Frayed Threads, Frayed Nerves

Most of the pieces of my new fancy 1740's coat are now together, and for the love of mercy, I hope they stay that way.

The continuing bane of my sewing existence is mostly the sleeves, whether it's getting them together with the cuffs or setting them into the armholes. I didn't get the edges even enough, so I've had to go back and re-stitch some edges that escaped the needle. It's a nip and tuck job all the way around. On the outside, it doesn't look half bad, although a stitch purist will give me the hairy eyeball over a lump or two. I can fix some of this with an iron.

I probably should trim some seam allowance, too. But I won't, and here's why:

That beautiful blue satin jacquard is a fraying giant. Every time I finish a stitch line, I see more golden threads running away. Yes, I know about Fray-Check. No, I don't think it will help. I just have to be careful.

Cuff 'Em

My new coat's sleeves are now sewn up, along with the lining. Now how the heck do I attach the cuffs and keep everything neat? The instructions aren't very clear.

Hmmm... is it this way?

I seem to remember I had to do something weird with the lining the last time I made this coat. But I can't recall what I did, and I didn't write it down.

I need to find a way to get the finished cuff looking something like this...

And I need to do it without continuing to stick my left hand with pins.

Let's see. What if I put the lining over the entire sleeve with the cuff and stitch the end so that I can turn the lining into the cuff?

It works!  Huzzah!

"Use ONLY On Fabric!"

That's what I suspect should be engraved on more pairs of scissors, but suprisingly, I haven't seen it given how many tailors and seamstresses have expressed more than mild dismay at a tool intended exclusively for fabric ending up cutting other things.

I didn't know this before I started my sewing journey, but cutting paper and fabric with the same pair of scissors is a definite no-no if you want to keep them sharp. The simple explanation: fibers in the paper dull the scissors. Here's a longer discussion.

I have a good pair of Clauss metal scissors, but I've used it to cut paper more than fabric. I haven't tried it with fabric, and I don't want to because I have a rolling cutter that speeds up the job. That cutter, by the way, has only been used on fabric -- not pizza or anything else. It's sharp enough to cut skin, as I have unfortunately learned.

So guys, if you live with a seamstress, consider yourself warned. Or you may consider yourself dead.

Project #5: The Red 1740's Coat

STARTED: August 2015

COMPLETED: November 2015 (mostly, except for a few buttons)

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY: Medium to advanced.

THE IDEA: I love the look of mid-1700's coats. They're full and skirty and can be very foppy. If you got it, flaunt it. Next to the puffy breeches, this would be my biggest and most complex project yet. I also wanted a more comfortable red coat because the fancy privateer one I have crimps my shoulders.

THE CHALLENGES: I used a J.P. Ryan pattern with red muslin and white muslin lining bought on the cheap from SAS. Not only would this limit the damages if I blew the project, I would also have a thinner coat designed for the ravages of Arizona heat.

Cutting this pattern required considerably more space than my dining room table would afford. I ended up spreading the fabric and the pattern on the floor to trace before cutting.

The instructions strongly recommend pinning together a mock-up from the lining pieces to test the fit, which I did. No problems whatsoever.

Sewing the pockets into the coat front required carefully lining up several pieces on the dot and cutting carefully. The pockets are both strong and functional.

I made the mistake -- again -- of making two left sleeves. With the help of my sewing mentor, not only were we able to correct this gracefully, we were also able to attach the cuffs without having to do a hand stitch. I also lowered the seam allowance from 5/8" to about 1/4" to give my arms some extra room, especially when they're encased in a puffy shirt.

I got hints from another 1740's coat I purchased earlier this year. Sometimes it's easier for me to look at a finished garment and reverse-engineer it in my head rather than stew over instructions for half an hour and end up grabbing the seam ripper. This helped me figure out how the back pleats on the skirted part should look.

Buttonholes on the front proved too long for my automatic buttonhole attachment. I had to fake the stitch around the holes by manually flicking the mechanism on my machine when I got to the desired length. The end result is not exactly beautiful in a couple of places, but at least the seam is holding (for now). Note to self: make shorter buttonholes.

The buttons came from another visit to SAS. Unfortunately, they were too big to fit the holes for the pockets. I'm now searching for smaller pocket buttons which will compliment the large front ones.

THE RESULT: Call it "Big Red." It's a beautiful red coat, although it's not a Redcoat's red coat. Not only is it fun to wear, it's fun to dance in. The skirtiness covers up a lot of my kilt, but breeches should fare better. The swish of the skirt should draw a lady's eye to my shapely stockinged calves, which is where I want them looking!

Ugly Stitches

The second shot at the puffy shirt reveals what many of you sewing purists would consider high heresy. Look... if you dare.

Now let me elaborate. First, I'm still learning. Second, a lot of this ugliness is hidden on the inside. Still, I need to figure out a way to hide gathering better. I pulled it off on the puffy breeches, but in that case, I had some help from one of my sewing mentors.

I've tried to tuck the gathering into the cuff on the inside, but I haven't figured out a way to pin it up neatly, without all the gathering falling apart or something turning crooked. It looks easy when I see it done right and think about reverse-engineering the result, but in practice it's a cruel task. I've become good friends with the seam ripper.

Project #4: Puffy Shirt (Take 2)

STARTED: November 2015

COMPLETED: About a week later between work and life in November 2015

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY: Medium

THE IDEA: I wanted to get closer to the original vision I had for the first puffy shirt. I also wanted to cut out a lot of the frustrations I had, keeping things simple and neat. I also wanted puffier sleeves and something in blue.

THE CHALLENGES: Once again, I used the Butterick B4486 pattern, but I acquired the dark blue muslin fabric from SAS for about $10.

This time I cut out a lot of the frustrations. Instead of going for a separate collar piece, I just made a narrow hem. Ditto for the neck.

Puffier sleeves come with new gathering issues on both ends. The chief problem is keeping things neat on the wrist end, and my basting thread wants to break. I get through it, but I wish I would figure out a better way to hide the gathered ends. I think it should be tucked up into the cuff, but the cuff doesn't want to play. Pins don't want to hold. This end looks uneven. That end looks messy. Nitpick, tuck, adjust, fume, do it again.

Up at the shoulder end, the job is moderately easier, but again, that basting thread wants to break on me. At least this time, I've figured out how to avoid making two left sleeves. But I have go back and smooth out gathers that are gathered in the wrong place -- on the front of the shirt instead of the sleeve.

Now, the buttonholes. I'm doubting this machine's buttonholing capabilities as I try to put in a small hole. The feed dogs can't get a grip on the fabric, even if I smooth it out. I re-do the buttonholes multiple times on each cuff until I get something that looks decent and stable. It's not beautiful, but it's going to have to do. Only a stitch fascist would care.

A narrow hem around the long edges, one more button and buttonhole in the neck, and at last we're done.

THE RESULT: It's puffy, it's festive, it's blue, and the sleeves are long enough. And it looks much better when I'm wearing it. It works with either my blue kilt ensemble or the puffy breeches to make an instant peasant. I broke a lot of rules and skipped a lot of pattern steps, but in the end, I did it my way.

The Virtual Sewing Room

Consider yourself fortunate if you have an entire room you can dedicate to sewing. My dream room would include a specialized sewing table, heavy-duty machine, a corkboarded wall to pin ideas and photos, a filing box for patterns, a specially-designed box for thread and bobbins, several bins for fabric and leftovers, a long foldable table to cut patterns, and a tall mirror.

I've got the heavy-duty machine. The rest is not feasible in a two-bedroom apartment where I've already donated the spare room to my tech toys -- especially the corkboard wall. I had one as a child, but as an adult, they've gone the way of dark wood-paneled interiors.

My virtual sewing room consists of the dining room table, with fabric laid out on the living room carpet for some tracing jobs if I can't fit the entire pattern piece and the fabric onto the table. Some projects required a ridiculous amount of fabric, ridiculous only because said fabric hadn't been pleated or wrapped around my body yet, where the sheer yardage made sense. I use a rotary cutter on fabrics with a mat underneath. My heavy-duty Singer sits on the edge of the table, ready for action.

I don't have a dedicated sewing machine table. I tried using a TV tray, hoping it would be sturdy enough. One test with the Singer produced way too much wobble. I also tried my Table-Mate -- yes, the same one you've seen on TV. It also failed the stress test. I thought about buying another small folding table, but then we get into storage issues. That table needs to fold up neatly into my storage closet, which is already cramped for space.

One day, I will find a better solution. For now, I have this, and I don't care about the layout of the room as long as the layout of the project turns out the way I want.

Paper Tiger

It sounded feasable. It looked affordable. And for a gotta-have-it-by-this-day person, the offer proved irresistible: save a few bucks by purchasing a downloadable pattern, print it on my laser printer, and tape it up.

Ha ha ha. Sucker.

What they don't tell you in the fine print, and what you better be sure of before you go to print, is that your printer better be capable of printing from edge to edge. You cannot shrink each page to fit on to the paper. Everything needs to scale out to the width of the printed sheet.

I like my Brother laser printer. It cost less than $100 when I bought it about a decade ago, and it still runs beautifully. It's not a toner hog, but I'm not a printing hog. In a few mouse clicks, I sent over its biggest challenge.

One part of that challenge was the one I couldn't see. The notches on each each of each page, the ones that told me where to connect the page to its sibling pages, failed to resolve. They fell just outside the Brother's printable area, and nothing in the settings could change that. Thus, I had a 60-page jigsaw puzzle on my hands.

I spent an entire Saturday, one I had hoped to use cutting fabric, arranging the parts according to a one-page master sheet -- the equivalent of a box cover. I needed tape, and a lot of it. I needed patience. I needed scissors to trim away the parts of this puzzle which would amount to nothing. I needed a sense of deduction. I really needed a bigger table.

After some three hours of effort, the messy but completed pattern for a pair of 1600's breeches lay on my table, ready to be cut out -- the paper pattern that is, not the fabric for the breeches themselves.

I saved about $10. But I spent a lot more time than I wanted. Had this been a mob cap, the paper pattern would've been a cinch. This, however, was an intricate design with separate pieces for the inner and outer parts. At least the pattern is printed on quality paper stock instead of that flimsy onionskin tissue paper you find with so many papers. It's not pretty to look at, but it will hold up if I want to make more.

Pinned Down

It's tempting: I'm eager to get a project done, I feel like I'm in control of the fabric passing underneath the presser foot, and so who needs pins? That's where I have to stop and recall the agony of misaligned pieces and fabric catches, the overture to the drama of the seam ripper.

My sewing mentors have shown your humble servant how to pin effectively without overdoing it, and especially without destroying the sewing machine's needle -- and if you haven't broken a few of those as a soldier of the cloth, I'm told, you haven't earned your stripes yet. Madame Sherri admits she's particular about pinning; she'll put ten pins into a curve where three or four will do. I prefer to pin sparingly and intentionally in the manner of a championship boxer who throws fewer punches but lands more of them.

I probably do a lot of it wrong, pinning vertically when I should be doing it horizontally, on the wrong side of the fabric that will end up underneath the machine's foot, buried in lumps of fabric I'll have to dig out. I eventually get to them all, and I haven't broken a needle yet. Many people use pins to mark points instead of fabric markers. I've done some of that, but when a loose pin slips out as I'm wrangling with the fabric, I'm in trouble.

Sometimes I'll press my luck on a small item I can guide beneath the presser foot that won't slide around on me. That might have my Home Economics teacher gasping for air, but I think even she realized guys like to take shortcuts every now and then.

For Healthy Teeth And Hardy Buttons

Early on in my historic re-enacting life, I learned a secret that would serve me well: dental floss is the answer when ordinary thread can't cut it.

I've used it time and again on buttons. They tend to come off my weskits and frock coats after vigorous dancing. Reinforcing the entire garment down the line of decorative buttons keeps them on when a Virginia Reel threatens to take them off. I learned at my very first historic ball buttons were going to taunt me. Since then I've taken proactive measures wherever I could.

Lady Sherri asked me, "Why don't you just use carpet thread?"

I would if I didn't have so much dental floss around after getting freebies from the dentist with each visit. One pack will easily reinforce about two coats' worth of buttons. I also use it to sew down the flaps on my buckled shoes if they curl up. The mint scent isn't a distraction.

Don't ask me to try it in the machine. No, no, no.

Eye Of The Needle

"Who taught you how to thread a needle like that?"

One of my sewing mentors watched curiously as I stuck a single thread through the eye and pulled it back, twizzling it around to thread close to the needle to hold it together, more or less. I frankly couldn't remember who taught me that, or whether I just made it up as I went along.

"I've never seen anybody do it that way," she observed.

She wasn't objecting. But she did have a system that worked for: using one of my little fingers to make a knot in the ends of the thread so that I would draw two threads at a time through the fabric. I had trouble getting my fingers to knot the thread, which is probably why I fell back on my own system long, long ago.

I don't enjoy hand stitching, but it's a fact of life for buttons and touch-up jobs. I recently learned of at least four different hand stitches: blind stitch (which I don't want to do), whip stitch (which I have done before I knew it was called a whip stitch), basting stitch (which I can do with the machine), and back stitch (which I've done in a few fix-up jobs). Die-hard historic sewing purists will not go near a machine if they're sewing something made before the machine came around, which is more than understandable. One historic friend of mine is hand-sewing a soldier's Civil War shirt to add to the authenticity factor.

People like me, however, have limited time, lots of projects pinging around in our heads, and we want to spend less time sewing the garment so we can spend more time wearing it. I have devised ways to get around instructions telling you to hand-sew something. Many times I can fold the fabric into the machine to create the same result of the hand-stitch, just faster. In many of those cases, the handwheel on the machine serves the function of the hand-stich. I turn it slowly, and slow and steady prevails.

Any hand stitching I do for an extended amount of seam is going to look like a horror show on fabric, as much as I try to keep things neat. I had to whip stitch all away around the waistband of my puffy 1600's breeches, when I probably could've found a way to do it by machine with enough thought and experimentation. Nobody will see that part of my handiwork, thankfully. When the instructions called for your servant to hand stitch the bottom leg cuffs, I hacked a way out of it with nobody the wiser.

As my skill level rises, I'll probably find a way to hack around more hand-stitching work. Period correct it's not, but unless you want to get out the magnifying glass and inspect it, I doubt you'd ever know the difference.

Project #3: Puffy Shirt (Take 1)

STARTED: October 2015

COMPLETED: Three days after beginning in October 2015

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY: Medium

THE IDEA: I like my Jacobite shirt I wear with my Scottish attire because it has puffy sleeves. But I felt I could make something even puffier. I also wanted a longer shirt, more like a tunic, perhaps something befitting of an Eastern European peasant.

THE CHALLENGES: I acquired the pattern (Butterick B4486) for less than a dollar at Savers. I acquired the fabric from Hancock for about $15, picking Kona cotton. I could've gone with muslin, but what I saw on the bolts didn't look good enough, and some of the fabric that did was a little too sheen. This is a historic shirt, not a wet t-shirt contest. I went with the Kona because of its stark white look and sturdiness.

Immediately I ran into challenges. That pattern I bought from the thrift store lacked a couple of pieces: the sleeves. I purchased another at Hancock for a ridiculously cheap price. Then I got home to find those missing pieces from the discount-store pattern had actually fallen on the floor undetected while I was unpacking it.

I also goofed on how much fabric I needed, and I ended up buying half a yard too little. But I was determined to make it work with what I had. So what if the sleeves were just a little bit shorter? Maybe they wouldn't have as much puff, but I could compensate in other ways.

Once I had the parts cut out, I tried to follow the instructions to the letter. Tried. I have no problem with sewing together big pieces. It's the tiny bands and hems and holes that turn my efforts into amateur night. I got the collar on with minimal muss and fuss. Those front neck bands refused to be rational. I won't talk about the bottom of the neck opening.

I still had to deal with the sleeves. I've basted and gathered before, and I figured it wouldn't be much of a chore after my experience on the puffy pants. Wrong again. Those puffy cranky sleeve ends refused to gather into a rational layout. Then I had to figure out a way to get them into the cuff and finish off the sleeve.

This is where your humble servant will admit he skipped steps he didn't understand, couldn't execute, or thought he could simplify. The result on the outside doesn't look bad. The inside view will have you experienced tailors demanding I turn in my needle. Somehow, I made this process look halfway neat.

Many of you will say the seam ripper has become either your best friend or your most demanding mistress. I turned to it several times over the course of this project: first, to give me some more room to account for my fattening stomach; second, to give more puff to my sleeves; and third, to begin undoing the mess created by making two left sleeves.

When I got my bearings straight and everything sewn together and hemmed up around the loose edges, I still had to make buttonholes. Somebody forgot to tell me the machine won't do it well when you have a pile of sloppy fabric above the feed dogs. Improvisation, frustration, and Fray-Check followed.

THE RESULT: In this quick-turn project, done on a whim while I was home with family, I ended up with a peasant shirt that draped nicely down my thighs but caught on my right shoulder. I couldn't figure out why. The other shoulder felt fine. I tested it out at a historic dance with my puffy breeches, a woolen belt and a faux-fur hat: instant Cossack.

I later discovered my sleeves were still too short, after comparing them to another shirt. And after one washing... well, that was the step I should've done first and avoided the cursed shrinkage.

The shirt now sits in my wardrobe in a state of limbo. I don't know if I will ever be able to wear it again unless somebody can tell me a way to unshrink it. I suspect it will go to an aspiring merry peasant someday.

As for your humble servant, I can always make another shirt.... something in blue, perhaps?

TO BE CONTINUED...

To Hack With It

Why does Simplicity sell patterns under that name when some of the things you have to do for them seem less than simple? Like very small hems? Like preparatory stitches before the actual ones?

If you are experienced seamstress -- or seamster, in my gender -- you can ignore the rest of this, because your knowledge base and cloth soldiering will tell you this is kid stuff. But when you're a kid behind the machine, the kid stuff isn't kid stuff. This is where I trim the instructions and add some creative license.

In at least three projects now, I have substituted steps to make my life easier. A couple of big modifications involved instructions to sew by hand. But I found a way to get the same result using the machine -- and with a stronger stitch, too. Some patterns I've hacked because I wanted more of one thing or less of another, as you will see when I discuss some more projects here.

Is this sewing sacrilege? Not on your life, according to my two sewing mentors. One of them is my dear Auntie Susan, sewing pro who has made more than a few adjustments to the rules that come with the pattern. She was the one who offered to make me a new pair of stark white 1700's breeches when I started re-enacting. I know she made a few adjustments to make things easier on both her efforts and my body, although with time and my subtle shape-shifting, those 1770's breeches are now fitting me more like a pair of early 1800's pantaloons -- tight and to the point.

Various patterns are meant to be hacked, as we had to do on the weskit project. The layout specifically instructs you where you can add and lengthen. But if you don't see that, it's time to use your head and maybe some butcher paper. While I was working on my weskit, a young lady next to me was designing her own pattern for a corset. She knew there was little room for error, but she needed enough room to breathe. That's a task I don't envy one bit. If men nowadays had to wear corsets, you'd see the obesity epidemic plunge.

I consider making your own patterns like graduate school. I'm not there yet, but in my bookcase, I have a paperback titled How To Make Historic Clothing. It doesn't provide a lot of specifics, but it does have a lot of outlines. Someday, I'll get there, when the time is right.

Project #2: The 1600's Puffy Breeches

STARTED: August 2015

COMPLETED: September 2015

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY: Medium

THE IDEA: After seeing the interpreters at Jamestowne Settlement wear these puffy pants, I wanted a pair. They looked outrageously comfortable. And they also might double for Cossack pants, fitting my "one item, multiple uses" goal.

THE CHALLENGES: I downloaded a pattern from Reconstructing History. Just piecing the pattern together was a major accomplishment, as I will discuss later in this series.

My fabric came from SAS. I chose lightweight maroon muslin with muslin backing at a total cost of less than $20. I kept the budget low; this was the first project I was attempting to start and finish with little outside coaching or supervision, and if I messed it up, I didn't want to be out a fortune.

Cutting the pattern proved challenging. The pieces filled my kitchen table and then some. I had to keep setting and resetting my cutting mat.

I didn't know how to gather from a basting stitch before taking these pants on. That's where I got more coaching from my sewing mentor, who showed me how to pull in the fabric without breaking the basting thread. Dozens upon dozens of crinkles later, I had my gathers ready to sew down -- after I made another waistband to replace the one I sewed incorrectly and made too small. I had to do the same for the lining and then join the two.

The instructions called for a hand whip-stitch to help secure the waistband to the top of the pants legs. I put that in, painstakingly. But when it came to attaching the bottom cuffs of the pant legs, I discovered a way to cheat using a machine stitch. I made several passes over those legs to secure them, knowing those legs would get a vigorous workout from dancing. Along the way, I had to tack in tiny gathers that weren't sewn down.

The instructions for the fly piece, in my opinion, lacked clarity. I got a couple of hints after an email to Reconstructing History: "The Fly should be attached to the left side, as worn. The buttons should be attached to the right leg as worn. You'll be pulling the Fly from the left over the buttons to close."

With that, I made the buttonholes, attached the fly and then the fabric-covered buttons, which I easily made from a kit I got at Hancock. I also needed to adjust the button on the waistband for my deceptive middle.

THE RESULT: Indeed these breeches are the most comfortable I've ever worn. Because the lining is smaller than the outer fabric, the puff holds up very well and doesn't flatten out. People marvel at how full they look. They don't feel heavy at all. And they work beautifully with my Puritan tunic -- I found that out at Thanksgiving. They also look great with a puffy peasant shirt, which I will discuss later.

All This And Pockets, Too!

The next phase for the new coat is underway. Here you see the back and the two front parts along with some lining on the far left.

Most of this day's effort went into the pockets. It involves sewing one piece of pocket lining to the front, then cutting the actual pocket hole inside the narrow part you just sewed, and then stuffing it all in before you sew of the back of the pocket. Then come the flaps, which have to be carefully sewn together, turned right side around, and then pressed before topstitching the flap just above the pocket. They don't have buttonholes, yet.

Next come the sleeves. Stay tuned...

Project #1: The Red Weskit

STARTED: June 2015

COMPLETED: August 2015

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY: Medium

THE IDEA: For my return to sewing, I wanted a practical project. No more pillows. No more aprons. This weskit -- what we now call a vest -- would replace one I bought on eBay several years ago when I had a smaller stomach. I wanted red to go with my Royal Stewart kilt. But the item could easily go with white breeches, stockings and a coat for a civilian 18th Century outfit. "One item, multiple uses," has become a key component of the historic clothing I acquire. I don't want something that will only work with one look. It has to have adaptability.

THE PROCESS: Acquiring the material proved more challenging than I expected. I wanted to go with pure linen, but after scouring every Jo-Ann in Tucson along with Hancock Fabrics, I couldn't find pure linen in either the color or quantity I desired. I could have cheated and gone with a linen blend, but I wanted to start off right. I ended up picking red cotton with white muslin backing.

My sewing friend and mentor had the pattern, which we modified so that the weskit hung halfway down my thighs, as weskits in the 1740's and before often did. As the 1700's progressed, the weskits shrunk, so by the turn of the century, they more closely resembled our modern-day vest.

I spent at least half an hour cutting the pieces carefully with scissors. That convinced me to add the first thing to my sewing-room wish list: a rolling cutter.

Assembly came over the course of three sessions with my friend's machine. As each step came together, and I saw the project taking shape, quitting for the day proved tough. I could've sewed all night. My teacher-mentor noted I had drive.

If only I had my own machine... which I was working on acquiring.

THE CHALLENGES: Beginner's anxiety is compounded by not having a spare empty bobbin. We wound my red thread onto another threaded bobbin which had some room to spare. That trick worked until the time came to sew buttonholes. The red thread ran out and the orange thread wound beneath it caught on. Suddenly I had a buttonhole with a hybrid red-orange lining.

My teacher sighed and reached for the seam ripper.

"Hold on," I said. "We can fix this. Do you have a red Sharpie?"

Indeed, she did. I carefully dotted the orange threads into the shade of red we needed.

"That's the guy's way of fixing it," I remarked, envisioning Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor recovering from a sewing disaster.

We didn't have to use the seam ripper very much. Prudent stitching and experienced coaching made the difference.

THE RESULT: Adding brass buttons from Benno's completed the look and added a burst of elegance. Working sizable pockets mean I have a place to stash a non-period wallet and smartphone. It doesn't press on me like a girdle or drape all over like it's two sizes too big.

Mission accomplished.

The First Cut Is The Messiest

Here you see just some of the pieces going into my new fancy ball coat. Cutting these large segments out required a big chunk of an afternoon and a large table. The lighter-colored fabric is for the lining.

What you can't see is all the thread dust and lint left behind in the aftermath of this cutting session. The rolling cutter is hating me, but it beat using a scissors. I still have to cut out the pieces for the matching breeches, which I am hoping will remain a simple project. I have a pattern for a period-correct pair of 1700's fall-front breeches, but the instructions warn quite clearly that it's a time-consuming effort. I see most of my time going into the coat, which will be the most visible part of the look. And a lot of it will cover the breeches, as those coats often did. Therefore, I made an executive decision to go with a simpler breeches pattern from Butterick.

Now comes the task of slowly putting all these pieces together.

Stay tuned...

The First Stitches

My sewing journey begins some 30 years ago, in a middle-school Home Economics class, on a well-worn Bernina. The class spends half the semester in the kitchen and the other half in the sewing room. That's where I learn how to thread a bobbin, work a hand wheel, spot a selvage, cut a pattern, and use a seam ripper. We practice our stitching on paper before putting a needle on fabric, mastering the art of controlling the pedal and the presser foot.

The guy in front of me enjoys messing with my machine. I break at least one needle. I could've broken a whole lot more if those Berninas hadn't been built to withstand reckless youth.

We make aprons out of denim, although I don't think I ever wear mine more than a few times -- that strap was flimsy.  We make simple pairs of sweat pants; I forget what happened to my pair.  Perhaps it wasn't big enough in the end. I do find use for the super-sized pillow I create, which props your humble kid servant up in bed for reading or the TV.

Aside from a repair job on my Royal Father's driving gloves, I never had the need to sit down in front of the needle. Thus, what I learned in front of the middle-school sewing machine evaporated over the decades.

When I started wearing historical clothing, I found willing seamstresses and tailors. I paid them, and they made what I needed to my specifications. But part of me still wanted to do it myself, not wanting to have to occupy friends who had other projects to indulge my creature comforts. I wanted the freedom to see something and then make it.

For the young people reading this: it's not out of character for men to sew. Men are tailors after all, as a good friend reminded me. So when one of my historical friends offered a sewing day for the ladies, I took the leap of wanting to get in.

"One [outfit] I would like to make is a mid-1700's green frock coat -- with large sleeves," I wrote in an email, explaining the method to my madness. "I would like to try my hand for starters at a mid-1700's linen weskit (the longer, mid-thigh variety) in a red colour -- something to go with one of my kilts or other colonial outfits."

So on a Saturday last June, in front of my teacher and mentor's Brother machine, I started pulling threads from the fabric of my memories as I re-learned the craft with some coaching.

In a great miracle, that knowledge returned with minimal mistakes. My coach helped refresh my memory, but she didn't have to prompt or prod too much. A simple reminder here and there sufficed, leaving her to attend to other sewing projects with other sewers while I plugged away. Slow and steady stitching won the race. What problems I encountered were not beyond repair. I chose the weskit because it wasn't too easy and wasn't too hard. Win or lose, I would wear the fruits of my labour. After a few sessions on that borrowed machine, I had my weskit. After another long afternoon with a needle and thread, I had the buttons attached. And mostly, I had pride.

The weskit I fashioned in the top half of the photo would encourage your humble servant to take on the puffy pants in the bottom half.

Fashionable Without Fail

All this month on 30/30, I'll be diving into my sewing life. Yes, I sew. Men sew. And men who love historic fashion often learn to sew because it's the most practical way they can get into more outfits. For your humble servant, it means more outfits for more fancy historic balls. Fancy historic balls require fancier outfits than the ones I have made up to now. Thus the challenge before me:

This lump of satin jacquard on the left and lining on the right will be cut and stitched into a 1740's coat with matching knee breeches. The goal is to get it done in time for the next ball in Williamsburg coming up in March. I'm shooting for a fuller version of what I wore last year -- an outfit actually made more than five years ago.

You can see the beauty in this outfit.  What you can't see is how tight the breeches are in the front and how the weskit (vest) feels more like a girdle at certain times -- mostly after eating. Time is not good to the waistline of a gentleman who's been around for (2)43 years.

Why make another outfit when I have several others I could already wear to the ball? I think this clip from Tootsie explains it well:



This will be the toughest project I have taken on so far, mainly because I'm using better material -- and more expensive, too. The tab for the raw materials comes out to about $60 from SAS. My previous efforts have run in the $20 range, mostly because I didn't trust myself with more expensive fabric... yet.

After five sewing projects now, I'm finally ready to kick up a big notch. You're invited to watch this project come to fruition or disintegrate into frustration. Failure is not an option. Along the way, I'll be filling you in on how I went from pining over historic attire to making it.