Back in the day I would sew a lot. Dresses, cowboy shirts for my boyfriends. My father would shriek when he found one of my pins in the carpet with his feet. (Our house was pretty tiny and still is, as it hasn't changed much from 30 years ago). Sorry. Today I resumed a sewing project, the first in oh, about 30 years. Wait, 40. The needle hurts my finger because I was trying to make French seams and I can't quite remember how to and need to roll those over and hem by hand. And oh, the puckers. I was reminded of my Aunt Nancy who would hand-sew pajamas while she watched the OJ trial, ensconced in her North Hollywood apartment. I'll tell you what: I shall never be on Project Runway and I fear my days of Vogue tailoring (actually, a level I never quite reached) are but a dream. Making a few pillows here and there, placemats, and the like, maybe (being incredibly myopic makes it a little easier to thread the needle). I inherited from Louise Johnson about 10 cigar boxes of antique threads and odd buttons. If you can give me any suggestions for them, please advise.