Carolina Cottontail's Pattern
A letter arrives forty-one years late.
Dear Mom,
I just got your letter. I know you wrote it to Cousin Carol 41 years ago, but her daughter just found it the other day. So now I get to read it. I’m surprised you wrote this letter because the two of you talked on the phone a lot, but maybe it was because you drew this little pattern on the back.
Even on the phone your hands were never still, always doodling or folding the corners of the paper. I could imagine Carol at the other end with a long phone cord walking around her house straightening up while she talked. Never still, either of you. My daughter is the same. Doodling. Folding the paper. Never still.
July 29, 1984. I made Nancy a nursing dress at her request, and when people saw it they wished they could buy dresses like that.
Nineteen eight-four. Wow. You were the same age then as I am now. I’ll never forgot how you could sew things that fit me perfectly, even when I wasn’t around, even with different patterns.
What was your system for this? I mean, my daughter looked for her keys for several hours one day until we found them in the fridge. And I have a sign on the door listing all the things I need to remember every morning (phone, hearing aids, keys!) So how did you manage to write down my measurements and not lose them?
I’m making another one, different from the first. She starts back to work next week.
I wish you were here now, because I have so many questions. For instance, where did the nickname Carolina Cottontail come from? When did you start calling Carol that? Did you know that’s my favorite family nickname?
I haven't spent much time on patterns or figuring how to do it.
At this point in the letter, your dreams should be filled with visions of nursing dresses, your waking hours occupied with nothing but experiments and drawings and conversations with nursing mothers, perhaps some scouting trips to local maternity stores. Hyper-focus is a family tradition, and you aren’t participating. Why not? Share your secret. Please! This is amazing.
If they could be fixed so there is a ruffle or flap to cover the child while nursing that would be better than what I did.
Do you really think anybody could have made something better? Because those dresses were superb. You were a genius with that sewing machine. I mean, you were a little overboard with your sewing speed. Zoom Zoom, am I right? But yes. Just plain genius.
Zippers are not necessary if the opening is made right - maybe a little fuller and fastened with a small button or something.
I think Carol was looking for money making ideas, so you sent her one. And it feels like you’re saying, “Here’s an idea. I have faith in your ability to take it, improve on it, run with it.”
So here’s my next question. When did you stop hovering?
The opening could be up and down or crosswise maybe even a slant - anyway that's something for you to work out.
Just like that. You muse for a few moments on possible patterns, then you just … let go. Carolina Cottontail gets to figure it out. You don’t even say you’ll call in a couple of days to see how she’s coming along!
That’s so different from your 40-year-old self, with the anxious checking at night to make sure I’m still breathing. Or your 55-year-old self, staying up to make sure I got home safe from swing shift.
When did you break that pattern of anxiety? When did you develop this system of relaxed detachment?
I don't know if patterns are patented or not or what. Keep it private so no one steals it from you. Shirley.
And then just a little advice there at the end. Because you knew your Carolina Cottontail had just a little trouble keeping a secret. She was the kind of kid who would give you a wrapped present and tell you what it was while you were opening it. Silly cousin.
I'm looking at the pattern you sketched on the back. Quick pencil lines: “ruffle,” “opening and ruffle,” “under pocket.”
Your handwriting speeds up as you go. No careful organizing, no color-coding, just pencil moving as fast as your thoughts.
All those years I thought you developed some magical way to keep track of things. But maybe the system was simpler. Keep your hands moving. Make something useful. Pass it on. Let go.
Forty-one years later, and I can still see your mind racing across the page.
For a little extra fun, here’s an ElevenLabs rendition of Mom reading her letter using the cloned voice I made from recordings I had of her voice.