The aunt of a friend died a while ago. Three decades ago, at least, so definitely a while. Relatives squabbled over whatever she left; think in terms of the scenes at Scrooge’s deathbed. What they didn’t take went into storage. Then into my garage. Now it is in the house, all of it.
This is the last of the fabric, waiting to have the yellowing and mustiness washed out of it. I looked at those boxes and figured, okay, I’m home for weeks. This stuff is in the way of my MPII project. Who knows, there might be something nice in there. Why not get it out of the garage? Now I have an answer.
This is why not. I don’t know what to do with all this. There are tablecloths with matching napkins, old lace, linen sheets, Auntie’s undies, unused bolt ends of fabric with the price tags still affixed — 2 francs per meter. Each item is actually quite nice, but there is so much of it. Every piece needs to have the mildew washed out and most should really be ironed.
I was delighted to pull out the first cotton nightgown. Now I have at least half a dozen and I’m thinking they are a little plain. Maybe some embroidery?
I know silk can be washed, but I’m not feeling that brave right now. Do I even feel brave enough to sew it? Maybe not. France is the land of good seamstresses. Maybe I should hand this to the experts.
After all, I have plenty of work right in front of me.