Last fall I took a course in memoir writing. Memoirs are not a recount of history, nor are they necessarily chronological. They are more like vignettes of memory from our life experiences – “word snapshots” if you will. Below is a brief vignette I wrote about my mother’s sewing machine.
I remember my mother’s sewing machine from my early childhood. It was antique even then. I think she got it from my grandmother. It was black; a Singer with a heavy, metal floor pedal and a hand-turned wheel. It smelled of old metal and oil. It was mounted on a dark base, but the motor ran smoothly, “whirring” without fail. I hated sewing with it. The bobbin thread always tangled. More often than not I would have to use the big, black handled scissors to untangle the bobbin thread rather than to cut fabric.
When I was perhaps seven years old I first used the machine to make a cloth pocket to keep my spare buttons in. The pocket was kept closed with another large black button. The fabric I used was a small piece of shiny, blue, floral rayon fabric from my Grandma Marie. She wore a dress from the same fabric. I sewed a number of projects at that old machine. But curiously, I don’t remember my mother ever sewing!
You may also like Don’t Worry Be Happy!
