I saw the notice that today was National Sewing Machine Day – an appliance that has always been dear to my heart. Google says that June 13th honors the invention of the sewing machine and the people who have improved it over the years. It cites 150 years of revolutionizing the clothing industry and the ease with which one can learn to sew and get new clothes. That is all true, but it doesn’t get to the heart of things.
I still have the old treadle machine that belonged to a grandmother I never knew and a Pfaff that Allen bought for a wonderful surprise birthday present when I had worn the previous Singer 404 completely out (a thirty-years earlier surprise birthday present). I cried as the Singer drew its last breath, and Al knew immediately what he was getting me for the next big occasion.
My grandmother’s treadle machine, probably a wonder to her, is only a keepsake to me. I have sewed on a treadle briefly, using my mother-in-law’s machine occasionally before that first Singer birthday gift. I did not consider it a wonder! In my earliest memories, Mama had her grandmother’s cranky treadle. She would not allow me to use it for fear it would turn me against sewing permanently. In my tenth grade year, a special on electric sewing machines allowed her to get one that sewed straight stitches and a basic zig-zag – no frills. But finally, I was allowed to learn to sew. Maybe it was waiting so long that made me an eager student, but Mama no longer needed to sew for me!
The Singer was a wonder and touted as the best machine on the market when Allen gave it to me. The memories lingered long after it was gone, beginning with sisters.
· My first sister learned to sew when I did and needed no help.
· The next sister – nameless but the elegant one who has spent her adult life in New Albany, MS – couched her request as a favor to me when she presented me with two patterns and asked, “Which one of these had you rather use to make me a dress?” With those tactics, she was well dressed for her first years of college.
· The last sister looked smart for her senior year activities in dresses I made from elegant leftover fabric given to me by the bridal designer I free-lanced for during our six-month assignment in New Jersey.
· A four-year-old son looked sharp in a black suit created on that sewing machine as ring-bearer in his aunt’s wedding.
· A son needed an outfit to be Uncle Sam for the kindergarten bicentennial program.
· The list goes on but escalates when we get to the daughter. We went clothes shopping during her growing up years, but it was only to eye-ball and get ideas about which collar or sleeve would look good as she adjusted the pattern for the fabric she chose. She seemed to go with the idea that her clothes were hand-made rather than home-made. It reached a fever pitch for her high school graduation dress when she chose the hardest pattern in the book and delicate white fabric. My protest was met with, “It’s okay, Mom, you can do it.” And I did.
· If I thought that was the ultimate, I should have looked ahead to a wedding dress, bridesmaid’s dresses, candle-lighter’s dresses, and mother-of-the-bride dress.
Truthfully, it was all fun. The Singer died shortly after the wedding extravaganza. Allen said you don’t cry over a sewing machine, but he had not put as many memories into it as I had. I have loved the Pfaff that replaced it but it has fit Google’s practical definition of easing my life without adding the heart. If it dies, I probably will agree with Al that you don’t cry over a sewing machine.
Now to celebrate this day properly, I think I’ll go run a seam on that Pfaff!