It gives me a great sense of accomplishment to be able to thread my sewing machine. Seeing as I only use it a few times a year, it’s a miracle I remember how to snake the thread along the correct path, around the hook, behind the thing-a-ma-jig and finally through the needle.
I can’t really sew and only made a B+ on the skirt I made in 9th grade Home Economics class. Required to wear our creations to school, I carried my skirt in a paper bag and snuck into the bathroom before class to put it on, then changed back out of it as soon as possible. Although I’m no Natalie Chanin, I am a master at sewing straight lines. This means I can make curtains, pillows, and stitch around tablecloths. My grandmother, who sewed all four of her daughter’s poufy dresses and many of my clothes, would roll her eyes at my definition of “sewing,” but the little bit I know makes me feel more domestic than cooking dumplings from scratch.
I had the sewing machine out one day years ago when my youngest son took an interest. He’s the curious sort and wanted to look at all the levers and switches. As soon as I said, “Be careful, it has sharp parts,” he was highly motivated to use this new dangerous piece of heavy equipment. At one time, my husband’s father owned an upholstery shop, so we told our son about Pop’s giant machines and after a quick tutorial, he was off and sewing.
I figured he would just play around with some basic stitches, then be done with it, but about an hour later . . . click HERE to finish the story.