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After I returned some patched pants to Dad the other night, he started reminiscing about his sisters and their homemaking skills.

Aunt Dotty was the seamstress. She died when I was only 13, but I remember her fondly. She was a very spiritual woman, a quality I greatly admired, even though I was a young teen. She had a great sense of humor, likely brought about by my dad's incessant teasing and pestering.

Dad mentioned that Aunt Dotty would do much of the family mending (a family of seven) and she made most of her own clothes. One of her mending chores included 'turning collars'. When I asked what that was he explained.

The next morning when I stopped by Mom and Dad's two shirts with frayed collars were waiting for me.

Some of you dear readers will be very impressed with the following. Most of you will think, why in the world would you try to mend something like that? DOD can certainly afford to buy a new shirt or two.

Because I can. Because it is the tightwad thing to do. Because I am joining in the President-elects redistribution of wealth program. If Dad doesn't have to buy new shirts, he has more money left for 'appropriation' (that ought to get a comment from somebody...).

I removed the collars from both of the shirts. Turned the collars around and stitched them into place. Actually, I basted one into place first, because it is a little dressier solid color shirt and I wanted to make sure it turned out right.

If I was a tightwad with any self-respect, a true black-belt tightwad, I would have saved the thread from ripping out the seam and basted with that. I didn't.

I have such a long way to go.not a-frayed any more



Both shirts are respectable again and show no signs of wear and tear. It took me less than an hour to accomplish this surprisingly easy task. And it gave me an inordinate sense of pride and accomplishment.

Ask Pat. And tell him to look out, I'm going through his shirts next.