My Junky Old Sewing Machine

When my parents got divorced my mom sewed little velvet bags to hold crystals and denim shirts with quilt patterns on the back. She sold them on consignment to The Contemporary Craftsman, a tiny boutique of handmaid items in our neighborhood to make ends meet as a newly single mom.

I always watched her sew but I never officially learned. Anyone who’s ever used a sewing machine knows that, though machine-sewing makes the process more efficient and effective, sewing machines are complicated. Threading a sewing machine incorrectly can, at best completely sideline a project and at worst, break the machine. 

When I was a senior in high school I started using my mom’s sewing machine regularly. I hemmed pants, altered shirts, and reconfigured skirts and dresses. I used my mom’s machine (without asking) all the time. Several times I jammed the needle, abandoned the project, and left the sewing machine for my mom to deal with when she went to use it. Each time she’d ask me what happened. I’d confess to using the machine and she’d ask me to please ask for help so that it didn’t happen again. After a few times of Mom lugging her sewing machine down to Sears for repair, she asked me to stop using it.

There were so many reasons why I didn’t just ask my mom for help. I was stubborn and independent. On top of that, I had a complicated relationship with my mom. I thought I was too old for a sewing lesson. I thought I knew what I was doing. Even though my mom sewed some of our clothes when we were little and had made part of her livelihood sewing, I didn’t think she could teach me anything I didn’t already know. 

One weekend when my mom and stepdad were out of town I used her machine. I jammed it again and tried repeatedly to fix it. After multiple failed attempts and still not being able to fix the machine, I asked my sister to drive me to Sears. I found the appliance department and dropped off my mom’s machine. I didn’t know I’d have to leave it indefinitely. 

When my mom returned, she asked where her machine was. I had to confess that it was at Sears waiting for repair. When Mom finally picked up the machine and brought it home she made a proposal, “Laura,” she said, “if you spend some time with me learning how to follow a pattern and sew the pattern with me on my sewing machine, I will buy you your own sewing machine to take to college.”

I agreed right away. In my high school mind, a sewing machine was a major piece of equipment and I was psyched! My sister had a silver silk gypsy skirt that I loved and often borrowed. I told Mom that I wanted to try to replicate that. 

One weekend we went to the fabric store and found a pattern and some silver material (polyester because silk was way too pricey for a first-time project). When we got home Mom brought her sewing machine from the basement up to our dining room table and we started working. First, she showed me how to lay out and cut the pattern. Then how to pin the pattern to the fabric and cut the pieces. And finally, she taught me how to thread the machine, adjust the tension, and manage the pressure foot.

I can’t remember how long it took us to sew the skirt — maybe a few days, maybe weeks — but we finished it. In the end, I didn’t like the skirt. It didn’t hang and flow like my sister’s, but I’d completed a pattern and my mom bought me the sewing machine. And we’d done something together. I’d let her teach me something she knew and it was fun. And it’s a memory that comes back to me every time I sew.

That was thirty-five years ago. I packed my sewing machine in the trunk of my grandmother’s Oldsmobile when I graduated from college and my sister and I drove cross country to start our adult lives. I’ve sewn consistently since then — clothes for my daughter, quilts, hats, aprons, and a million other random projects. I know my machine like an old, trusted friend.

I live three thousand miles away from the Sears that used to fix my mom’s machine when I broke it. But my machine has needed fixing many times over the decades. I’ve taken my machine to get repaired and serviced countless times in my own city. When I go to the shop to pick up my old beater I always look at all of the shiny new machines and wonder if I should upgrade to one of those self-threading numbers. But I never do.

My sewing machine is a part of my history, a vessel that holds memories of my mom being my mom and me being her daughter. I learned to sew on that machine and I never stopped. I’ve taught my own daughter to sew on that machine and maybe one day she’ll teach her daughter to sew.

My mom gifted me with a skill that I’ve used hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Recently, I went to visit her at her snowbird house in Arizona where she has a new sewing machine. She rarely uses it. “It’s too complicated,” she told me, “not like her old one.”