The other night when I was preparing material to be cut into strips for my weaving, it struck me that my sewing machine is almost as old as I am….
My Mom bought it on time payments when I was 3 or 4 years old and I can still remember the day she got it home. It probably arrived by bus and Dad more than likely picked it up at the store where all freight was delivered. In those days he only had a moped for transportation but I think it’s safe to surmise that he brought it home on the back of Mom’s bicycle.
The box was placed on the kitchen table and Mom unpacked the sewing machine she had dreamed about for a great many years. The cabinet – domed and shiny dark brown in those days – was the most beautiful thing I had seen. My nose was hanging on the edge of the table if I stood on my tippy-toes and I distinctly remember thinking that this was the most expensive item our little family would ever afford to purchase. Despite my tender age, I was well aware of the finite character of my father’s wages as a lumberjack – and my mother’s constant struggle to perform wonders by making money, food and everything else last as far as possible.
From that day on I very rarely had ready-made clothing. Mom always figured that she could make everything cheaper herself – and above all much better quality! Not only that – she could sew everything so there would be room to grow in…
Oh, how I hated the dresses with 4-inch hems!
Pants with seam allowances that made bulges over my non-existent hips!
Jackets made from hand-me-down men’s coats!
Anorak in Hunter’s Green (cheaper) instead of the “in” colour Royal Blue (expensive)!
Admittedly, Mom was an accomplished seamstress and would frequently be asked to sew for various ladies of better means. Everything she made was beautifully crafted (and made to last!) but this was not something I could appreciate. I so wanted to be dressed like everyone else, I didn’t want pants and jackets that would never wear out!
This went on until I was in my early teens and I believe the home-sewn clothing was one of the reasons why I got my first paid summer job only 13 years old. I was bound and determined to have my own money to do with as I pleased – even if it meant cleaning the scuzzy toilets in someone else’s house!
Almost 30 years later when I returned from Canada, my mother had bought herself a new sewing machine. Her old one had been bouncing around between my Sis and Bro but eventually it got its “retirement home” in my house. Here it will remain, it now has a place of honour in my studio and I use it quite often. The cabinet is scuffed and even the black, shiny metal has some nicks and scratches. The motor is far from quiet but it can still handle 4-fold jean material and only needs a bit of oil every now and then. There is no computer chip that go tits up, only a drive belt from the motor which needs replacing once in a blue moon.
Like I said – we’re about the same age the two of us, but don’t make me say whether I or the sewing machine has weathered the years best!
