Life With Mother Superior Read Online Free PDF

ascot-tied middy top. I fell in love with it completely. I searched for an hour for the right fabric; even Mary who was taking Civics instead of sewing tried to help.
    “Maybe I could help you cut it up,” she offered.
    “Look, Mary, just look at this linen.” It was a wild plaid, basically gold and red and brown on white. I thought it was smashing. I could see it on the cover of Vogue— a chic model leaning against a whitewashed building. I could see me in it accepting the prize. Perhaps instead of being an explorer, I’d be a designer. It was all very exciting indeed.
    On Saturday, the sewing room was deserted except for a few of the farther-advanced contestants who were putting finishing touches and wrapping up their entries in colored tissue—which Miss McBride had provided. The tissue was shocking pink, which I didn’t think had too much to offer for my plaid. I unwrapped my six yards of plaid and laid it out on the cutting table. It was absolutely scrumptious and Mary agreed that even though the saleslady had done her best to tout me off the plaid, the plaid alone would certainly attract a good bit of attention.
    It took me a good hour to get the pattern pieces laid out, and Mary tried pinning them down, but her hands sweated so she was ruining the pattern; that paper just didn’t take to heavy perspiration. At noon, Evangeline poked her head in and couldn’t believe her eyes. Was it possible the unholy two could be so lawfully engaged and so quiet? Mary held the fabric down while I cut it. Finally, we had all the pieces and I began to frantically pin the pleats in.
    “Oh, God, why did I get a pleated skirt?”
    “Well, it looks like more work.”
    “It is more work.”
    As the sun slowly crossed the room and silently began to set, I had the skirt done—it really was a chore, as all the lines in the plaid had to miter. Now it was time to get the top basted. We heard the nuns go off to prayers and I frantically raced against the dinner bell.
    “I’ve had enough of this place,” Mary said.
    “Go get a book and at least stay here and read.”
    “Wish I could help you, but I get everything so soaked.”
    I had to stop for supper.
    “How is your dress coming along?” Mother Superior asked. It was simply too much to ask her to believe that I was really trying to do something right.
    “It’s going to be extremely beautiful,” I answered proudly.
    “Well, I’m sure with your artistic flair that you will have an extremely beautiful dress to wear home for Easter.”
    “Come see it,” I offered magnanimously. It wasn’t often Mother and I had such civilities between us.
    Poor Mother really didn’t know what to say and for a moment she just stared at my dress. I was slip- stitching the hem and pressing in the pleats each time.
    “How did you do it?” she asked bluntly.
    “Do what?”
    “How did you ever get each piece cut in a different plaid?”
    She was irritating me now. “I don’t have each piece cut in a different plaid. It’s all the same.”
    Mother held up the dress by the shoulders and studied it carefully and then studied me.
    “Didn’t you have any idea that the pattern on a plaid must be laid out a different way?”
    Inured as I was to her sarcasm, tears of fatigue welled in my eyes. “I think it’s pretty.”
    “Do you have any fabric left at all?” she asked, pick ing up my shears.
    “A few pieces,” I mumbled.
    Before I could take a deep breath, Mother had the pattern pieces out and I went to work at what I did best—ripping. The night bell rang and the convent noises subsided into peaceful communion with the night. Mother sewed like a dream.
    “I used to work in a dress house,” she offered, “in France. . . . My, this is a pretty plaid.” Mother hummed and whistled and sang. I could not believe that this was our ogress.
    It was only a few hours before my dress was pressed and packed. Mother didn’t see the pink tissue as an asset to my plaid either and offered to