The Makings Of A City Hillbilly

My grandmother was born in 1908. Don't ask me why I remember, because I often have to do math to recall what year both my sons were born and you'd think that would be etched in my memory. Perhaps it's because I can't imagine what life was like in 1908; a time before people had cars, phones, canned food and even electricity was uncommon. It must've been those conditions that made up her character - valuing virtue over material. After all it is just "stuff."

She didn't buy what she could make. So when I was eight and visited her in Japan, she sewed me a Yukata by hand. I wore it to all the Summer Dance Festivals that went on every weekend. While she patiently stitched all the pieces together, she taught me how to make one for my Barbie doll. From the late morning to lunch, we would sit side by side, each sewing sleeves, collars and panels. By the time she finished my Yukata, I had sewed three crappy ones for Barbie - none of which would cover her tremendous boobs.

When my son came home with his Cub Scouts shirt the other day, I went on a sewing frenzy. It started with sewing a couple of patches on a damned sleeve and lead to "Frankenpants." A pair of school pants (Nautica, mind you), that Zuki tore a hole in the knee. The pants were practically new and I knew my Grandmother would be turning in her grave if I threw them out over a gaping hole that she could mend like new.


But I can't sew like her. I did the best I could and it'll do for now. He'll look like a Hillbilly in patched up clothing but it's either that or looking Ghetto. Anyway, everyone knows I have no fashion sense even though we live in the Fashion Capital of the world...or is that France? Oh no, we don't live in France.

Aside from saving a perfectly good pair of pants, I'm proud of myself that I could still thread a needle without a magnifying glass and only stuck myself no less than fifteen times to boot. I've paid my dues and I'm done with the patches, too. Too much pressure not to look like "Shirt Of Frankenpants."

There's a fantastic tailor on Greenpoint Avenue and he charges peanuts. Well, not actual peanuts but certainly less than a box of Bandaids for pricked fingers. And if my grandmother can hear me, I'm not giving up on sewing...I'm just avoiding the same needle pricking activity heroine addicts do...not that she would know what a heroine addict is because she was born in 1908 and I think people just smoked morphine back then.

Enlisted

Zuki joined the Cub Scouts. I don't know how or when they pitched it to the first grade boys but I had never seen my kid so revved up about doing something. When he came home with the application on Monday, I merely said, "Oh, the Cub Scouts," and he pounced on me like a rabid squirrel.

"Can I go, please Mommy! They make masks after school - can I go?"

Who could say no to making masks after school?

Truth is, a friend of mine had already told me how she had just signed up her son. How excited he was about the knot tying badges and learning secret hand shakes or whatever it is that Cub Scouts do to acknowledge each other. To top it off, her husband - who was a Cub Scout himself once - was equally excited about future trips and meetings that he would accompany their son to. I pictured a father wolf presenting his cub to the pack so they know not to mangle him.

Likewise, when I mentioned to my husband that I filled out a Cub Scout application for Zuki, we spent the entire dinner listening to Daddy reminisce of his Cub Scout rituals. A forty minute narrative about the proper way to fold the neckerchief and the badge placement of Cub Scout shirts and how fun it was going to be for me to sew those damned things on. Although, the first thing that caught my eye in the manual was the "Badge Magic" sold exclusively at the Cub Scout stores. It's a thing that "sticks" the badge onto the shirt. I'm sure there's ironing involved, which I hate just as much as sewing so I'm screwed either way.


And can we talk about the uniform? I was told by my friend who lives in the Boondocks of New York, it would cost fifty dollars.

Uh-huh. Maybe where you are, honey but this is New York City - try sixty dollars. Sixty Dollars! For sixty bucks I expect the friggin' badges to be sewn on for me. Oh, whatever. Daddy can't wait to see Zuki in his Cub Scout shirt. "He's going to wear it to school on meeting days," he told me.

Really?

"Yes! It's a formal shirt. It's like a Goddamned Military shirt, he can wear it to school!"

Okay, okay...curb your enthusiasm, will ya. But I snickered when he said that because my friend was actually worried about the militant curve the Scout's image portrayed, especially when a neighbor asked her if she "enlisted" her son in the Cub Scouts.

Enlistment, Draft, Brainwashing...who gives. Zuki had a one track mind when I picked him up from school to sign him up. His buddy, however wasn't too keen on joining, so Zuki threw in his pitch to persuade him.

"It's really cool! You get to make Masks!!!"

His friend looked at me and I shrugged. "They teach you how to make fire from sticks, too." I added, targeting the pyromaniac in all males. Nothing. But he came along anyway and wouldn't you know it - he enlisted.