stitches
brooke daly
My Oma was made of some potatoes grown in the backyard, covered in dirt and scabs. She was the last mouth to feed, a hunger much smaller than her older brothers Volker and Werner. They were growing boys capable of doing harder labor than her for longer periods of time. They worked to make ammo, weapons, or anything else the country demanded. They worked to live. Volker and Werner were the only ones who ate meat--when the family pig had to be slaughtered, it was those two who took the first bites.
My Oma was a factory girl, just like all other young girls during the war. Her schooling was found between metal bars and hot iron, in thread and cloth and leather. She knew her alphabet from sewing labels into shirts, saying, Hergestellt in Deutschland. Her boss was Herr Blau, a man who would slap her hands if they shook too much when she held a needle.
She never stitched crooked.
My Oma moved to the US after the second world war; her uncle set her up with a job in a shoe factory. Armed with no knowledge of English but with a deft hand for sewing, she worked on the line. Red thread, whip stitch, finish the seam, repeat. She met my grandfather in that factory. She fell for him, hard. They married six months later in October and had three kids: Ronald, Richard, and Anna Maria. My mom named me after herself, and so I go by Annie.
Oma taught me how to sew since the moment it was safe for me to hold a needle. I was six when she bought me my first sewing kit. Of all the things I expected to open on Christmas morning, a set of thread and needles was not on the list. Like all little girls, I thought I would get the newest Holiday Barbie, or at the very least, a pretend-cooking set comprised of plastic spatulas and bowls meant for make-believe. But when I opened my present, I was sorely mistaken. My mom gave me a look and reminded me, “What do you say, Annie?” At which point I let out a “Thank you, Oma.”
Oma smiled at me and said, “I have a surprise for you.”
I perked up. “Ooh! What is it?”
Oma handed me a candy-cane wrapped package, no bigger than a shoebox. I tore through the packaging and saw the plastic figure I had seen all over the shelves. However, it was not new, nor did it have any clothing on. This was not the Holiday Barbie I had spotted in Toys R Us.
“I thought we could sew some clothes for your Barbie with the new kit I got you.”
Hiding my disappointment again, I responded, “That sounds great, Oma. Thank you.”
My Oma was made of some linen and cotton, covered in patchwork and hemmed into oblivion. She was the last to get new clothes, a body much smaller than her older brothers Volker and Werner. They were growing boys, boys whose bodies became bigger at an alarming rate. When my Oma’s mother had enough money saved, she went into town to buy clothes for the family, with Volker and Werner being first on the list.
My Oma was a factory girl who collected scraps of fabric when Herr Blau wasn’t looking. When she had holes in her clothes or needed to expand them, she’d use a scrap or two to piece the fabric together again.
She was an inventor.
By next Christmas, I had grown fond of sewing. I appreciated its simplicity and complexity--how one stitch carried over into another and another, a continuum of the same movement, eventually adding up to create something great. My Barbie had outfits for every occasion, any holiday one could think of; I made her a red dress with beads down the front and back, perfect for Valentine’s Day. Sewing on beads was tricky but I was good at it. My small fingers allowed me to handle the tiny beads; I was good at threading needles for that same reason.
The other girls in my neighborhood grew jealous of my Barbie’s custom clothing and wanted some for themselves. While playing dolls with Delaney, she attempted to put my red dress on her Barbie and ended up ripping the dress apart, the beads flying everywhere, burying themselves deep into my living room’s brown carpet. I cried about that dress for a whole day. Delaney told me she didn’t mean it. I refused to play dolls with her ever again. Oma came over the next week and helped me make a new dress.
“I brought a special fabric with me, just for you,” Oma told me.
She brandished stunning white silk that shone when you tilted it under the light.
“Now let’s make a beautiful dress, hm?” she winked.
My Oma was made of some greys and blues; she did not wear white on her wedding day. She did not have enough money to buy a dress. While she worked in the factory, she sent all of her money to her family back in Germany. Volker and Werner had their own families to tend to-- growing families with more stomachs to feed.
And so my Oma was a factory girl in America. Her boss was Mr. Johnson, a man who underpaid her because she couldn’t speak very good English and didn’t feel comfortable demanding more money. After working long days in the factory, she went to night school to learn the language. When she couldn’t pronounce part of a word, like the “w” sound in “water,” she would ask my grandfather to practice saying it with her.
She spoke like the ocean.
Her voice was soft and lilting, ebbing and flowing. Her kindness came in waves. She was embarrassed by her accent and thus spoke quietly, as if she might otherwise disturb the creatures that lay beneath the deep dark blue. She didn’t teach any of her children her native language, for fear that they would be made fun of, too.
I took up German in high school to try and bring her a piece of home again. She practiced with me, teaching me to pronounce the “w” sound in “Wasser.” When I couldn’t get it right, I would listen to her say it over and over again as we sewed together. We had upgraded and moved to using a machine. A big project meant we needed more assistance. We were sewing my prom dress, which was soon to be a silky navy number, complete with lace down the arms.
Fabric in hand, I struggled to get the sentence out: “Ich mag das Meer; ich liebe das Wasser.”
Oma smiled and said back, “Und meine Liebe zu dir ist so groß wie alle Ozeane.”
I never doubted her love for me was as big as all the oceans. Not for a second could the Pacific or Atlantic come even close.
My Oma was made of some sunflowers and orchids; she received a grand bouquet when she passed. She was the last in her family to be laid to rest, preceded by her brothers Volker and Werner. They were older than her, older and with more health problems; they met peace in Germany. My Oma was buried in America, where she had created a family of her own.
She was a garden of life.
And now I sit in front of my prom dress, one stitch away from being done. She does not sit next to me, but I know she is here. I hear her telling me that I need to slow down, because the final stitch is the most important.
My Oma was made of some potatoes grown in the backyard, covered in dirt and scabs. She was linen and cotton, German and American, a patchwork of a person. My Oma spoke like the ocean and turned the tides with her laughter. She was nature herself, blooming and beautiful. She was, and always will be, the last stitch. She holds us all together.
Brooke Daly is a sophomore at Emory University studying Creative Writing and German. She comes from Orlando, FL but now finds herself living comfortably in Atlanta, GA. Brooke is a performer in Emory's Rathskellar Improv Comedy Troupe and a staff editor for the Lullwater Review. As a food and wellness blogger for Spoon University, she had an article acquired by Business Insider. Brooke also co-wrote a play with Pamela McDonald entitled 'Out With A Bang,' which was performed by Infinity Theatre Troupe in 2017. When Brooke isn't found hanging with friends, drinking coffee, or making puns, she is most likely FaceTiming her two cats back home.