Lisa, our eldest, later admitted Steph had called her, saying: "Lisa, you've got to talk to Mama about her clothes! She came over to the hospital one day wearing this cotton blouse that was so old it had little holes in the back. And Lisa, I was so embarrassed!"

Well, of course Lisa could hardly wait to tell me, and we had the biggest laugh about it. Funny thing was, Stephanie had given me the blouse -- my favorite top -- at least fifteen years ago.

So I said to her, "Steph, you know what? Mama knew the holes were there. And you know what else? She didn't care! She's not as uptight about little things as some people are."

However, because of the risk of embarrassing my progeny yet again, I did patch those little places. As I did so, I thought, this is not really necessary for two or three pin-point holes.

I cannot speak for other Southerners who weathered the depression, but patches are nothing to be ashamed of, in spite of the fact that to some folks patches and mended clothing are commonly associated with misfortune. "A hole may be thought to be an accident of the day," says an old saying, "but a patch is a sure sign of poverty."

Well, we were poor, but not poverty-stricken. We wore patches proudly, as long as the dress or blouse was clean. I was not ashamed of patches then, nor am I ashamed of them now. Neither am I ashamed of little holes from wear.

Times were we were lucky to have even mended garments. Now today, I can afford new dresses -- but, hey, that's my favorite blouse.

As a child, I did not object to hand-me-downs. All our clothes were sooner or later enroute to somebody else. "I want that blouse when you outgrow it"¯ was a familiar request. And if the present owner was so inclined, or you were not on her mad list, she might agree to it -- an arrangement as good as a notarized document.

Even though we made the best of hard times, Mama had her standards. She never, no never, patched khaki or denim with brightly colored gingham or polka dots. She always kept the patch in the same family of fabric: denim jeans got denim patches, khaki pants got khaki patches, for after all, she had her limits to what was seemly.

Threadbare sheets were torn down the middle, and the stronger, less worn outer edges were sewn together to become the middle of the sheet. When that one wore out, it was confined to the rag box, torn in strips for first aid supplies, bandages, kite tails or support for tomato vines.

Collars and cuffs were turned on men's shirts when they frayed. Long sleeves with the elbows out were converted to short sleeves. Shirt tails, usually like new, were often grafted onto a rip or tear in the front or kept for quilt patchwork.

Country women, for the most part, made their dresses, aprons, even under things. Colorful scraps were saved in the quilt bag until winter, when they'd be pieced together for a string quilt, nine patch, drunkards path, wild goose, or lone star.

Old quilts were often recovered several times, by some homemakers, but that made them very heavy, and they weren't warm, either. It was like covering with a sheet of plywood.

After a night under some hostess's lead covers, your body next morning was sore. But Mama shunned this practice and always kept making new quilts, light and fluffy, if not exactly color coordinated.

Mama despised waste. At our house there was always one more use for a garment, until finally it would end up in a rag rug. We were recycling before we ever heard the term.

Sure, we wore mended socks -- they went well with our half-soled shoes. But one thing we didn't have was frayed, dirty strings in our shoes. New shoe strings were affordable, and Daddy believed in keeping shoes polished and shining.

Yes, Mama despised waste, and she had this saying from her grandmother: "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without."¯

Write Alita at Scribbler211.



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