Finding Evelyn on the Quest for Quarter-inch Elastic
Life lessons from the obituaries
“She did ‘knittin’ for Britain’ during the war and didn’t put the needles down until she fell a few short weeks ago. And still she asked for wool. Red wool. She made two quilts completely by hand, one each for her grandchildren. She was a brilliant seamstress as well. I remember dad carrying me through the kitchen to the potty with his hand over my eyes because mum was sewing Barbie clothes for me for Christmas.”
— Evelyn Mitchell, 1933-2019
Evelyn was just 12 years old when the Second World War ended in 1945, so she was a child when she knit socks for soldiers. Did she tuck a hand-scrawled note into the socks for the cold and lonely soldier on the front lines to let them know they were valued? As a mother did she sketch out designs for the Barbie clothes over and over before thoughtfully sifting through her fabric scraps? Did she hide the quilt-in-progress when her grandchildren came to visit so that its unveiling, a mosaic of colour held together by thousands of stitches, was a wondrous surprise? You can’t read this obituary and not fall in love with Evelyn Mitchell.
I, too, have been falling in love with the “Evelyns” of our community — all 279 of them. They are my silver lining of COVID-19. The Sew the Curve Kamloops ‘seamsters’ have banded together to sew 10,000 masks to help protect our community of 90,280. The masks can be counted, but the threads that now connect us cannot.
I don’t sew (or knit). But over the past six weeks I have had a crash course in seam allowances, thread tension and the trials and tribulations of bias tape. My inability to sew kick-started a City-wide mask-making campaign. A throng of sewists were ready on the start line when my failed attempt at a mask, and a desperate callout for help on Facebook, triggered the starter pistol. Six weeks later we are 1,445 Facebook members strong and, although I wouldn’t recognize most of these people if they were standing in front of me, we share a camaraderie comparable to siblings that share bunkbeds. A posted Facebook photo of masks fanned into a rainbow is met with hearty cheers and dozens of colourful emojis, small disagreements erupt over the merits of bias tape vs. elastic, consoling words wrap around he or she who laments their slow pace or misshapen work, and there is ongoing commiseration over broken needles, bleeding fingers and pooched sewing machines.
We are the ‘seamsters’ and we are proud of our diversity. We are 11 years old and we are 86. We live smack dab in the centre of town and along sage-lined corduroy roads. We have no kids, kids, grandkids and dogs and cats galore. We are all genders. Our collective colourful mountain of masks tells our stories — from indigenous fabrics to flowery quilt remnants to sari-esque sparkle.
There are now more than 60,000 posts and comments on the Sew the Curve Kamloops Facebook page created just six weeks ago. When I recently posed the earnest question “Why? Why are you doing this?”, one hundred responses followed. That is when the analogy to knitting socks for WWII soldiers emerged. Many of the seamsters shared this sentiment.
Author and researcher Elinor Florence writes, “Knitting was more than a hobby in wartime — it was an act of patriotism. Literally millions of women, children and even men used their knitting needles as weapons of war.” Wartime Canada writes, “One only has to read their letters and diaries to see how important socks were to soldiers, and it was just as important to Canadians to be able to supply them.”
Our version of socks is fabric masks. And our version of coveted red wool is elastic. Quarter-inch elastic has been the most coveted commodity of mask-sewists across North America. The price of elastic has grown in step with the number of COVID cases, and receiving it within a month of ordering is akin to winning the lottery. When that small box holding a spool of elastic lands on the doorstep of a seamster a flurry of Facebook activity follows; “Elastic arrived! Who wants some?!” For 48 hours a roll of elastic and a pair of scissors lived on a table at the end of my driveway. Seamsters could take from the communal roll without leaving their cars. When that was gone resourceful seamsters ripped elastic from the maternity clothes stored at the way-back of closets. When one source of elastic was exhausted another source was identified. Shoelaces. Bra straps. Hair bands. Every plausible alternative to quarter-inch elastic has been embraced as a shared victory, and the collective ingenuity has been intoxicating.
Now just six weeks later our goal has been met. And surpassed. As of today 11,382 masks (and 1,038 scrub caps, 1,173 scrub bags, 562 headbands and 1,000+ ear-savers) have been distributed in our community to front-line essential workers and to community service groups that support seniors and/or vulnerable individuals. And yet the seamsters keep sewing.
In the words of fellow Sew the Curve Kamloops member Christine Gallant, “Each of us has participated in creating a thread of magic that will hold this story of community generosity in place through generations.”
I was touched when one of Evelyn’s daughters emailed her mother’s obituary to me on the heels of an interview I did in January on CBC’s Maritime Noon program about my weekly ritual of reading the obituaries that started in my 20s. I was immediately moved by the beauty of Evelyn Mitchell and felt a sense of loss for this person I would never meet. Little did I know that in three short months I would have the privilege of forging a strong connection with many Evelyns.
You, too, can find your Evelyns. How? Identify a community need so big and vast it scares the shit out of you. Take stock of the talents required to meet the need. Admit to yourself you don’t have what it takes. Admit publicly you don’t have what it takes. Not just to the people you know and the people you think you know, but to everyone you don’t know. Now you can stop looking for your Evelyns. They will find you.
Evelyn Mitchell’s obituary closes with the words “She would be the last to believe she left a legacy. Yet the number of lives changed and pain relieved is legion.”
Seamsters, if you are reading this, please know that you, too, will leave a legacy. You already have. And you won’t be alone when, into your twilight years and beyond, you are still asking for elastic. Quarter-inch elastic.
Check out my blog at www.obittersweet.com for more life lessons from the obituaries and for tips on harnessing words to honour a life well-lived.
Find more of Nat Anfield’s photos at Anfield Photography
