The “Flamingo” quilt before being cropped and the edges bound. The white showing around the edges is cotton batting; the red showing on the very outside beyond the batting is the backing.) My quilts generally begin with a signature fabric that drives the design. In this case, I was captivated by an Indonesian batik in a Japanese plum-blossom pattern, imported and sewn in the United States. This is one of the pieces that will go into a local show in December 2020. (Assuming they allow me to bring such large works.)

Gary sewed a button on the other day. A few months ago I made repairs to quilts I’d sewn for our older son—quilts that are decades old and have been through the wash too many times. I recall my dad talking about learning to darn socks in the Army. I know, in theory, how to darn socks and I even have a favorite pair of wool socks that need darning. I also have a tweedy charcoal/brown silk noil sweater that I bought at Banana Republic that needs some attention under the right arm where the stitching has come undone. It was originally intended for one of the boys—it’s a man’s sweater—but none of them wanted it. I took it for myself and despite the label that says “dry clean only” have been machine washing it in cold water and hanging to dry for over twenty years. It will take me a few minutes to repair.

Repairs have become rare. As a child, I recall testing tubes to repair our television. Repair shops fixed everything from wiring in a lamp to waffle irons. We repaired small and large appliances, cars, shoes. We darned and patched and let out, took in, recut garments as a matter of course.

That doesn’t happen so much anymore. I am thinking about that because of—forgive me bringing it up—underwear. I recall a childhood friend’s cousin was not allowed out of the house until she sewed the elastic back on her underpants. This was the mid-1960s. My friend’s mother helped the girl get that done. I do not recall ever being required to make repairs to my undergarments as an adolescent. Certainly my mother would not have done that. She hated to sew.

Department stores in general have disappeared, but when I was a girl every major department store sold fabric. (When Nordstrom, which began purely as a shoe store, bought out Best’s Apparel and became a department store that was one things that was different. No fabric department.) It was taken for granted that most women sewed clothing. The difference was whether you bought fabric from Woolworth’s or Frederick and Nelson, or Penney’s or the Bon Marché. Such handwork was already disappearing in my teens. I do not know anyone my age who still sews garments. It is both art and craft, and nearly lost.

But I want to buy a silk shirt, handmade by Ann Williamson of vintage kimono silk. Her work is couture. I tried on a blouse at her holiday sale in Portland. I cannot afford a silk blouse from Ann Williamson, but I decided that I would save for the show next year. If I saved for a year, perhaps. It is pure extravagance which I defend as support for the arts. (Recycling? Small business? Local artist?) Williamson’s work is art, and besides, Ruth Bader Ginsberg has a jacket made by her. What splendid company!

So I will save. I had already decided to cut back on my clothing purchases for 2020. True, my yearly clothing expenses do not add up to enough for a Williamson jacket, but maybe a blouse on sale like the one I tried on? I would wear it the rest of my life.

An article (maybe in Smithsonian?) pointed out that as recently as the 1990s, the average American purchased only eight new garments each year. Clothing purchases have, shall we say, ballooned in the years since. These days we Americans like to wear something new most days. (I watched the Marie Kondo show on Netflix and felt better about myself as a human being when I compared my hill of clothing to the mountains other Americans piled on their beds during the process of letting things go. I thanked and let half my closet go.) But this is not merely about deflating my life. Our wardrobes do damage to more than our bank accounts. Buying cheap clothing has driven the garment industry to make cheap and disposable clothing. That has been both an economic waste and an ecological disaster. Garments are made wastefully and with toxic dyes, synthetic fibers, and processes, and most of them eventually find their way to landfills, our water, and the oceans.

Reading that article pushed me further. I examined my own purchases in the past year and went though my closet which is decidedly leaner than it has been since I was twelve. Even though I tend to keep and wear garments for decades and a lot of my closet has recently gone to charity, what I found was sobering. This year I bought a pair of Mari Mako socks, a cardigan and two sweaters and two linen t-shirts on sale from EF, a pair of black booties (because my old pair was looking shabby) and two pairs of runners (because the first pair was so good, I didn’t want to have to shop though new models next year). Two pairs of cotton jersey pants (gray and black). Um. And maybe the gorgeous Pendleton blanket-coat (on sale) that may have been purchased last year. An organic cotton nightgown to replace the one worn to shreds. Two t-shirts on sale from Fred Meyer’s (impulse) and . . . . I think I want to stop counting now. (I knit myself a long scarf, too, but I think that does not count.)

More than enough. Too much. I didn’t really need any of it except the boots and runners.

I pulled these images from Williamson’s website. Gary peaked over my shoulder at the crane jacket above and complained it looked like Halloween. This is why I am the one who buys his clothing. The blouse under the jacket just above—yes, I love that.

So I have come up with a plan for 2020. This is in the nature of a resolution: If I purchase fewer that eight garments in 2020, I am allowed to purchase something from Ann William’s annual December sale. Art in my closet. It sparks joy.

I do believe in resolutions, though the one about losing weight never happens. I believe in setting reasonable, achievable goals for myself. There will be more promises by the new year: reading, writing, savings, new projects, continued good habits of walking and so forth. Some of what I resolve will not pan out, and I will try not to beat myself up about failures. I will try not to think of unkept resolutions as failure. Good intentions and all that. I am a planner.

This plan about clothing sounds realistic to me, but here’s the thing: Does underwear count? Because Gary, who does the laundry, insists I need new underwear. Stitching on elastic will not be enough to save what I have in my drawer, and the pairs from Costco come in a six-pack.