At the fabric shop, I ran my fingers along each bolt of cloth, probably about sixteen times. My mother didn't mind. She was doing the same thing. Finally, after much indecision and heavy consultation, I chose a navy blue cotton broadcloth with a red pin stripe.

Back home, under my mother's close supervision, I cut out a couple of large rectangles and a strip for the waistband. Using my mother's old black Singer, I carefully stitched the rectangles into a tube, then gathered the tube to the waistband. I made a buttonhole and sewed on a big red button. We folded a deep hem, and my mother, whose ability to stitch a straight line was far superior to mine, sewed the hem with her machine. For the finishing touch, she showed me how to wind red embroidery floss under one machine stitch and over the next.

I had made my own skirt and embroidered it, too. I was hooked.

I also loved reading. I asked where books came from. People wrote them? Wow! I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.

Whether I grew up or not is debatable, but now I'm writing books in which my main character solves crimes. She also embroiders the way I do now, with sewing and embroidery machines.

What could be better?


                                                                Janet