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.

Death by petticoat - or how to do an 18th century patch job.

One of the prevalent reenactor myths is that the second leading cause of death for women during the 18th century was by what we call “death by petticoat*”, or women dying from their clothing catching on fire and burning them to a crisp. (With the leading cause of death believed to be complications of childbirth.) Those myths are busted here, but I can tell you from personal experience that your skirts catching fire is not an automatic death sentence.

I was assisting the costumer at a film shoot, dressed in my linen working gown with the back polonaised up off the floor. It was a bloody cold, windy day in December, and the cast and crew were inside one of the interior sets trying to stay warm while a couple of exterior kerosene heaters were going full blast. These heaters had the heating element/flame set up about three feet above the floor. I was standing about a foot in front of one, feverishly sewing one of the “talent” into her gown as the director was standing in the open door bleating “We must go NOW! We’re losing the LIGHT!” I felt what seemed like someone brushing against the back of me and thought nothing of it until the talent was out the door and a nice young man said to me “Ma’am – your butt was on fire. But I put it out for you!” Who said chivalry was dead? (And proof that at least once in my life I had a hot ... backside.)

Upon further examination, I found that my gown had some rather interesting holes burned in it. Had I been dressed in polyester, or some sort of poly blend, I would have been shrink-wrapped like a package of bacon. Wool would have shown less damage, as wool is self-extinguishing and won’t hold a flame. This is good to know if you are shooting anything that requires a priming pan filled with black powder. Wool is a good choice for your upper body garment.

Patching the gown was one of my projects this past weekend. In the 18th century, labor was cheap and fabric was dear, so patching was done a little differently – it was patched from the back.

First step is to find a piece of fabric that matches as closely as possible to the original. Or, at least as closely as practical for the character you are portraying. I had scraps from the original gown, and had my gown been old and faded I would have used these to show a subtle change of color. Since I was wearing for the gown for the first time when it caught fire, I found another shade of brown to use. I wanted them gown to be neatly patched, but still noticeable enough to use as a talking point.

Next, with the right side of the fabric facing up, place the patch behind the hole and pin in place making sure the garment fabric isn’t distorted. Try to match the straight-of-grain. Turn under a narrow hem (like about an eighth of an inch or less) and sew with tiny overcast stitches.

 

Partially done on the back.

Turn the garment over and trim the patch to about a quarter of an inch away from your stitching. Turn that raw edge under, and repeat with the tiny overcast stitches. Repeat for each hole.

Done in back.

Finished in front.

Five of the ten holes patched.

*Petticoat – what we today would call a skirt – a garment (usually at least two at a time) worn under your
gown (what we would call a “dress” today). Your skirts were the bottom portion of your petticoat or gown.

So THAT's what you call it.

In an effort to not be a total sloth, I try to have some sort of project going on while watching TV. The Great Coat project took place in front of the boob tube and kept me warmer than a Snugli while I was at it. I’m currently trying to knock some knitting projects out of the queue.


Now keep in mind I don’t consider myself a “knitter”, but rather a reenactor who knits. My personal stereotype of a knitter involves projects made out of colorful esoteric fibers, “Celtic Women” playing on the MP3, and cats raptly watching the needles as they dance together, tip-to-tip. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not my thing.  95% of anything I’ve ever knit has been an 18th century design, in colors found in nature, from 100% wool. The cool thing about knitting these small projects (mittens, caps and the like) is that I found I can sit here with the laptop, cruising my favorite blogs, all the while knitting in the round. Shorter Half calls it “interknitting”.

Reworking a Great Coat, Part 2.

So, if you care, here's Part 1. I'm reworking an "off-the-rack" 18th century great coat to look more appropriate. So far I've changed the buttons, opened up the pockets and cuffs, trimmed off the seam allowance and top-stitched so there were visable raw edges. The next step was to add a "cape" to update the coat to a more 1780’s silhouette. My copy of Beth Gilgun’s book, Tidings from the 18th Century* had a GC pattern in it, so I scaled up the collar pattern to fit this coat and pinned on one cut from a scrap piece of fabric.

It didn’t have enough flare, so I cut slits, measured the gaps, and transferred this to my next practice piece.

The next one looked pretty good. I transferred the alterations to the pattern piece,

and I cut out two new cape pieces, top-stitched around the edges, sandwiched the collar in between, and sewed them to the neck edge.

I added two buttons (the coat came with two spare buttons, yay!), and worked two buttonholes. Now I just have to redo the other 38 buttonholes by hand. But not today.

More good information on great coats/watch coats can be found here.

*This book has many valuable ideas, but parts of it are woefully outdated. Please don't use this resource without additional research.

Reworking a Great Coat, Part 1.

I started with an 18th century-style Great Coat purchased from Flying Canoe Traders. This coat was picked up at an event that was a lot colder, wetter and windier than forecast. I had tried making Shorter Half a GC, but the “one size fits most” pattern I had on hand didn’t fit him , and as a result I had a carcass of a half-finished coat sitting in my sewing room, mocking me, and doing him absolutely no good. So now we had a new coat instead of a case of hypothermia, and I started thinking about ways to make it better.


The very first thing that struck me about this coat was the cuffs and pocket flaps. The pieces had been cut out, stitched around the cut edges, turned right-side out, and attached per usual. They looked – puffy. 18th century wool of this weight held a cut edge and so the raw edges didn’t need to be folded in. The wool on this coat held a cut edge, too, so I ripped out the top-stitching and seam on a pocket flap. I opened up and flattened the seam, marked where the folded edge had been, hand-stitched next to it, and trimmed off the old seam allowance. What a difference! Then I did the cuffs, too.

 Concurrent with this, I worked on the buttons. The buttons that came on this coat were “antiqued”. The size and shape (profile) were okay, but the color -- not so much. Not a problem. Covered buttons are underrepresented in the hobby, anyway, AND I found a wool remnant in my heap o’ scraps that was a good match. I covered all thirty-eight buttons.

Pocket Flap and buttons before and after.

Cuffs, before and after.

Reducing the “puffiness” of the coat made a huge difference, so I top-stitched around the collar and down the front edges making for a crisper, flatter edge.

Top-stitched edges on the left, puffy edges, machine stitching on the right.

Then I stared at that collar. I’d never seen a banded one like that on a great coat, not that that meant anything. From the buttons that went all the way down the front to the large cuffs, I could tell that this coat was a mid-century design, so maybe the banded collar was mid-century, too. Now, at this period in time, a collar that stood up (like the one currently on the coat) was called a collar. If it folded over at all, it was called a cape. I thought adding a cape would change the lines of this coat enough that it wouldn’t look like Every. Single. Flying Canoe great coat out there. It would also update the coat to a more 1780’s silhouette.

Part 2 later if anyone is still reading ...

Obligatory disclaimer: No, Flying Canoe Traders doesn't know who I am and didn't give me the coat. The coat is entirely fine for may impressions, I just wanted to see if I could make it better.

Projects

I’ve got a big box of projects sitting next to my chair. The deal is that if I’m going to be sitting in front of the TV, I have to be doing something useful. Last year, in the space of about 9 months, I accomplished a lot. Since July … not so much. Those 9 months yielded 8 pairs of 18th century knit mittens, a wool bedgown, a black silk bonnet, a cambric shirt, two gowns for Sweet Daughter, a matalesse petticoat, aprons, assorted bags and hemmed linens, refitting the bodice on two of my gowns, a new chintz round gown, a linen waistcoat drafting patterns, assembling garments for others to finish, and a pair of stays (sans binding), among other things. Since then, I’ve been trying to get motivated. Somebody kidnapped my sewing muse and I want her back. With my luck, Ms. Muse has Stockholm Syndrome and I’ll never see her again.