Remnants by K. Eastley

Today I folded the pieces of fabric that I had bought on Wednesday at my favourite op shop. I had selected them based on the feel, design and colours; packing them tightly into the bottom of my basket to make them look lesser than what they were. As soon as I got home I threw them into the washing machine and once the cycle had finished I placed them on the clothes rack in front of the heater. By 9pm last night they were dry.

The folding of loved fabrics falls into three categories; 

1. large pieces that can be easily folded into thick uniform squares

2. medium size pieces that can be folded into small square piles and

3. Misshapen pieces that cannot be folded uniformly, but are rolled and pressed into a shoebox. I hear you ask, why collect these? Because one day I could use them to make a quilt, or a collar for a shirt, or edging on a skirt. One day.

Once folded I carefully stack them into boxes, sometimes labelling them shirts and skirts or trims and hankies. Once filled, these boxes are stored in the spare room, joining the rest of the potential projects that will happen one day. 

Hardly a pause before the hunt continues. Scrolling through marketplace on social media and spotting new or untapped op shops. Lunch with girlfriends provides access to garage sales, decluttering and the holy grail of all fabric foraging, the deceased mother’s collection of materials. 

Arriving early in the morning, impatiently sipping the tea and making small talk, which includes mention of sewing activities, until finally the question, ‘Oh would you be interested in some of mum’s materials? She always loved her fabrics and hoped she would get around to making some clothes for me one day.’

Feigning hesitation we begin the hallway dance, as I try not to be too enthusiastic about the booty that is about to be bestowed upon me. 

‘I’d be happy to help you out and pass these on to someone who might use them.’ 

I have no intention of passing anything on, and am already planning where they will be stored. Bottom left drawer of the bureau, next to the flannels from last year. Might need to mothball if they smell. Ruthless, focused, ravenous and then home.

I scan each piece of material for how I will use it, as she transfers the mountain of fabric to the suitcases that I happen to have in the back of my car. 

‘Just dropped some old clothes off to the op shop’. Think I got away with that.

Within moments after the suitcase is bulging and I have thanked my donor, I am out the door

That afternoon, washed and dried, I admire the newest additions to my collection, thinking about the lovely dress I will one day make with the patterned cottons, and how one day I will need to replace the curtains in the bedroom. There’s a nice piece of heavy cotton that would be perfect. Folding them each into category and boxes that are pushed beside the others in the spare room. 

One day is going to be the best day of my life. It’s the day when I will sew an entire wardrobe of beautifully designed clothing from the materials in the spare room and maybe even start my own fashion design business that’s incredibly successful.  It’s the same day when I am madly in love, living by the beach and swimming every morning. I’ll have learnt to speak Spanish and cook fish. It’s the one day full of optimism and realised fantasy; it’s the man lying next to me tracing his strong hands along my scars and kissing me like I am his first love. 

As I leave the musty room of remnants, ideas, fabrics and desires and pass by the neglected keyboard lying dormant in the office, I wonder what I will find tomorrow and dream about a blissful day when it will all come together.  

This piece was written in 2020, inspired somewhat by my own love of fabric and observations of other fanatics I witnessed pawing through the piles at op shops. There is something wonderful about the texture, scent, colours and patterns from earlier eras. Here's a recent apron I made from salvaged fabric.