing at Penn State University and is the author of On the Loving End of Crazy: Finding Hope and Help to Face a Loved One’s Crippling Anxiety and Depression.