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| Power Style Wellness Connections |
Sometimes we don’t know how precious things are until they’re gone.
Take, for example, my old sewing machine.
By Mary Cartledgehayes
Two years ago my compadre and I were planning a trip to Ohio to see my parents. On
the phone, Mother mentioned in passing that her sewing machine had quit working.
“I think I wore it out,” she said.
“You can have mine,” I said. “I’ll bring it with us this weekend.”
It was the ideal solution. Mother wouldn’t lose any time learning how to operate the
machine, because ours were identical.
“Your machine? But don’t you use it?”
“Mom, I can’t remember the last time I sewed anything. Maybe 1998. Maybe even earlier
than that.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
And I was. I was sure when I loaded it into the car, sure when I carried it into my parents’
house, sure when I left it there on our departure. I was sure all the way up to the next
morning when I woke up thinking, “Oh, dear. There’s no sewing machine in the house.”
What constitutes a well-kept household? The answer varies with the practitioner. For
one person, it’s the tops of door moldings passing the white-glove test. For another, it’s
never running out of peanut butter and toilet paper. Some people require order; others
need newspapers piled in a corner and the odd sock draped over a chair arm. I’m the
flexible sort except, it turns out, when it comes to sewing machines.
I tried to reason with myself. Why buy a new machine when I didn’t use the old one and
had no projects in mind? How foolish is that? But that’s the point of toys, isn’t it? Just
because they aren’t practical doesn’t mean they aren’t important.
You’d be surprised at the capabilities of sewing machines these days. Some embroider.
The new computerized long-arm quilting machines barely need a human being to
operate them. I, however, am not far removed from the first machine I bought for $15 in
Columbus, Ohio. It sewed a perfect stitch, was the fastest machine I’ve ever used, and
weighed about 150 pounds. (Back then, they made ‘em to last.) Five years later I
upgraded to a machine that could stitch in reverse with the push of a button. With my
third machine — the one I gave to Mother — I got zigzag capabilities. My newest machine
is a basic model that does everything I need, and also houses an additional 50 fancy
stitches I’ll never use.
The point here is that well-ordered households — mine, if not yours — require the
presence of a sewing machine. The problem with toys, though, is that once you have
one you want to play with it. Which is half the story of how I came to start quilting.
The other half of the story began the previous autumn when Mother asked me to find a
particular fabric for her. Soon after, I drove past a quilt shop. You need to know that
while I’ve always treasured women’s handiwork, I’ve never wanted an actual quilt in my
own personal home. Also, I’d missed the revolution that freed textile artists to leave
threads hanging, to combine clashing prints, and to embellish their work with everything
from beads to bark. In truth, I thought quilt shops sold quilts and, possibly, quilting
machines. Therefore, I was unprepared when I stepped over the threshold and entered
into a wonderland of color.
Five thousand bolts of fabric lined the walls, and oh! you should see them! Solids and
plaids and batiks, polka dots and stripes and prints. And oh! what prints! Cats, dogs,
carrots, bunnies, boats, bicycles, trains, planes, chickens, eggs, roses, hyacinths, tulips,
shoes, slippers, sneakers, boots, basketball players, pirates, piano keys, sunsets, skies,
stars, and smiley faces. Bolts of prints stood on end through the center area and, on the
sides, bolts of solids formed a rainbow from front to back. Best of all, small hunks of
fabric — 18 by 22 inches, they’re called fat quarters — were cut, folded, and waiting for
me to purchase them. Which I did. It was so much fun that I went in search of other quilt
shops and other fat quarters. Pretty soon I started thinking, “This is ridiculous. I either
have to stop buying fat quarters or start making something with them.” And then came
my new sewing machine.
What else could I do? I made a quilt. Then I made another one. Then my grandson
Devin came to visit and with him on the sewing machine and me on the iron we made a
quilt for him. We started a second one, for Mother’s Aunt Vinola, who was turning 100.
Since then I’ve made everything from bed quilts to fabric postcards to fiber artworks
based on my walks beside Beargrass Creek.
That one toy (the sewing machine) begat more toys: rubber stamps, beads, fringe, and
all sorts of funny little findings. My life brims with color, shape, texture, and more and
prettier things draped over the arms of chairs. And isn’t that the point of grown-up toys?
To keep us open to the world around us, connected to other people, and — above all —
alive to new possibilities.
MARY CARTLEDGEHAYES IS A REGULAR WRITER FOR Today’s Woman.
Take, for example, my old sewing machine.
By Mary Cartledgehayes
Two years ago my compadre and I were planning a trip to Ohio to see my parents. On
the phone, Mother mentioned in passing that her sewing machine had quit working.
“I think I wore it out,” she said.
“You can have mine,” I said. “I’ll bring it with us this weekend.”
It was the ideal solution. Mother wouldn’t lose any time learning how to operate the
machine, because ours were identical.
“Your machine? But don’t you use it?”
“Mom, I can’t remember the last time I sewed anything. Maybe 1998. Maybe even earlier
than that.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
And I was. I was sure when I loaded it into the car, sure when I carried it into my parents’
house, sure when I left it there on our departure. I was sure all the way up to the next
morning when I woke up thinking, “Oh, dear. There’s no sewing machine in the house.”
What constitutes a well-kept household? The answer varies with the practitioner. For
one person, it’s the tops of door moldings passing the white-glove test. For another, it’s
never running out of peanut butter and toilet paper. Some people require order; others
need newspapers piled in a corner and the odd sock draped over a chair arm. I’m the
flexible sort except, it turns out, when it comes to sewing machines.
I tried to reason with myself. Why buy a new machine when I didn’t use the old one and
had no projects in mind? How foolish is that? But that’s the point of toys, isn’t it? Just
because they aren’t practical doesn’t mean they aren’t important.
You’d be surprised at the capabilities of sewing machines these days. Some embroider.
The new computerized long-arm quilting machines barely need a human being to
operate them. I, however, am not far removed from the first machine I bought for $15 in
Columbus, Ohio. It sewed a perfect stitch, was the fastest machine I’ve ever used, and
weighed about 150 pounds. (Back then, they made ‘em to last.) Five years later I
upgraded to a machine that could stitch in reverse with the push of a button. With my
third machine — the one I gave to Mother — I got zigzag capabilities. My newest machine
is a basic model that does everything I need, and also houses an additional 50 fancy
stitches I’ll never use.
The point here is that well-ordered households — mine, if not yours — require the
presence of a sewing machine. The problem with toys, though, is that once you have
one you want to play with it. Which is half the story of how I came to start quilting.
The other half of the story began the previous autumn when Mother asked me to find a
particular fabric for her. Soon after, I drove past a quilt shop. You need to know that
while I’ve always treasured women’s handiwork, I’ve never wanted an actual quilt in my
own personal home. Also, I’d missed the revolution that freed textile artists to leave
threads hanging, to combine clashing prints, and to embellish their work with everything
from beads to bark. In truth, I thought quilt shops sold quilts and, possibly, quilting
machines. Therefore, I was unprepared when I stepped over the threshold and entered
into a wonderland of color.
Five thousand bolts of fabric lined the walls, and oh! you should see them! Solids and
plaids and batiks, polka dots and stripes and prints. And oh! what prints! Cats, dogs,
carrots, bunnies, boats, bicycles, trains, planes, chickens, eggs, roses, hyacinths, tulips,
shoes, slippers, sneakers, boots, basketball players, pirates, piano keys, sunsets, skies,
stars, and smiley faces. Bolts of prints stood on end through the center area and, on the
sides, bolts of solids formed a rainbow from front to back. Best of all, small hunks of
fabric — 18 by 22 inches, they’re called fat quarters — were cut, folded, and waiting for
me to purchase them. Which I did. It was so much fun that I went in search of other quilt
shops and other fat quarters. Pretty soon I started thinking, “This is ridiculous. I either
have to stop buying fat quarters or start making something with them.” And then came
my new sewing machine.
What else could I do? I made a quilt. Then I made another one. Then my grandson
Devin came to visit and with him on the sewing machine and me on the iron we made a
quilt for him. We started a second one, for Mother’s Aunt Vinola, who was turning 100.
Since then I’ve made everything from bed quilts to fabric postcards to fiber artworks
based on my walks beside Beargrass Creek.
That one toy (the sewing machine) begat more toys: rubber stamps, beads, fringe, and
all sorts of funny little findings. My life brims with color, shape, texture, and more and
prettier things draped over the arms of chairs. And isn’t that the point of grown-up toys?
To keep us open to the world around us, connected to other people, and — above all —
alive to new possibilities.
MARY CARTLEDGEHAYES IS A REGULAR WRITER FOR Today’s Woman.
