Gingham Girl

Day 179: A month or so ago, I made my first sock monkey from a pair of vintage socks which were sent to me by an internet friend. I dressed him in a red stocking cap (just that, nothing more) and sat him on my dresser. I was pleased to find out that Red Heel socks were available on line and ordered several pair; however, the heels are set differently in the modern version and the resultant monkeys' smiles didn't occur quite so naturally. Like the majority of my handcrafts, they went out the door almost as soon as I put the last stitches on them. A few days ago, I received a letter from my foster sister which left me feeling quite sad and downhearted, and I thought, "I need to make Marilyn a monkey." In the back of my mind, a little voice insisted, "And you need to do it soon." Overnight, a solution came to me, and thus you see my original monkey after a sex-change, some plastic surgery and a trip to the fabric store.

This is the second monkey I've put in a dress and hat. I wasn't entirely happy with the neckline of the first dress design although I loved the polka-dot fabric I'd picked for the garment. But working a second dress on the same fabric didn't appeal, so just to change things up a little, I decided to use gingham, always a favourite for smocking. By working the bodice along a straight edge and then adding elasticized puff sleeves, I avoided the neckline issues of the first dress. As an afterthought, I added a teneriffe spiderweb as a hemline accent. I wonder if Marilyn will remember the teneriffe gingham aprons my grandma used to make?

Tailored For A Pirate

Day 192: As official biographer of pirate captain Morgan Corbye, my passage on the Winged Adventure is not without price. My duties are various and many, for every soul aboard the handsome barque must pull their share of the load. I cannot claim to be a seaman, although I have endured watches in the crow's nest on lookout, the pitching and rolling of the ship more than my stomach could reasonably abide, and I have gone down on my prayer-bones to holystone the decks with the meanest of the lads. I have sat out hours on a coil of rope, arms burning under the sun, fingers engaged in fraying a baggy-wrinkle, that peculiar device which keeps the rigging from chafing. It was my skill at the latter which brought the Captain to ask if I was adept at sewing. Thus it fell out that I became ship's tailor, and though mending of the sails is delegated to more expert hands, I have learned to use a sailmaker's palm to drive a needle through the canvas, repairing breeches and outerwear at need.

That said, among the booty garnered in a recent raid, the Captain discovered several bolts of white muslin, and one evening in her cabin, draped the fabric about her body as I looked on in astonishment. One does not equate Morgan Corbye with the dressmaker's salon. Her posturing was that of the bride-to-be as she brought the soft folds against her breast. "I be thinkin' I wants a smock o' this," she said, "wi' fancywork." Taking up the several yards she had reeled off, she wrapped them untidily around the remainder and threw it without warning into my arms. "Ye're off spud duty fer a fortnight. Get crackin'."

Having taken her measure that same night, the "fancywork" is nearing completion and my respite from potato peeling will be at its end when the garment is assembled. The Captain is keeping close watch on my progress to ensure that I do not prolong this pleasant duty unnecessarily.