Dusting off the Sewing Machine

Hiding in the spare room closet was my sewing machine. It was given to me by my sister-in-law when she graduated to a more sophisticated model. Also in the closet was an old slipcover for an Ikea couch; I have one bedroom of my house set up as a sitting room, with a television, bookcase and a stash of yarn.

The slipcover had some stains and other signs of wear, but I thought the big panel of pristine, pretty fabric that covered the back of the couch could be used for something. Maybe I would recycle it into kitchen curtains, an apron, or a runner for my pine cabinet.

Finally, last weekend, I set up the sewing machine and checked the manual to remind myself how to fill the bobbin. If you have been to my Facebook page lately, you'll already know that I resorted to a online video in order to figure out how to properly insert the bobbin case into the sewing machine. It seems the little arm needs to point upwards and gets a bit huffy in any other position.  It told me so, by tangling and mangling thread. Many times, before I discovered the correct method.

I opted to make two large, envelope style cushion covers with the fabric, to replace very worn ones. Straight seams, nothing fancy, not a button hole or zipper to be found; that's the sort of project I wanted.

While working away, my mind wandered.

I thought about being in school and learning to sew in grades 7 and 8. 

I thought about my mother and how she'd tell people that, when I was a child, she'd have to be very careful about tidying up her sewing because I'd once found a thread and hoped that she was making me a granny gown for Christmas (She did). 

I thought about how Mom took sewing lessons when I was a baby, in order to make clothing for herself and for me and how her teacher told her she did a good job.

I thought about the ruffle on the pink floral nightgown I made in Grade 7 and how my teacher chose it as one of  many items to show at the Frontenac Mall. I remember standing in front of the glass display cabinet with my parents.

I thought about, in my forties, asking my mom if she'd make me a granny gown. When getting the fabric, my father asked, "You're not going to make her just one, are you?" Two were under the tree.

My plans were to complete a simple sewing project. I hadn't anticipated the memories that would arise. Perhaps you find the same sort of thing occurs when you engage in a particular activity.

My fingers remembered how to ease the fabric along under the needle and I enjoyed playing with a little sewing. The quality of  the workmanship is far from perfect, but I like the feeling of accomplishment making two new covers gave me.

What next?