One thing in ample supply in our house was fabric. There was always the dress that made it through several hand-downs before it ever made it to our house and managed to take a minimum of two ever-morphing girls through a growth spurt or identity crisis before being pronounced officially beyond hope. The shirt, the apron, blouse, or never qualifying garb all made their way to "rags" box, to live our their final days as a grease rag or doll clothing item, until the conditions were beyond any possible use.

After seeing a hem I had stitched in my dress, a dear woman from our church took the time to show me a stitch that she thought I might like a little better in my hemlines, called the invisible stitch.

It was from the "rags" that I discovered the perfect pieces from which to create a masterpiece for my father's 38th birthday, which makes me 8 years old when I spent the entire summer measuring, cutting, and stitching by hand with the one and only stitch I knew.

Having worked on his surprise for an entire summer, I was heartbroken when he put me asked me if we could hold off on the cake and gift giving until the following day due to his 'not feeling well'. Not feeling good, was already a household term which was so familiar and I felt, exhausted itself of excuses for missed events, delays, and disappointments. After the typical, even though justifiable sulk, I managed to get through the day resolving the patientce to wait until tomorrow.

We watched our father struggle that day, seemingly with the smallest detail. We knew to remain especially quiet and let him get his rest on these all too occuring sick days. We play quietly, the older ones doling an occasional 'shhhh' to the younger ones when they began to lose patience and speak above a whisper.

We waited and waited that night. Daddy slept. We watched him sleep way beyond the usual for a sick day. We waited silently for any sign of a stir, as he lay on the full bed he lived in, until the last of us had succumb to our own powerlessness to the inevitable slumber.

When I awoke, which was usually caused by the cold clouding the room where the wood burning fire had burned to black cinders, I realized it was the next morning, and my father hadn't moved. I fearfully approached his bed, calling out to my brother before I slowly lowered my hand down onto daddy's body to wake him, or face what I had been warned about for as long as I could remember.
He didn't move. Our moments before silent home room quickly became a scampering festival of voices and cries as we dutifully aquisitioned the ambulance that took our father away. Later we learned that he had suffered a heart attack, right in front of all five of us children, the oldest a whole whopping nine years old, while we sat in silence, anxious under our breaths to cut the homemade birthday cake.

When daddy returned from the hospital, over 2 weeks later, he was welcomed by five immeasurably grateful tear-filled faces and continuous hugs from the non stop chain of tiny arms. In his ever-loving fatherly way announced he had an occasion to make up for and went to special effort to make sure that each of our home made gifts were adequately shown his appreciation by insisting on taking a picture of each of us with the gift we had made.

This was the pillowcase I made.