Home sewing ain’t like it used to be. For those of us with big families, it used to be a great way to keep everybody clothed at a pretty reasonable cost.
When the kids were little, I sewed all their winter coats, jackets, pajamas, school blouses and shirts, dress-up clothes, and summer garments. I got to be pretty fast at it, we saved money, and I liked doing it.
As the sweat shops in the third world countries gradually swallowed up the garment industry, though, a sad thing happened to the world of home sewing. Because of lowered demand, the excessive price of fabrics has pretty much ruled out home sewing for most of us. It really isn’t economically practical to sew for your family anymore. Even if you assign no value to your hours of work, the final expense of the home-sewn garment can never compare favorably with a similar piece bulk-produced as ready-to-wear.
The one time sewing IS worth it though, is when you’re doing it for something that you want to be one-of-a-kind. Such as a prom dress, a wedding gown, or any other apparel that the wearer has a design in her mind and that you think you can execute. If you can do even a semi-skillful job of it, she at least can wear it comfortably knowing that nobody else is going to show up wearing the same dress.
Of course, not all your projects will be successful. When I read my granddaughter Gretchen’s notes this week about the prom dresses she wore in 1998-99, I basked in the glow of eternal sunshine. I had forgotten about the dresses she wrote about. I only made three of these, but try to imagine my pleasure at reading this from Gretchen: _________________________________________________
It was so fun to look at these dance pictures! I have not seen them in so long. What fun memories! In high school, you made three beautiful dresses for me that I wore to different dances. I still have all three dresses saved at home because I love them so much!
The first is the long blue dress with the white bow on the back with the blue shawl. (Editor’s note: this is the dress you read about on yesterday’s blob).
I wore the blue dress to my Junior Prom in the spring of 1998. My date was one of my best friends at the time – Peter Beard. I went to most dances in high school with him.
I attached another picture of Peter and me at the 1997 Winter Dance from our Junior year.
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The next dress you made for me is the beautiful long red dress with the velvet corset top and long satin skirt. I won queen of the Winter Festival my Senior year in high school in the winter of 1998 in that dress. My date at that time was Ryan Miyake, another good friend.
The long pink dress with the low back was for my Senior Prom in the spring of 1999. I broke up with my high school boyfriend right before the Prom that year so three of my good girl friends and I bought each other corsages, went out to dinner, and went to the dance as a group. I went with Cat, Vicki, and Elena. The three of us had the most fun at that dance than any of the others we had attended.
Seattle University had a prom-type dance during my Freshman year of 1999 and I attached a picture of that one as well. The photographer made me sit in a chair for that photo because I was so much taller than the friends I went with: Brian, Bartek, and Jenny.
I loved going to dances in high school, but my favorites were the ones when I got to wear one of the dresses you made. Thanks for reminding us to reflect on these fun times, it has been so fun to read your blogs about people’s dances and to see their photos. Also thank you for making the memories extra special by making these amazing dresses!
To tell the truth though, it wasn’t the dresses that were amazing. It was the young lady who designed and wore them. The nice thing about sewing for appreciative kids is that they may be doing the designing, but because you’re the one doing the stitching, they let you bask in the glory.
As a wannabe seamstress, I love it when a garment takes on a life of its own.
My niece, Christine Fitzpatrick Milner, had such a dress. Her wedding gown managed to infiltrate the treasured memorabilia of several of our households.
This photo shows Chris with her mom, my sister Joan Fitzpatrick.
I’m hoping Chris is going to narrate the amazing story of the life of the gown on the blog soon, complete with photos of its reincarnations.
It’s quite a story, and it’s become part of the lore of our family.
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On a smaller scale, the following is also the story of a dress in the family.
In the days since I started collecting photos of proms (and if you haven’t sent me yours yet, puhleese do!) I’ve tried to find out the origin and next use or appearance of any of the finery that was worn.
My granddaughter, Gretchen Warden Stark, sent me such an interesting assortment of dance photos that I’m going to use her story of them on tomorrow’s blob. When she sent the email, she included a copy of a letter I had given her the week of one of her proms. It was describing the parts that made up the homemade dress she was about to wear.
A few years later, Gretchen found the letter and included it in a college essay and presentation assignment about family traditions. The presentation earned her an “A”. Any resourceful home sewer in the family will understand its content perfectly. And even if you don’t sew, you, too, may be maintaining a stash of treasured bits and pieces that have a way of resurrecting themselves.
This is the text of the letter describing the “pedigree” of the dress: __________________________________________________
May 19, 1998
Dear Granddaughter Gretchen:
Last night, Grandpa listened as I was describing the making of your prom dress, and he suggested that I write this down for you, so here goes.
Saturday night, May 23, 1998, you will be going to your Junior Prom. You’ll be wearing a beautiful and interesting dress. You might say it’s an “all in the family” dress.
Last month, you and I went to Hancock’s Fabrics and bought the royal blue taffeta, boning, and zipper for the dress. But many more ingredients were to go into it.
Dolly Parton wrote a song a few years ago called “My Coat of Many Colors”. In it, she tells about how when she was little, she needed a warm winter coat. Her mother didn’t have the money to buy one, so she made her one out of remnants. Sleeves, pockets, collar, fronts and backs didn’t match, but they kept Dolly warm, and she was proud of “her coat of many colors”.
Saturday night, you’ll be going to the prom wearing a little bit of our family album, and if you want to, someday you, too, can write a song about “My Dress of Many Fabrics”.
“Waste not, want not”, that’s what I always say. The fabrics in your dress came from scraps, but they are part of the texture of your family, and I know you will treasure them more than if they were new.
As you know, the “new” fabric is the royal blue taffeta. You will find traces of the rest of the fabrics used in our family photo albums.
The white straps, sash and bow are from the wedding fabrics from Aunt Judy’s wedding in 1984. The facing on the straps is from your cousin Sonja’s First Communion dress fabrics three years ago.
The lining is a remnant from a long vest and skirt made for Aunt Lisa 15 years ago. (Sorry about the tan color but nobody but you and I need to know about it.)
The thread is from an industrial cone I obtained to make the six bridesmaids dresses for Aunt Teresa’s wedding in 1984. So is the bias tape used for the hanger straps inside the dress. The velvet in the royal blue stole is from your Great Aunt Joan who used other pieces from it in her craft projects. The fringe on the stole you’ll carry is from Big Aunt Gretchen’s royal blue winter coat home-made about 12 years ago. The “beads” on the fringe are from Uncle Matt’s drinking straws. Your little cousin TT helped me paint them with a permanent felt pen marker.
The little flowers on your evening bag were made by Great Aunt Joan from the fabric we used for the bridesmaids at your mom and dad’s wedding in 1977. (We still have the fabric nosegays Great Aunt Joan made that all your aunts – Susy’s bridesmaids – carried). The garment bag the dress is stored in is from one of Uncle Matt’s hospital stays at Providence Hospital.
And, of course, the garment couldn’t have been completed without Grandpa who did the cooking, dishwashing, and troubleshooting so I could sew; or without Aunt Lisa who gave us consultation, shopping runs, makeup, and endless support.
Finally, Gretchen, guess what? There is a remnant left from your royal blue taffeta prom dress. It’s already been measured, marked, folded and inserted in a plastic bag. Someday, your sisters Elizabeth or Josie, or one of your cousins will be dressing for a prom, party or dance and it may seem to you that something about what they’re wearing seems vaguely familiar. If so, just come in a little closer, and check it out . . .
Love, from Grandma _____________________________________
Was pulling weeds today long enough to remember that my under-utilized muscles need oiling. They’re creaking and croaking due to due to their owner’s life of dereliction. I’d try to get in better shape but I don’t usually have a good incentive.
Unlike Dave in the following story . . .
One day, Dave, the bus driver, was in his bus when the biggest man he had ever seen got on. The giant looked at the driver and growled, “Big Eric doesn’t pay”, and took his seat. Dave was only a little man and he didn’t really want to argue.
This happened for several days. After a week, Dave was beginning to get a little angry. Everybody else paid, so why not the big man?
So Dave went to the gym and started a course of body-building. He didn’t want to be frightened of Big Eric any longer.
Eight weeks later the driver had strong muscles and was feeling very fit.
At the usual stop, Big Eric got on. “Big Eric doesn’t pay”, he barked; but this time Dave was prepared for him. He stood up, shaking slightly, and said between clenched teeth, “Oh, yeah? And why doesn’t Big Eric pay?”
“Because Big Eric has got a bus pass”, the man replied.
One of my grandsons and two of my great-nieces are sharing their birth year and making their big entrance to the real world this year. THEY’RE GOING TO BE 21 YEARS OLD. Today is the big day for my great-niece Jane Elizabeth Fitzpatrick, shown on the right at a somewhat younger age.
According to my daughter Lisa, the common denominator among cousins, – first cousins, second cousins, and cousins once, twice, and thrice removed is that somewhere in the mix, they have to share a grandparent. I strenuously object to that stingy rule. What about the line of succession from all those venerable great-aunts in your family? What about them, I’d like to know, huh?
This is Jane, joined below by her “cousins”, both of whom share her birth year.
All three of them will be able to legally buy beer this year, so stand back!
And as far as Octo-woman is concerned, they are all direct cousins-for-life of her seven children.
Here’s Jane . . .
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And here’s my grandson Ford Joseph Covey, and my great-niece Kaylee Ann Ford Fulton (my nephew Jimmy Ford’s daughter.) Ford lives next door to me in Seattle and attends Arizona State University. Kaylee – newly married last year – lives in Oregon and works in hair design.
The beautiful Jane is the daughter of my nephew Jeff and Carrie Fitzpatrick. She’s a student at University of Northern Iowa where she’s studying accounting. I’m counting on her to go to work and straighten out all those errant gluttons on Wall Street. Hope springs eternal.
Jane just finished a summer class in Corporation Finance. She living in Cedar Falls, Iowa while she’s in school. This summer, she’ll be working on campus and helping out at the summer theater on campus. I squirm to tell you that you can purchase tickets for the shows through Urinetown Tickets. Lovely. Remind me not to go there without an extra supply of Depends.
Jane has a boyfriend named Kyle Armbrecht who seems like a healthy and reasonably well-adjusted citizen of the great state of Iowa. (I was too, once, before I moved to a moister climate in Seattle and got stricken with mildew).
To keep from getting as rusty and creaky as some of us are, Jane is also going to be running a 5K race this summer. Go, girl!
Happy 21st birthday, Jane. But if you’re planning on celebrating in a bar, maybe you’d better have your I.D. ready!
It’s been said that there’s something about a wedding gown prettier than in any other gown in the world.
On the blobs this month, you’re going to be looking at the ten June brides our extended family produced, and with any luck, you’ll see the handsome grooms as well.
Today is the 11th wedding anniversary of my niece Elizabeth (Liz) Ford and her talented husband, Jack Klapper.
Liz and Jack were married in Cedar Rapids on June 3, 2000. Besides their beautiful wedding, we were celebrating Liz’s father, Bob Ford’s successful recovery from a serious illness.
Today, the couple lives in Iowa City, Iowa where Liz is the executive director of The Friends of the Animal Center Foundation, and where Jack is a musician. I didn’t get an update on Jack’s current work but I’ll try to add it soon.
They live in a nice neighborhood and I think they still have two dogs. One thing I’m sure of is that wherever my niece lives, the living space will be shared with other members of the animal kingdom.
Ever since she was a little tyke, Liz has managed to care for dogs, cats, horses, beavers, birds, and any other needy creatures that seem to come her way.
Liz’s middle name is Frances. That may explain why she continues to be dedicated to doing the work of the kindly St. Francis. Here’s a video of an interview in which she’s explaining the work she does. St. Francis would love it. It’s right down his alley.
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I hope you have a happy anniversary, Liz and Jack. As your elderly aunt, I should be able to come up with some profound wisdom on how to continue to live your healthy and productive lives, but all I can think of at the moment is that sage advice from Phyllis Diller:
I never liked driving them. My husband Gene, on the other hand, LOVED navigating anything on four wheels. In high school, Gene was known as “Jingles” because he always had at least one set of car keys jingling in his pocket.
Enter his wife-to-be. How did he get so lucky? Nearsighted, direction-impaired, and hostile to anything resembling a steering wheel, I wasn’t a car buff’s dream bride.
This is a photo of me in 1933 behind the wheel of the first car I ever drove. You can tell from the thumb-sucking how much I was enjoying it. Like getting a tetanus shot.
When we were first married, I managed to side-step Gene’s questions about “Why do you want to avoid learning to drive?” But eventually, he won out and forced me to get a driver’s license when I was 24 years old. We were the parents of sons Mark and Matthew by that time and Gene was convinced that the family was going to need another licensed driver.
We lived in Schenectady, New York at the time. New York had fearsome expectations as to the competence of those who would be awarded driver’s licenses. Not only did they administer an evil and tricky driving test, but you could only get four chances to pass it. After that, “You’re OUT!” I’m proud to say I only failed it three times. I finally passed on the fourth try primarily because that was the only one I completed without getting a Citation for Traffic Violation.
Once I had my well-deserved, hard-earned license safely secured in my hot sweaty billfold, I thought that would be the end of it. It never occurred to me that my New York license might not be accepted as valid in all other states and countries, like, say, in South Dakota or Mexico.
And indeed, the next place we lived was in Iowa where they had the good sense to appreciate the value of my splendid New York license, thus sparing me the ordeal of facing another driving test to prove my competency (or lack of).
We managed to deliver two more children in Iowa – Lisa and Susy. We only had one car so Gene had to do the grocery shopping and errands. With four pre-schoolers afoot, there wasn’t time to go anywhere, but I was nonetheless confident that if ever required, I could get out there and wrangle that silly old car, just as well as somebody who had good sense. I treasured the knowledge that after all, according to the sovereign States of New York and Iowa, I was a certified Licensed Driver.
Then we moved to Seattle and the axe fell. The State of Washington, I discovered to my horror, wouldn’t recognize any other state’s drivers’ licenses.( If I’d known that, we never would have moved here.) I learned that I would have to undergo a written exam and (shudder) another driving test conducted by an Inspector. I knew the jig was up.
I did the only thing I could think of. I got pregnant again.
As my girth expanded in that unfriendly gestational way, Gene persevered with his quest. “Patty”, he kept repeating, “We’ve got to go down and get you a driver’s license.”
“Soon”, I’d say. “Pretty soon, now. I have a plan.” I was doggedly working on “Plan A”, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to tell him about it.
“Well, when did you have in mind to execute this important plan?” he’d ask.
“Maybe next month?” I’d suggest hopefully.
And so it went, as I continued to polish and refine Plan A. . . . But, perhaps I should explain.
Whenever I neared the end of my pregnancies, I gradually turned into a whale. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Even other pregnant women, who were likely due to deliver their full-term twins at any moment, would try to get up to give me their seat on the bus.
I waited. Finally, on Friday, April 3, 1958, the obstetrician, Dr. MacKamy said the magic words. “Mrs. Ford”, he said. “If it doesn’t happen over the weekend, you’d better come in so we can induce the birth on Monday.”
“Doctor”, I said, “Can we make it Tuesday? There’s something I have to do on Monday.”
Gene, thrilled and relieved that his wife was finally going to fulfill her mission as a Real Adult, drove me to the Driver’s License testing place where I took a numbered ticket and sat down to await my turn. When my number was called, I stood at the chest-high counter and filled out the written exam and took the eye test.
Then the world’s crabbiest driving Inspector assigned to my number said, “Okay, let’s go do the driving test”. Then he stepped to the end of the counter and came around it to where I was standing.
To this day, I remember the look of shock and disbelief on his face. He was appalled. I think he was trying to figure out a way to escape having to deliver a newborn baby on his shift, but giving up, he muttered, “Oh, all right. Come this way.” And I, pure as the driven snow, innocently waddled right along after him.
The driving test was unusual even by my standards. I couldn’t do anything right. “You’re not supposed to have the seat so far back”, yelled the inspector.
“But, see here?” I tried to explain, pointing to my mammoth frontal architecture, “If I don’t sit back this far, there’s no room for my belly.” “Listen to me, lady,” yelled Mr. Crabby Inspector. When you put your foot on the gas, your shoe isn’t supposed to fall off.”
He was pretty much a nervous wreck by then, and so was I. It didn’t get any better. I still don’t think it was fair how sore he got when he told me to turn left at the next stop. It wasn’t my fault it was the wrong way down a one-way street.
The worst part though – the very worst – came when he said I had to park the car. I don’t approve of parking cars because I don’t think they’re supposed to go sideways like that. It never works.
The Inspector was such a bundle of nerves and rage by this time, that as nicely as I could, I at least tried. Once. And then twice. “Well, I’ll try one more time”, I said helpfully.
“Stop!”, he yelled. “Don’t try any more times. Don’t strain yourself any further, lady. This test is over.”
Leaving the car kind of jutting out in the street, we returned to the Motor License building. I’ve never seen a man’s face so ashen. Just because he was afraid he’d have to deliver a baby, for-goodness-sakes. Actually, my daughter Gretchen will never know how close she came to being born in a parking lot.
Dejected, I accompanied the quivering wreck of an Inspector back to the license counter. I was doomed. I was sure I had failed the test and would have to give up on Plan A and start working on Plan B.
But the next thing I knew, I was getting handed a cardboard temporary license. The clerk said I would be receiving the official one in the mail in a few days. I PASSED THE TEST. I PASSED IT!
Of course, the Inspector and I both knew why I had passed it. He was in fear and trembling that if I didn’t, I Would Return To Take The Test Again.
And I would of, too, because that was Plan B. According to Plan B, I was going to wait till after Baby Gretchen was born. Then I was going to have Gene drive us back down to the Motor Vehicles License place.
The scenario would be the same only when Mr. Cranky-Pants Inspector and I went out to the car for the driving test, there, waiting for us in the back seat sitting side-by-side would be my five pre-schoolers: Mark, Matthew, Lisa, Susy, and in her car bed, Baby Gretchen. All waiting in eager anticipation to enjoy watching and helping Mommy pass her driving test.
I know it would be an unforgettable day for Mr. Sourpuss Inspector.
Today is June 1st. That means it’s “Say Something Nice to Somebody Day” today.
I’ll go first.
Thank you for faithfully reading these blobs every day. The comments you write and the photos and stuff you contribute are the best part of my day. It makes me know you better – a payback I never expected when my grandson Bryce insisted on launching this blog last September 6th. Who knew?
As of today, there’s only 97 more postings to go before this going-on-80 blog ends next September 6th. Octo-woman will graduate at last to that venerable age of 80 at which time she plans to set aside her keyboard in order to take up a life of ill-begotten crime, dereliction, and carousing like you won’t believe.
In the meantime, I hope to continue to revel in discovering all the things I didn’t know about you before. I’m lucky to know you.
So happy June 1st. Don’t forget to say something nice to somebody today. And if you can’t think of anything, take some advice from Thumper.
The sun was shining for a few minutes today! I right away went outside and pulled up weeds, filling two whole baskets. If you know anyone who needs them, call me.
I am what’s known as a fair-weather gardener, except that that might suggest that I actually enjoy gardening in fair weather. I wouldn’t even enjoy gardening in the Garden of Eden. It’s only guilt that sends me out hoe in hand, grumbling and muttering semi-curse-words like “Oh, fudge”, and “O-to-hell-with-it”.
I have a rule. Gardening should only be performed when it’s kind of warm and when the sun is shining. The good thing about my rule is that as a resident of Seattle, I don’t have to practice it very often. But today was one of the days I couldn’t ignore, especially since we can no longer identify the back yard through the tangle of weeds that have invaded, and because, yes, the sun came out for a few minutes.
It didn’t get to 70 degrees – only 61. Last week it got to 70 degrees once but that was the first time since November 3, 2010. I’ve promised myself that I’m not going to gripe about the weather because of all the awful stuff going on in the southern and midwestern states.
On the other hand, I thought you should see this photo. It appeared this week in our local newspaper, The Seattle Times. Everybody in Seattle needs to be taking Vitamin D right now because every one of us is so sun-deprived. And so, it seems are our animal brethren.
This photo is of a bunch of our sea lions crowded together to get some rays on a buoy at Shilshole Marina. And then another guy tries to get on . . .
The caption reads: “With the Olympic Mountains in the background, a California sea lion, at left in the foreground, tries to join others who soaked up the sun recently on a moorage bay near Shilshole Marina on Puget Sound. The sea lion was rebuffed each time with loud barks from those already on board.”
It’s more than Memorial Day today. It’s also the second wedding anniversary of my great-niece Elizabeth Fitzpatrick Bush and CJ Bush.
Elizabeth is the youngest child of my nephew Tim Fitzpatrick. I haven’t seen her since she was four years old, but that doesn’t stop me from avidly stalking the internet or my nieces’ albums for any photos and intel I can find on her. Isn’t she a beauty?
Elizabeth and CJ were married in Cedar Rapids, Iowa on May 30, 2009.
Elizabeth and CJ are the co-authors of Adam and Olivia Bush shown here.
Never having met CJ, you might think I don’t have the nerve to give him (and Elizabeth) some advice. But hey, I’m Octo-woman. It’s my job. You need me guys. Follow this good advice from my internet research and you will find that the hazards of marriage are more than manageable.
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For CJ: HOW TO PLEASE A WOMAN
Compliment her. Respect her. Honor her. Cuddle her. Caress her. Love her. Kiss her. Stroke her. Buy things for her. Comfort her. Protect her. Hug her. Hold her. Spend money on her. Wine and dine her. Listen to her. Care for her. Stand by her. Support her. Hold her.
For Elizabeth: HOW TO PLEASE A MAN
Show up naked. Bring beer.
I really enjoy being helpful. It’s the least I can do.
Have a very happy anniversary, Elizabeth and CJ. I hope you have at least sixty more.
A few months ago, my brother-in-law Don Ford sent me this story. And it had been sent to him by Mary Bronson. Thanks to both of them.
If you know the story, you may also know that has been associated with “urban legend”, not because it’s not true, but because of confusion as to who really wrote and posted the original email. Shortly after the posting, the message went viral and during its promulgation, the author was mistakenly reported to be Major General Chuck Yeager.
According to ABC News on July 16, 2009, it was actually written by a man named Mark Pfiefer. It was he who met “Shifty”, the subject of the story in a Philadelphia airport. Pfiefer, who worked for Dow Jones at the time, said he had no idea the email would take on a life of its own. He just wanted those who received it to hold a private moment of silence as a memorial to Shifty.
This is the text of Pfiefer’s original email (I inserted photos from Wikipedia and http://www.findagrave.com):
One of the “Band of Brothers” soldiers died on June 17, 2009.
We’re hearing a lot today about big splashy memorial services. I want a nationwide memorial service for Darrell “Shifty” Powers.
Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Infantry. If you’ve seen Band of Brothers on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them.
I met Shifty in the Philadelphia airport several years ago. I didn’t know who he was at the time. I just saw an elderly gentleman having trouble reading his ticket. I offered to help, assured him that he was at the right gate, and noticed the “Screaming Eagle”, the symbol of the 101st Airborne, on his hat.
Making conversation, I asked him if he’d been in the 101st Airborne or if his son was serving. He said quietly that he had been in the 101st. I thanked him for his service, then asked him when he served, and how many jumps he made.
Quietly and humbly, he said “Well, I guess I signed up in 1941 or so, and was in until sometime in 1945 . . . ” at which point my heart skipped.
At that point, again, very humbly, he said “I made the 5 training jumps at Toccoa, and then jumped into Normandy . . . . do you know where Normandy is?” At this point my heart stopped.
I told him yes, I know exactly where Normandy was, and I know what D-Day was. At that point he said “I also made a second jump into Holland, into Arnhem.” I was standing with a genuine war hero . . . . and then I realized that it was June, just after the anniversary of D-Day.
I asked Shifty if he was on his way back from France, and he said “Yes. And it’s real sad because these days so few of the guys are left, and those that are, lots of them can’t make the trip.” My heart was in my throat and I didn’t know what to say.
I helped Shifty get onto the plane and then realized he was back in Coach, while I was in First Class. I sent the flight attendant back to get him and said that I wanted to switch seats. When Shifty came forward, I got up out of the seat and told him I wanted him to have it, that I’d take his in coach.
He said “No, son, you enjoy that seat. Just knowing that there are still some who remember what we did and still care is enough to make an old man very happy.” His eyes were filling up as he said it. And mine are brimming up now as I write this.
Shifty died on June 17 after fighting cancer.
There was no parade. No big event in Staples Center. No wall to wall back to back 24×7 news coverage. No weeping fans on television.
And that’s not right.
Let’s give Shifty his own Memorial service, online, in out own quiet way.Please forward this email to everyone you know. Especially to the veterans.
Staff Sergeant Darrell C. “Shifty” Powers (March 13, 1923 – June 17, 2009) was a non-commissioned officer with Easy Company, 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, in the 101st Airborne Division during World War II. Powers was portrayed in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers . . .
Powers was born in Clinchco, Dickenson County, Virginia and volunteered for the paratroopers . . . Shifty spent a great deal of time in the outdoors hunting game prior to joining the service. This later proved useful as many of the skills he obtained helped him as a soldier. He graduated from high school. Powers enlisted on August 14, 1942 at Richmond, Virginia.
Powers jumped into Normandy on D-Day, missing his drop zone. He eventually came in contact with Floyd Talbert and the two made their way to Easy Company.
He also participated in the Allied military operation Operation Market Garden in theNetherlands, and the Battle of the Bulge in Foy, Belgium. While in Foy, a German sniper shot three members of Easy Company, and everyone hid for cover. With the aid of C. Carwood Lipton, Shifty made a heroic attempt and silenced the German with his M1 right between the eyes. Company members say Powers saved many lives that day. He was generally considered to be the best shot in Easy Company.
One of his most truly remarkable achievements, and a testament to the extraordinary gifts his backwoods upbringing brought to Easy Company, was the story documented in the Ambrose book, Band of Brothers, about the time in Bastogne when Shifty mentioned to his commanding officer that he noticed a tree in the distant forest that was not there just the day before. The “tree” was ultimately discovered to be a camouflaged German artillery piece. Were it not for Shifty’s keen observations and outdoors experiences, many lives may have been lost, had that enemy weapon not been spotted from a distance of nearly a mile away and amongst a literal forest of other trees.
Because many men serving in the 101st lacked the minimum points required to return home, a lottery was put in place. Shifty Powers won this lottery after the rest of the company rigged it in his favor by removing their own names, and was set to return stateside.
During the trip to the airfield, the vehicle that Shifty was in was involved in an accident and he was badly injured. He spent many months recuperating in hospitals overseas while his comrades in arms arrived home long before he did.
Honorably discharged from the Army in the postwar demobilization, he became a machinist for the Clinchfield Coal Corporation.
. . . Powers died on June 17, 2009 of cancer in Dickenson County, Virginia. He is buried at Temple Hill Memorial Park, Castlewood, Russell County, Virginia.
