“What is causing these little holes….I don’t wear belts and it’s not my washing machine” How To Fix A Hole In Clothing Without Sewing

Fixing a hole in clothing without sewing is a simple process that can save your favorite garments from being discarded. This method involves using a fusing web, which is readily available at stores like Walmart and most craft outlets. Here’s a quick guide to patching up holes without the need for sewing:

Prepare the Clothing: Begin by turning the clothing item inside-out. This allows you to work directly on the area around the hole without affecting the garment’s exterior appearance.
Cut the Fusing Web: Obtain a piece of fusing web and cut a small piece that is slightly larger than the hole you’re aiming to repair. This ensures complete coverage of the damaged area.
Position the Fusing Web: Gently push the fabric surrounding the hole together, closing up the gap as much as possible. Place the cut piece of fusing web over the now aligned hole.
Iron the Patch: Set your iron to the “wool” setting for optimal heat. To protect both the iron and the fabric, place a piece of wax paper over the fusing web and the hole. Press the iron onto the wax paper, fusing web, and fabric for about 10 seconds. This heat will activate the fusing web, causing it to adhere to the fabric and close the hole.
By following these steps, you can effectively patch small holes in your clothing without any sewing. This not only extends the life of your garments but also saves you time and effort.

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A crying teenage girl begged bikers at the gas station for protection, and everyone inside was already calling 911 thinking bikers were harassing her. I watched from my truck as the leather-clad riders formed a tight circle around her. She couldn’t have been more than 15, barefoot and shaking in a torn dress. The station attendant was frantically gesturing at his phone, telling whoever was on the other end that “a biker gang was kidnapping some girl.” But I knew better. I’d seen what happened five minutes earlier that nobody else had witnessed. The girl had stumbled out of a black sedan that had peeled away the second she closed the door. She’d collapsed next to pump three, crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. That’s when Thunder Road MC had pulled in for gas – all 47 of them on their annual charity ride. I’m Marcus, 67 years old, been riding since I came back from Vietnam in ’73. That morning, I was driving my truck instead of riding because my bike was in the shop. Been a member of Thunder Road for thirty-two years, but nobody recognized me without my cut and helmet. The lead rider, Big John, had spotted the girl first. John’s 71, former Marine, has four daughters of his own. He’d immediately killed his engine and walked toward her, hands visible and moving slow. “Miss? You okay?” His voice was gentle, nothing like the growl most people expected from a 280-pound biker. The girl had looked up, mascara streaming down her face, and started backing away. “Please don’t hurt me,” she’d whispered. “Please, I won’t tell anyone anything.” That’s when the other riders had dismounted. Not aggressively – they’d formed a protective circle with their backs to her, facing outward. It’s something we’d learned to do at charity events when kids got overwhelmed. Create a safe space. Tank, our road captain, had taken off his leather jacket despite the forty-degree morning. He’d laid it on the ground near the girl, then backed away. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” Tank had said. “But you look cold. That’s my jacket if you want it.” I saw her grab the jacket and pull it around her shoulders. It swallowed her whole – Tank’s 6’4″ and built like his nickname suggests. But inside the gas station, people were panicking. Two customers had fled to their cars. The attendant was now on his second phone call, probably to every cop in the county. I decided to walk closer, pretending to check my tire pressure at the air pump. “What’s your name, darling?” Big John was asking, still keeping his distance. “Ashley,” the girl managed between sobs. “I… I need to get home. I need to get to my mom.” “Where’s home?” “Millerville. It’s… it’s about two hours from here.” I saw the bikers exchange glances. Millerville was completely opposite from where we were headed for the toy run. “How’d you end up here, Ashley?” Tank asked. The girl started crying harder. “I was so stupid. I met him online. He said… he said he was seventeen. He picked me up last night for a movie. But he wasn’t seventeen. He was old, like maybe thirty. And he didn’t take me to any movie.” My blood ran cold. Every biker there stood a little straighter. “He took me to some house. There were other men there. They……. (continue reading in the C0MMENT)

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