I grew up with my mother’s 1930s Singer sewing machine. It’s a classic—black with gold scrollwork, nestled in a solid walnut cabinet. I watched her pull out the arm hidden under the left side, flip the top open and secure it flat on the arm, then lift the machine out of its compartment. That’s all it took to get ready to sew.
She made most of my dresses when I was young. I can I still enjoy looking at the fabric from some of them. My grandmother used the leftover pieces in a quilt that I now have, stitching memories together with needle and thread. One of my favorite swatches features lavender and turquoise umbrellas. The dress Mother made from that fabric had a round collar, puffed sleeves and a smocked bodice. It was mid-century Illinois couture, and I loved it.
One Christmas Mother decided I was old enough to have a grown-up doll fourteen inches tall with auburn hair, a peachy porcelain complexion and blue eyes that opened and shut. The doll even had a wardrobe trunk fitted with coat hangers. On each one hung a dress made from the same fabric as my own frocks. When I realized Santa had left all of this for me, I was uncharacteristically speechless.
Later that day as I was rearranging the dresses in the trunk, it occurred to me that Santa must be my mother, since he could not possibly have had the very same assortment of fabrics that she did. When I asked her about it, she admitted that she and Dad were Santa. I took that revelation in stride. After all, how could a real Santa come up with anything more amazing than a doll with a closetful of clothes?
A decade later I was modeling for my father and younger brothers an Easter dress made from white cotton pique decorated with red strawberries. The boys couldn’t care less, but Dad was more attentive. He admired it then said, “Aren’t you grateful to have such a talented mother?”
I was—and still am.
Over the years Mother made more formal gowns for me, including a cream peau de soie prom dress bedecked with handmade flowers. She also created my wedding gown and bridesmaids’ dresses, along with those of my college roommate. When Dad oiled the machine beforehand to make sure it was shipshape, on Mother’s orders he exhibited extreme caution so that no errant oil would damage the costly fabrics. None did, and the results were spotlessly glorious.
Along the way Mother taught me to sew on her Singer. I learned all of the tricks—how to fill a bobbin, calibrate the thread tension and sew in a straight line a perfect distance from the edge.
It all came back to me when I was visiting her last fall, and she asked me to shorten a pair of pajama pants. Her eyesight was no longer good enough for her to sew on the Singer. Without a thought I opened the cabinet and set everything up as if I had done so the day before. In no time I was finished, and I found myself asking, “If you can’t use your sewing machine anymore, may I have it?”
“I would be thrilled if you would take it,” she replied.
Mother’s Singer is now in my spare bedroom. The cabinet has been refinished, and the machine still runs like a top. I am using it to add a new dimension to my collage greeting cards. But mostly I am happy to have this stalwart heirloom in my home, perched by a window in the morning sun.
Posted May 2, 2014