The reason it all started

One evening near dusk two years ago, I sat inside on the stairs looking out the window as the snowy sweep of yard turned from white to a watery blue. My sister continued on the phone; her voice distant. There was something to it, something I couldn’t place. She’d been speaking of recent family events, but the one she had trouble putting into words was the sudden and unexpected death of her sewing machine. Days passed before I realized she was in mourning. She’d purchased that old, black, cast iron portable machine at an early summer flea market. The elderly gentleman selling it had asked Sis if she was a sew’er… and because she was, he let it go for seventeen fifty. After a good cleaning, a new needle, and a little oil, the machine worked through countless costumes and several hampers of garb, as well as two moves, an ex-husband and her daughter’s teenage years.

It wasn’t fancy but the old White model 77 sewed when newer machines failed. It‘d pass a needle through thicker material than most, and it laid down the tightest hem she’d even seen. To her, it wasn’t just a machine, opening the case was like a family album: a depository of stories and memories.

I waited a week before calling back and then asked if she could me send a list of machines she’d consider as a replacement. She didn’t sound keen on this, as if I’d suggested a new puppy a little too soon… but eventually she’d agreed and I promised to scan the local classifieds.

When her list arrived, it was short; maybe a half dozen models, and at the end as an after thought, or postscript, or even as a joke… she’d added a Singer model. This was odd because she’d always insisted she was allergic to them; explaining that for unknown reasons they were incompatible. Call it the wrong ergonomics or her own independent streak, either way she maintained being more productive with other brands.

When the snows melted and yard sales began to bloom I ventured out one Saturday. Following hand-painted yellow and black ‘sale’ signs I drove two miles up a wiggling back road that led into a dead-end valley in central Pa. There, in the inside corner of a weathered three-story barn, I found one of the machines on her list. The hand wheel turned and it appeared complete. The cabinet looked good and since all the drawers were stuffed full of sewing bits, I didn’t bicker the price. The seller asked fifteen dollars. I paid him, loaded it, and drove several minutes before I had enough cell signal to call Sis.

“You found one?” she asked.
“Yeah, I bought it.”
“H-h-how much?” she replied and I could hear concern in her voice.
“Fifteen?” I said, and she began to laugh.
“What?” I asked.
“You didn’t. You’re pulling my leg.”
“No, it’s here in truck.”
“You just bought a Singer 500A Rocketeer for fifteen dollars?”

Once she caught her breath, she explained that this model was somewhat difficult to find and desirable on the collectors market. She said I should purchase every fifteen-dollar Rocketeer I could find, and then, having finally found her composure she added, that she’d even go to twenty.

In the fall, when I finally delivered what I’d collected that summer, Sis wiped down the 500A, gave it a few drops of oil, and it sprang flawlessly to life. In one drawer she found the complete cam set and in another the manual laid tucked below a bevy of attachments. It was her first experience with a slant needle and it made a difference. She finally found a Singer that agrees with her.

Call it beginner’s luck, cosmic humor or my being terribly naive, but that summer I spent less than a hundred dollars on seven machines. They weren’t all on her list or fantastic deals. One or two needed more help than a few drops of oil, but collectively the experience became slightly addictive.

It wasn’t the thrill of the hunt as much as it was enjoying the moment, the occasional odd happenstance, and all the new people and places. Before I had time to say no, I dove into repairs, refinishing and maintenance and learned a lot of new things while saving a few old ones.