Patching a shirt

So, our cook had an unfortunate incident at MTA last year. As he was bending over the cook fire, the fire went all Rice Crispies on him with a snap, crackle and pop. Fire do that all the time, right?

Well, “… man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.” As he was bending down, some sparks went up, which, from the cooks perspective was down his shirt. But he didn’t know it at the time. He stood up and felt something warm. He looked down and saw nothing. Then he felt hot. And saw his waistcoat smolder. From the inside out. He yelped for help, and I grabbed the hem of my gown and shoved it down inside his shirt between him and the ember and patted it out.

We now keep a linen rag in the buckets of water we keep by the fire.

Anyhow, the shirt needed help. In the 18^th century one didn’t sew a square of fabric over the hole and call it a day. Precious little remains of original utilitarian garments. They were used, repaired, repurposed and then sold to the rag man. Near as we can tell, holes were patched from the back in fabric that matched as closely as possible to the original, and done in a neat and workmanlike manner.

Sewing a rolled hem. Ugh - I should have worn my glasses - this is horribly uneven.

 

Since I made the shirt to begin with, I kept the remnants of the lovely cambric linen, so I was good there. I matched the damaged front edge to the undamaged edge to see how much had been burned away. I took a scrap of cambric and made a new hand-rolled edge and positioned it in the gap and stitched it in place.

Completed rolled edge.

Patch pinned in place.

Then I pinned the edges of the shirt on top of the remnant. I trimmed off the singed edges, turned the raw edges under and carefully stitched them to the patch. Then I turned the shirt over and trimmed the excess patch away, leaving no more than a quarter inch. Then I turned the edge of the patch under, and stitched to the shirt.

Partially sewn - from the front.

Done. And now that I look at it closely, I'm not that impressed. So much for "neat and workmanlike". Next time, less of a rush and I'll wear my reading glasses. *sigh* Note the slight difference in color? The linen will continue to bleach as it's washed and exposed to sunlight.

Brief update

Wool gown sewn for MTA?

Check.

Weather forecast for 80 degrees?

Check.

Resulting in frantic sewing on dimity gown?

Gown bodice from the back.

Check.

Dump the responsibility for the cooking competition to include documentation on our cook?

Check.

Mend the hole in the cook's shirt from where a stray spark took up residence between said shirt and skin?

Check.

Tie for first place in the cooking contest?

One of our entries in the cooking competition - Salmagundi. There are greens, chicken, ham, anchovies, egg whites, egg yolks, anchovies, orange slices, fried chicken skin, rose petals, and butter in the shape of a pine cone.

Check. (Previous best has been third place. Twice.)

Frantic sewing this week for a coworker who “Fights With Foam”? to include a both linen and woolen fighting tunics.

Underarm gusset

The sleeves were lined with a linen blend and hemmed with this nifty stitch that keeps the wool from fraying but doesn't add bulk.

Triangular gore added to the center front and back. Quality materials make this so much easier.

Check.

Need to start a gown for Sweet Daughter’s best friend (birthday party next Saturday).

Check.

Oh, and at some point, after spending a morning in the wind selling Girl Scout cookies in February, I decided our table needed to be upholstered. Sweet Daughter picked the font for the lettering. I am so not like other moms.

More when I come up for air.

I'm not dead, I'm just sewing.

I knew that Sweet Daughter had outgrown her shifts for reenacting, and while shoveling out my sewing room, I somehow came across no fewer that four in various stages of completion, all of which fit in some manner. I got them all done. Score!

Horrible picture. Oh, well.

I thought SD could get one more season out of her gowns -- after all, they laced all the way shut last October, and you can leave a 2" gap if necessary. Somehow, I had a brief moment of lucidity and decided to try them on to confirm.

Apparently she's been in the midst of non-stop growth spurt since September. She couldn't even get her arms in the sleeves. I found one hand-me-down gown that fits, other than being a bit short, and being of the mindset that it's better than nothing, asked SD what she thought. She clearly had some sort of issue with it, but was sucking it up and said it was "fine". I finally got her to tell me what was wrong. She hated the shade of pink. So some red dye, and a little black dye (it looks like grape juice when I mixed it up), a crock-pot and about 45 minutes gave me the following ...

Before.

After. No more Pepto Bismal pink. It's actually a lovely shade of rose.

Since out first event of the season is in mid-March, and the weather can range from sleet to short-sleeve weather, I decided to start with a wool gown. I figured that if we prepared for the sleet, we'd get 80 degrees.

Bodice from the back. The sleeve is turned up with a remnant of a more expensive cotton print. The lining is done with another remnant. There is boning up the center edges, and eyelet holes for lacing the gown shut.

Growth tucks along the bottom. The hem is finished by binding the bottom with twill tape. This reduces bulk and is more wear-resistant than the wool, and can be replaced if worn through. As SD gets taller, I'll pull the stitching out of the pleats to lengthen the skirt.

Just two to go ... one in linen, and one in dimity.

Remember the war dead remains that went to the landfill?

Apparently, it has remains from 9/11 too!
"The practice at Dover of cremating partial remains and sending them to a landfill began shortly after Sept. 11, 2001, the report said, 'when several portions of remains from the Pentagon attack and the Shanksville, Pa., crash site could not be tested or identified.'"

The county Board of Supervisors does not, at this time, seem to be enthusiastic about erecting any sort of memorial or consecrating the site -- even through donations and at no cost to taxpayers.

The BoS may be reached here if you would like to offer an opinion.

Schimmel

I have an e-acquaintance from one of my 18th century lists who is looking for some information. Can anyone lend a hand?

Looking for help in tracking down the German word Schimmel.
I know schimmel as meaning "Grandpa's" old barn gun.
A barn gun was a very plain flintlock rifle - one which was sturdy enough to stay year in-year out in its designated place in the barn. It was NOT "a piece of junk" - it was a highly accurate and reliable vermin killer. It was not exactly a "frontier" gun because it was not kept in the house, but rather was always in the barn, handy for use on the spot.

We did find the definition below, but it does not seem to expand to cover a rifle.

Does any out there - perhaps Mohawk Valley Platts Deutsch or "Pennsylvania German -
recognize a schimmel as a "barn gun" of the era?

Schimmel : Old High German
- mold, mildew, to become moldy, a white horse, a grey horse

Thanks, all!

Honest Gun Owners Meme

My blogfather tagged me in the latest gun meme that started here.

"I will write down 5 things that indicate, to me, that a gun owner or shooter maybe is an honest one; I say 'maybe' because I have known some seemingly honest gun owners to tell some really tall tales. Then I will tag 5 other gun owners who are also bloggers and I hope each will play along, each listing, in their blogs, at least 3 things that are indicative a gun owner is an honest one, then sending the challenge of this meme on to 5 other gun owner who are also bloggers."

Here's what I've got:

You have more than one holster that fits each handgun you own as a result of well … lots of reasons. You thought IWB would work. It came with the pistol. It was too inexpensive to pass up.  It seemed like a good idea at the time. Someone told you you should buy it.

Someone asks if you’d like to shoot their gun, and you say “Sure! Can you show me how?” Okay. Maybe that one’s just for me, but I’d rather ask for instruction than beg for forgiveness. Because if there is one thing I know, it’s how much I don’t know.

You own a weapon strictly for its historical/sentimental value, even if it’s a piece of crap.

Somebody posts about something stupid they’ve done with a firearm to serve as a warning or example of what not to do, and after heaving a sigh of relief that nobody died and realizing that there but for the grace of God go I, you notice that the comments are full of respectful commentary, including at least one “Me, too.”

And the corollary to the above: You’re not a d!ck. I’ve seen some rather, um, intense discussions on topics that completely elude me. Or subjects that, to me, don’t really seem to matter in the long run. Or occasionally even about something where I know enough to actually have an opinion. But for the most part, you can passionately disagree without being rude.

So, now I have to tag 5 more, and so I'm going to pick some locals who will undoubtedly be much more insightful than I.

Old NFO
MSgt B
JB Miller
CTone
Andy

Northern VA Blogshoot/Meet Thing

Alternate title A: Hide and Seek

Alternate title B: Marco Polo

Alternate title C: Chinese Fire Drill

Alternate title D: CTone and Andy are my heroes.

The Miller (alternate title: “My buddy the gun enthusiast”) organized a northern VA get-together. Living 80 or so miles away, I knew there was no way in this lifetime (or any other) that I was going to make it to the range by 7:30. I didn’t even bother to bring my range bag, and considering that those who showed up at 7:40 had a 20 minute wait, that was a wise decision. So, Sweet Daughter and I hit the road about 9:00 and headed north by northwest. I had the address programmed into my Garmin, and having been hosed by that stubborn little device before, had also printed out directions from MapQuest. Things were looking good.

We were within 2 mile of NRA headquarters (with SD reading off the directions for me) and it was looking promising. That’s when I made my first mistake. Garmin told me to do something different, and I believed the stupid computer instead of the printout and map I’d confirmed with my own eyes. The next thing I knew, we were on a major highway, with HQ flashing past at 60 mph on our right, Garmin telling me we’d reached our destination, and me protesting “But we can’t get there from here!!”

So, I got off the highway and had the brilliant idea to tell the stupid computer to take us to our lunch destination (that I had carefully programmed in after confirming the map on The Miller’s post to the map from the corporate web site to make sure I was going to the right place). I figured I could find HQ from there. That worked after a fashion and we arrived at NRA HQ. We headed down to the range to see if we recognized anybody. Nope.

Up to the museum. Ditto.

Into the gift shop and back out. Three for three.

Things were looking bleak, but I had an ace in the hole! I had CTone’s phone number from a previous range trip! I called, he answered, and we figured I must have walked into the gift shop about 17 seconds after they had all left. He was on his way home, but the rest of the gang was headed to lunch. Great! I could catch up with them there. SD and I hopped in the car and headed down the road. Less than a mile to our destination of Ruby Tuesdays, and the Garmin and the printed directions matched. What could go wrong?

Except that when we arrived at our destination, there was no Ruby Tuesday. We circled the parking lot. We drove behind buildings. I asked someone on the sidewalk if they knew where it was, and they told me it was no longer Ruby Tuesday, but was called something else, now. I called CTone back and left a message describing our plight and asking if he had anyone’s phone number so I could figure out at what point I’d jumped into this parallel universe. SD and I found a McDonalds, and we bought drinks and I pulled out my laptop thinking that I might be able to figure something out when CTone called me back and gave me Andy’s number. I called Andy and left a message explaining that there was no Ruby Tuesday. He called back and explained that they’d decided to go somewhere else anyway, and that they were done eating, but that they’d be happy to meet us somewhere for dessert and coffee while we had lunch. Since I had no idea where anything was, and was NOT about to put my fate into the hands of the Garmin again, we decided to meet back at NRA HQ. I could find that!

At this point, SD pretty much said she needed something to eat before she died on the spot. We grabbed some chicken nuggets and headed out the door. I figured if I told her to hang on as we’d been eating in a few minutes, we’d get misdirected and end up in West Virginia or something. So, we made it back to HQ. I saw Andy and The Miller (I’d met them before) and got to meet MSgtB. Who works in the same small town that I do. (WHAT are the odds?) A new eating establishment was selected and I stated in no uncertain terms that I was FOLLOWING somebody.

And we arrived. And had lunch, and coffee and pie. And I got to meet a handful of new people who I want to thank very, very much for taking another hour or so out of their day so come hang out. It was a pleasure to see The Miller and Andy again, and to meet new folks. And SD learned some valuable lessons.

1.       Have a plan. (Garmin)

2.       Have a back-up plan. (Printed directions)

3.       Have plan C. (Fine. We’ll just meet for lunch.)

4.       Explain that it’s okay to be frustrated, or upset as long as you react appropriately. Yelling doesn’t help. Cursing an inanimate object doesn’t help. Put it in perspective. (It’s not like we’re going to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere, or starve to death.)

5.       Try to think of another solution. (Hey! I have CTone’s number!)

6.       Sometimes you just have to make it up as you go along, so be flexible.

7.       And luckily it didn’t happen today, but sometimes, no matter how well you plan and prepare, you’re just going to get hosed. So you deal with it and move on.

8.       Which just reinforces that you should carry your gun. Because there are days when the universe hates you, and it just might make the difference as to whether you’re the windshield or the bug.