THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, May 19, 1995 TAG: 9505180281
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 91 lines
I have been a mistress of the art of shrinking fabric ever since I took Sonja Henie skating on a puddle during mud season the spring I was 5.
For those of you who don't have the foggiest notion of what I'm talking about, let me explain all that follows the word fabric.
Sonja Henie was an Olympic figure skating champion and sometimes movie star back in the 1930s and early 1940s. Mud season in my hometown of Bangor, Maine, is that lengthy period between the last snow and official summer which sometimes, but not always, occurs during the four days surrounding the Fourth of July.
What passes for spring in the rest of the country is 12 weeks of recurring freezes and thaws, which leave in their wake pot holes, ruts and puddles of brown sludge. On top of the sludge there is sometimes a puddle of water. On top of the water there is frequently a layer of brown ice.
The Sonja Henie in question was a 14-inch-tall doll. She had beautiful long blonde hair, a full set of white cotton underwear, a light blue skating costume and a pair of miniature leather figure skates.
The shrink occurred on a late March afternoon when I was especially bored. The older kids were still in school. There wasn't enough snow left to sled on, the ice skating rink in the park had big brown patches showing through it and the ground was still too hard to dig a hole to practice my marble shooting.
There was, however, a nice patch of brown ice in one of the ruts in our gravel driveway.
I figured Sonja needed some skating practice so I carried her out the back door, set her on the ice and gave her a push. She toppled over, crashed through the thin ice and ended up flat on her face in six inches of muck.
I pulled her out, carried her into the house and went in search of my grandfather who was my frequent co-conspirator in all activities that were fun but questionable.
``I've got to wash Sonja's clothes before Mommy and Nana find out what I did,'' I told him. ``They're awful dirty and I need some real hot water. Can you get some for me?''
``Sho-ah,'' he answered, picking up a dipper and scooping the steaming liquid from the hot water tank on the end of the cook stove.
I set my doll-size wash tub in the kitchen sink, added a hefty pinch of my mother's Duz wash powder and watched as my grandfather poured the water.
Then I peeled off Sonja's clothes, washed her face and hair, wrapped her in a dish towel and set to work swishing the laundry around with a wooden clothes pin.
When I figured everything was clean enough I fished the clothes out and hung them on the dish towel rack to dry.
``Looks like a problem heah,'' my grandfather said. ``Seems like you shrunk 'em.''
Indeed I had. By the time Sonja's clothes dried they were a pretty good fit for my rubber baby doll. Thanks to my Aunt Marion, the best of the family seamstresses, my Olympic medalist went through the rest of her doll life wearing underwear made from one of my father's old handkerchiefs and an evening dress fashioned from a piece of lace curtain. Only her skates had escaped my shrink treatment.
In the years since then I have managed to shrink everything from handmade baby clothes to Bill's dress shirts.
Now, however, I have something that I want to shrink and can't.
A couple of months ago I bought one of those waffle-weave blankets that are supposed to add warmth to winter bed linens but are light enough to be used by themselves in the summer time.
``For double and queen size beds,'' the label read.
``They're a little skimpy for a queen,'' the clerk warned me. That was fine with me. The last thing I wanted was something that hung below the bedspread.
The first week I had it on the bed, it was a good six inches shorter than the spread all the way around.
The second week it hung almost to the edge of the spread.
By the fourth week, six inches of it were dragging on the floor on either side.
``It just sort of grew!'' I moaned to my mother. ``They all do,'' she replied, ``it's the loose weave. Just put it in the washer with hot water and shrink it like you did your Sonja Henie clothes.''
Funny the things some people remember for half a century. Anyway, I put it in the washer with hot water, ran it through the drier on high and put it back on the bed.
The first week it was OK. By the fourth week, when I had tripped over it six times, caught it in the vacuum cleaner three times and sprung Charlie the Lhasa from its clutches twice, I repeated the shrink treatment.
That was two weeks ago. This morning I found that its growth is spurting nicely. It's peeking out from under the bedspread again.
I only wish Sonja's clothes had done the same. The last time I checked, a Sonja Henie with original dress and skates in good condition was going for $1,200 at doll fairs. by CNB