Sandy Supposes....

I'm Not A Sewing Machine Wrangler

Bard's Hall #4

         Well, June is here again. I know, I know it comes around once a year. The timing of its arrival is a nod to a pattern. How apropos then that I’d discover that June thirteenth is Sewing Machine Day. Despite opportunities and a seamstress in the family, I never did learn to translate a pattern into anything useful, or recognizable. My meager efforts were half-hearted and they only succeeded in fraying my nerves.

         How does one celebrate Sewing Machine Day? Is there a Hallmark greeting card? Should I invite a sewing machine to lunch? Could I phone a florist and order a bouquet of flowers? What flowers are associated with this? Forget-me-nots? Oh, I know. Aren’t there flowers known as buttons? Since I raised this question I investigated. Yes, a lovely bloom exists and is known as bachelor button. But, do sewing machines like to receive gifts? Should I purchase something more practical like a new needle, or a spool of thread?

         Here’s the thing. I do not actually share my home with a sewing machine. Am I expected to go find one and offer to spend time with it? Are there borrowing agencies similar to a library? Could I sign one out after promising that no harm would befall it? What on earth would we do to pass the time? I do not speak ‘sewingnese.’ I’m not adept with one either.

         Oh, my maternal grandmother earned a living as a seamstress coaxing temperamental sewing machines to cooperate with her vision. She attempted to school me in this mystic art. I balked. I resisted. My mind wandered and blanked. What’s that expression? In one ear and out the other.

         I failed to learn anything . Over and over, Nanny demonstrated how to thread the contraption, and over and over the thread would snap and I’d forget her patient instructions.

         That thread had to be slipped through a doohickey and then squeezed into a whatchamacallit. Somewhere it twisted ‘round a thingamabob and headed for the needle. Yes, I recognized the shiny, pointy, moving thing as a needle. Oh, and under the needle inside a port lay a bobbin. A fun word to say, but still a mystery to me. Why did the thread insist upon snapping? Why was it so delicate and filament-like? And if by some miracle it stayed temporarily attached, why did it snarl? Ugh!

         Here is where I confess that I am not the least bit coordinated. Rarely have all four of my limbs cooperated as a cohesive team. To operate said sewing machine one of my feet had to volunteer, er, I mean control a foot pedal, the floor-placed gizmo my Nanny did not like me calling an accelerator. To describe it as finicky is an understatement. I’m certain the wee bit of pressure exerted by my baby toe caused it to rev and race. Holding my breath did not help either.

         I never cared for the sharp, stabbing material-piercer whirring up and down. I did grasp the concept of feeding cloth to the needle, but I never placed my vulnerable fingers anywhere near it. I suppose this did explain the bunching and knots. In spite of my dismal efforts, my seams were never what anyone could deem straight. I created a hitch in my stitch.

         That particular sewing machine and I never developed a rapport, an understanding. I still believe it smelled my fear.

         Perhaps it’s for the best if I miss Sewing Machine Day. I enjoy a wonderful life free of this ornery hunk of metal and I do not wish for my status quo to unravel. Thanks Nanny, we know I’m no sewing machine wrangler. My snippets never amounted to much. My eldest daughter Carrie adopted your ol’ work horse and she has stitched together a mutually beneficial partnership. Over the years she has offered to set me up with the ‘family heirloom’, but I refused to accept. It’s thriving in its present home. Why sever their common thread?