Good for goose, not great for sewing project

Bundling up for the sub-zero weather we had here last week made me appreciate how much winter clothing has improved within my lifetime.

Each new season brings out gear that is lighter in weight, but also warmer and easier to keep clean.

It also made me remember one of the most disastrous sewing projects of my high school days.

My mom did not love to sew, so sewing was never considered a fun hobby in my house. She could do standard repairs like sewing up a ripped pair of jeans, but believe you me, she was a big fan of iron-on patches and we had a good supply of them on hand.

When I entered junior high, it was still the era when (with few exceptions) the girls were condemned to enroll in home economics while the boys got to go to shop class. (I may be exhibiting a bias here. It is not by accident.)

Our home ec teacher was Annie Lewis Varnell, or as we called her, “Granny Varnell.”

Granny tried hard to teach us junior high girls to make drawstring purses and matching shirts during the sewing portion of the class. I can’t speak for the others, but my purse went straight to the top shelf of my closet and I never wore the shirt. Not even once.

So with that spotty background, for some inexplicable reason I decided it would be fun (with my mom’s reluctant help) to make my very own goose down jacket in high school.

It came as a sized kit, with pre-cut swaths of heavy-duty powder-blue nylon cloth, an industrial zipper, and plastic tubes tightly packed with goose down.

I don’t remember any part of this project being fun in any way.

As already noted, my assistant was neither particularly adept nor remotely enthusiastic, and I lacked the skills to override those shortcomings.

Plus we had a sewing machine that probably would have benefited from a new needle and a good dose of lubricating oil.

Nevertheless, we somehow managed to piece together the “shell,” which included sections that were left open on the ends so they could be filled with the goose down.

It was when we opened the first bag of goose down that hell really broke loose.

I can’t begin to describe how much down fits into a plastic bag or how it exponentially expands (“explodes” is really a better word here) when the end of the bag is snipped open.

The “sewing room” (I use this term loosely … it was really the room in which the sewing machine sat on a table) soon looked like a chicken coop that had been hit with a hand grenade. There were feathers everywhere.

In theory, we were to capture those feathers and stuff them into the waiting nylon pockets. That might sound simple, but it was a knock-down drag out wrestling match.

If your child ever needs a science project demonstrating static electricity, may I suggest attempting to fill nylon tubes with loose handfuls of goose down?

We eventually completed that coat and I wore it for several seasons. Granny Varnell couldn’t make me wear that shirt from home ec class, but my mother would have thrown a much-deserved fit had I simply hung that coat in the back of the closet after all we went through.

That coat was prickly every moment of its existence. It’s like the feathers were out for revenge. And each time it was washed, those blasted feathers migrated into giant damp wads that took days to fully dry and weeks to break apart.

Many lessons were learned but this is the one that sticks in my mind, like goose down on a sweaty arm: Leave the feathers on the geese and buy yourself a good winter coat.

You’ll be glad you did.

Betty Williamson finally learned how to sew, but still shies from feathers. Reach her at:

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