I learned how to sew on my grandmother’s ancient Featherweight. It randomly shocked me with insidious electrical currents. Sewing was painful, but I persisted, knowing that Edith (my grandmother) never favored me one iota and that this was her way of reminding me (from the grave) that I was the low man on the grandchild totem pole.
When I turned 20, my generous mother-in-law bought me a Bernina. A BERNINA. It paid for itself within a year as I became a sewing dervish! Robes? No problem. Men’s shirts? How many? Quilts? I’m all over it. I loved that machine – the original steel workhorse. And no, I did not name it – it had too much of my respect to attach some cheesie name to it. Instead, it was simply and reverently referred to as, “the Bernina”.
Thirty odd years pass and the Significant Other bestows a new Bernina-with-bells-and-whistles upon me. I swoon and name it. I tuck the workhorse away in the closet next to the prickley featherweight. I don’t look back until the day that I hear the terrible metallic chink! And suddenly there is no knee action. Heaven and Hell cannot raise that foot. I tear my hair out, I have an anxiety attack, I take it to the machine shop and I sheepishly pull out the workhorse.
Two hundred dollars and three weeks later I am reunited with the machine which no longer deserves its name.
That sad event occurred nearly two years ago. Deja vu yesterday. Identical chink. Is it time to pull out the featherweight? Or should I sell my soul (and a few quilts) and buy a Juki w/o any computerized parts?
I have quilts to make!
Today’s Buzz: It is a very general belief that you must not swear at bees; they will either die or sting those who use bad language.
-from The Sacred Bee, Hilda Ransome