Channeling My Mother's Muse

Growing up in my family the fall meant one thing: boutique season.

My aunt started probably the largest, most successful, and (I am not being partial here) the classiest craft boutique to take Utah by storm in the 1980's. Cherry Hill Barn Boutique.

"Cherry Hill" was held in an old, white barn off Geneva Road in Provo, Utah. It was a pastoral location, surrounded by fields of former farmland, the streets lined with yellow and orange leaves during the middle of October.

It was held the weekend of the annual deer hunt in Utah; a convenient time for women to shop for crafts while their husbands were off, I suppose.

To me, as a child, Cherry Hill meant lounging around the barn, cold mornings setting up booths, swinging under a large, auburn maple, and lots of fresh bread, popcorn balls, and pink frosted cookies. Somehow the sites and smells of Cherry Hill have fused with my love of all things fall. It was a magical place in my youth.

It also meant weeks of sewing and preparation as my mom prepared her wares for sale. There were fabric chickens in little baskets (trust me in the 80's they were all the craze),witches with faces made out of nylon stockings riding brooms, various painted goods, and of course, appliqued sweatshirts.

Ultimately, the sweatshirts were my mom's niche. She sold hundreds each year. Many prepared in advance, but also personal orders taken at the boutique and then sewn until the wee hours of the morning well into December.

As I grew older, I became her assistant, and even a co-designer of the sweatshirts. Drawing patterns, shopping for fabrics, cutting out appliques while watching movies, ironing them on. Our home was a small factory, complete with child labor.

But, at some point, the charms were lost. I swore I would never sew myself. Definitely, never mass produce any item for pay in my life. Whenever I make something and Jeffrey remarks that I could make good money making more and selling them, I shoot him "the look." The "Not-on-your-life-how-could-you-even-propose-such-a-hell-for-me" look.

But, somehow, once a year, the crazy, creative juices take over. I say it won't happen, but Halloween dawns, my kids start dreaming about all the fanciful ways they can dress up, and I find myself hunkered down in the basement, amidst an assortment of scraps of fabric, thread clippings, tons of toys, and general mayhem.

It's October, and all my promises to myself to the contrary, I just can't help but start sewing. And, as I stressfully wonder if I am going to finish in time, as I try to put in a zipper while my one year-old crawls between my feet eating elastic and pushing the presser foot of my sewing machine, as I think again about the dinner I haven't started and the mess filling the house, as I pop in another movie for my daughter who has not participated in an alternative activity for days, I realize how close to the mother of my falls I have become.

So, I haven't written on my blog; I have not written at all. I have made no progress on plans for Christmas and too little on the three birthdays that are coming up in the next two weeks. I have exercised only sporadically, but I have created four awesome Halloween costumes this October.

In terms of the details, you will just have to wait. Halloween is coming soon, and I will certainly post pictures of my darling family and my annual handiwork then.

For now, I am ready to pack up my sewing machine and put it away to remain untouched for the next eleven months, having thoroughly worked my mother's muse out of my system for another year.