Preston had congratulated me not only for passing my silver freestyle test but also for skating with style and confidence, accurately portraying the true caliber of my ability. He left the building, headed home for a siesta before his afternoon lessons. I proceeded to wipe my skate blades and lace up my sneakers. As I began to stretch, one of the skate moms approached. Her child had tested earlier. She apparently took the kid to school and returned to the rink for some reason. I did not know this woman very well but smiled and said hello to her whenever we crossed paths. She dressed in subtly handsome sportswear that was obviously expensive. She changed her hairstyle frequently often attaching an attractive but clearly foreign fall of long tresses to her ponytail. Although I saw her regularly, I did not know her by name.

The fashionable lady extended her hand in formal introduction. “We have never actually met. I’m Lauren Cavallini.”

I took her manicured bejeweled hand. “Kate Svenssen.”

“Did you test today, Kate?”

“Yes, I did. I passed adult silver freestyle.”

“Congratulations,” Mrs. Cavallini returned with the prettiest whitest smile I may have ever seen in person.

I politely inquired about her daughter’s test, assuming she must have passed or the woman would not have been in the mood to discuss skating achievements with a pesky adult skater. The child had passed novice moves in the field after her third attempt. Novice moves are notorious for their difficulty and widely regarded as the most challenging. A youngster who can pass novice will ultimately succeed with senior moves.

“Your skating dress is lovely, Kate” the woman continued reaching the objective of her mission. “I must ask where you found such a lovely dress.”

Still wearing the costume, I smoothed its skirt humbly. “I made this leotard myself.”

Lauren Cavallini took a noticeable step backward although shocked that someone of her impeccable taste had been impressed by a homemade concoction. Then she moved forward again disguising her repulsion with a need to touch the material. “You are incredibly talented.” On some level, Mrs. Cavallini decided the costume was more than a common home-sewn frock; it was actually a custom designed garment.

“That is precisely the type of practice dress I would like my daughter to wear to the competition next month. I cannot find classic skating dresses anywhere. My daughter is too old for frills, and glittery sequins look silly at a practice session, yet I want her to be well dressed,” the mother mused aloud.

I nodded my distant understanding.

Suddenly the mother’s voice burst forth as though stricken by a revelation. “Would you make a dress like that for my daughter? I will pay you.”

Her forwardness surprised me. I did not know how to respond and certainly had never been paid to sew anything for anyone. I had no idea what to charge this woman, though she could probably afford whatever I deemed equitable. “You will have to buy the fabric. I don’t have any more.”

“Fine. You get the fabric and charge me for it as well as your shopping time. When can you take my daughter’s measurements? She skates every afternoon after school.”

I had not exactly agreed to do this, but I set up an appointment to meet Mrs. Cavallini and her skating child at Chestnut Valley later that week. The girl’s teenage figure was easy to fit and I sewed up the dress quickly, presenting it to her mother within a week of the initial fitting. She took the little outfit home and called me that evening. The garment fit perfectly and looked beautiful on Lauren’s budding champion. I cashed her check and took my husband out for a fancy dinner.

Apparently Lauren Cavallini’s daughter wore my creation to an afternoon freestyle session at the Chestnut Valley Arena where it was openly coveted by other skaters and their conscientious mothers. My phone began to ring with requests for custom skating dresses. I foolishly rejected no request, especially since every client gladly met my price. However, I found myself drowning in a sea of spandex and chiffon. I set up a folding table in the kitchen to cut fabric and constructed the garments in the dining room. With my college teaching duties complete, I spent most of my non-skating time sewing costumes for competitive skaters. Although I refused to do hand beadwork, I agreed to apply purchased appliqués or trimmings to my outfits.

Most of the dresses I made would be worn for practice sessions when the skater must look well groomed but not ostentatious. Judges observe practice groups to determine which skills a skater can execute on a regular basis. This allows them to determine the difference between a sincere, but failed, jump attempt and an element the athlete had no realistic chance of completing. A rink monitor plays a section of each skater’s music during the practice and announces the participant’s name. This permits both fans and officials a preview of each competitor’s program.

During the summertime, I had already begun to receive orders for the fall season. My husband came home from work to find me just as he had left me that morning, behind the sewing machine in the dining room, the radio playing classic rock and roll songs. Two finished dresses hung in the doorway. I looked and felt bedraggled. I had not made dinner yet, nor had I set foot outside the condominium. Until Maxwell came in, I did not realize how many hours had passed. I sewed like a factory worker, whipping through seams, rolling sheer hems, and binding elastic into leg openings. While I did not have enough business to earn a comfortable living, I had more work than a solitary seamstress could handle.

Max and I went out for dinner that evening since the kitchen was too messy for convenient meal preparation.

“Is this what you want to do?” he asked suddenly.

I looked up from my food expecting him to clarify.

“Sit hunched over a sewing machine all day?” he continued. “If you do, I won’t argue, but I can’t believe this is really what you want to do with your life and your education.” Max had never criticized any of my decisions, but this new endeavor obviously puzzled him.

I would have liked to design and create an occasional custom costume, selecting the finest materials to sculpt into a work of art. However, producing numerous practice frocks had already become exhausting. Yet, I did not know how to say “no” to anyone. I felt guilty because I was not bringing money into our household. The minimal salary earned as an adjunct professor disappeared with the conclusion of the school year with no promise of renewal for fall. My sense of duty encouraged me to take in sewing like a pioneer woman whose family needed a few dollars to survive the long hard winter.

My creations were all well made and generally appreciated by my customers. Young girls liked my dresses but probably no more than they would have enjoyed any new outfit. Skating dresses have a brief shelf life. Competitors do not want to be seen in the same garment competition after competition. While an expensive beaded long program dress may have to last an entire season or more; practice dresses, no matter how pretty or well constructed, can be cast off like yesterday’s fad. Skaters from affluent families pack their closets with costumes and leotards as a display of success and dedication to the sport. A wardrobe full of stretch clothing translates into competitive experience and visibility. Like a movie star or jetsetter, the fashionable skater on her way to the elite ranks cannot be seen repeatedly in the same practice garb.

Few of the Chestnut Valley skaters were actually on their way anywhere but a local competition or a qualifying round at Regionals. While better athletes trained at the club, I was not making costumes for the most accomplished skaters. Lower and mid-level skaters purchased my costumes. Kids competing at junior nationals or the final round of a regional went into New York for their outfits. I was a local seamstress who did good work, but no one recognized my name in the bragging circles at more prestigious events.

That fall, Max and I attended a Regional competition where a few young skaters wore costumes I had made to their practice sessions. One girl who competed in a nonqualifying event sported one of my creations as her program dress. I got a kick out of seeing items I had sewn on public display for all to admire. This provided closure to the creative process. I had invested my time and energy into designing and producing each garment and was able to witness the article serving its intended purpose. While this sense of satisfaction did not justify the backbreaking hours spent in front of my sewing machine, it did give me a certain thrill. I felt like a costume designer sitting in the audience on opening night watching my handiwork become part of a greater production. As though the fabric had forged a psychic link between seamstress and athlete, I winced noticeably when a skater in one of my dresses went down wetting its briefs and skirt.

Aside from the minor exultation gained from seeing my work worn in a competitive situation, I actually did not know why I was doing this. While I enjoyed making the first dress for Lauren Cavallini’s daughter and observing the expressions of satisfaction on the faces of mother and child, I derived no pleasure from the subsequent efforts. Perhaps I seized an opportunity to fulfill my college fantasy of becoming a fashion designer. This opportunity had fallen in my lap; I had not pounded the pavement tacking up fliers and handing out business cards to promote my service. Sewing skating costumes never occurred to me, aside from stitching up an outfit to wear for my own testing and competitive purposes. I did not consider myself a talented seamstress. However, over the years, I had become far more than competent with a needle and thread. My work was certainly professional quality. While I often threw together shorts and tops for my own summer wardrobe, I could also construct beautifully finished garments. This tedious process bored me as a college student, but as an adult, I had developed the patience and attention to detail that made me a fastidious seamstress.

University training in the textile arts combined with the rigors of a graduate education and corporate career taught me the skills needed to produce neat, clean work. Kate Northcott had always managed to be satisfactory, but with time, adequate efforts evolved into textbook precision. I may not have demonstrated remarkable creativity or elevated any project to an artistic level, but I could produce good quality work that left little room for criticism.

If I wanted to take this sewing endeavor further, I would have to establish a storefront somewhere, allowing clients to arrange for fitting appointments, and hire at least one other person to help me with the sewing. I thought about this during the meditative hours I spent filling all of the orders that came in that summer. Maxwell and I discussed it at length and I looked into the cost of boutique space. Even though I was swamped, I did not have enough business to justify such a venture. Of course, I would expect my clientele to grow, but it would have to grow tremendously, and I would have to employ several people to do the sewing. This is not the type of life I wanted. I did not see myself running a cottage skating dress industry. I did not want to mass produce a few designs and sell them at pro shops or over the Internet. If I enjoyed any part of making these costumes, it was the personalized interaction I shared with the skater and her family. At heart, I was still a bridal consultant taking pleasure in finding the right dress for each individual. Now my brides were adolescent skaters and their gowns were made of spandex.

Chapter 86 posted 1/14/04
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