I've spent the last year dealing with Chronic Lyme Disease. I've only actually known what I was dealing with for about six months, but enough of that. Onward and upward, with a 5/8" seam allowance.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sewing by the Lyme-light
I have a blog. That was something I'd forgotten. Doesn't that seem unbelievable? But really, I had forgotten all about it. I found a mention of it in an email from December of last year, and then I had to find it. Then I had to recover the password, with the poor people at Blogger thinking I'm crazy. I'm excited about this. I'm going to get with it, get this space up to speed. I still have three followers! That makes me smile.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A Pattern Language, lost in translation
I enjoyed reading a SG post about a 17 year old guy sewing. I was that guy too. The post makes me think of being a junior in high school, To paraphrase Janis Ian, at seventeen I was frustrated by the seven pages that contained the "Unisex/Mens" patterns in almost all the pattern catalogs. How many vests and pajamas did they really think I needed? I improvised. I bought thrift store Levi's bought for the leather labels. I bought RTW, took it home, pin traced it, and then returned it for a refund. Back home to start the trial and error, the learning curve. A Guess? denim jacket comes to mind. It had massive sleeves with leather straps to cinch the sleeves and waist, horsehide overlay at the yoke, big shoulders. It was The Cure and Van Halen intersecting in the form of a jacket...it was 1984. I had to buy the jacket for the straps and the hide, then draft the jacket, buy the denim, put it together. I did it. It looked great. It fit perfectly. It cost a fortune. Luckily for me, my mother, following what was a great idea from a Eunice Farmer column, gave me the ability to purchase the yardage and notions I needed with the arrangment that she would reimburse me the cost of goods when I'd completed the project. I blew the budget on this one I'm sure. And my mother was on a girl's weekend when I finished the jacket. I had enought in this jacket to buy a well-made suit in the end. It was Saturday and I had all my money, and them some, tied up in this jacket. I'll never forget touching up the pressing before I headed out the door. My father walked into the sewing room, pulled out his wallet, and asked me how much he owed me for my jacket. How cool was that?
All this improvisation certainly made me a better drafter and a more determined sewer. I was going to do it or die. I had the benefit of input from my mother and, when I was really stumped, the 70-something year old retired tailor who worked two days a week at our dry cleaner. It was an ongoing lesson. That jacket was the lesson that wouldn't end. Everything had been pre-shrunk. I'd done everthing right. And after the first dry cleaning, when it was all too evident that the sleeves, cut on the same grainline in this ring-spun denim, had two areas of warp threads that were, until now, impreceptively off-grain and now were trying to be spirals, the jacket ended up deconstructed and reconstructed with leather sleeves. Lessons learned.
Right now you'll find an interesting Chaddo by Ralph Rucci designed dress in the current Vogue catalog; forward looking with great use of details. I'm not going to need it, thanks. I do appreciate the idea of fitting with those large pintucks - and all the details on the linguini, double cloth seams, etc. in the Threads article on Ralph Rucci. I'll work that into something, I hope. $16.50 is all you need to have a go at that dress. I can save $1.50 and pick-up pattern 2836, Vogue Men, jacket and pants. Loose-fitting jacket, full and very straight legged pants with pleats and cuffs - it would be a trip back to 1990. That suit was, for me, that Ralph Rucci dress; fresh, stylish, on trend. I drafted one. I wore it to a wedding, and the bride had leg of mutton sleeves, sleeves as big as her hair. M.C. Hammer had just released "You Can't Touch This". Paula Abdul had a hit in the top ten with "Opposites Attract". People didn't drive SUV's. I had long hair, really long. I had hair. And how well I remember 52 inches at the chest and 35 1/2 inches at the waist, the loose jacket with the lower armsyces; a great look for me, the tent jacket...and, of course, I didn't need a muslin because I was in a hurry and didn't have the time and knew what I was doing and it was going to work out so well with this great wool I'd spent too much money to buy on a trip to London. and was still trying to fix it as I walked out the door to get to the church...maybe a thread on expensive lessons learned at SG is in order...how could I forget that suit. What, dear reader, were you wearing in 1990. Can you identify it in the latest Vogue catalog? Not quite vintage, yet. I bet Vogue pattern number 2836 will still be in print when it becomes so.
I just checked the BWOF site and found, in the new for spring 2009 section, a (a, not a few, not some...LOL) pattern for men. A jacket. Jean jacket variation, with zippered pockets on the chest? Michael Jackson, I recall, had one of those, and parachute pants. (Note that I'm on record as NEVER WEARING PARACHUTE PANTS, NOT EVEN ONCE.)
Maybe the economic woes will create a bit more demand for Mens patterns. They can have the "Unisex". Who wants to wear something that doesn't know what it is. Mens patterns, maybe ten pages, or eleven. That would be great.
All this improvisation certainly made me a better drafter and a more determined sewer. I was going to do it or die. I had the benefit of input from my mother and, when I was really stumped, the 70-something year old retired tailor who worked two days a week at our dry cleaner. It was an ongoing lesson. That jacket was the lesson that wouldn't end. Everything had been pre-shrunk. I'd done everthing right. And after the first dry cleaning, when it was all too evident that the sleeves, cut on the same grainline in this ring-spun denim, had two areas of warp threads that were, until now, impreceptively off-grain and now were trying to be spirals, the jacket ended up deconstructed and reconstructed with leather sleeves. Lessons learned.
Right now you'll find an interesting Chaddo by Ralph Rucci designed dress in the current Vogue catalog; forward looking with great use of details. I'm not going to need it, thanks. I do appreciate the idea of fitting with those large pintucks - and all the details on the linguini, double cloth seams, etc. in the Threads article on Ralph Rucci. I'll work that into something, I hope. $16.50 is all you need to have a go at that dress. I can save $1.50 and pick-up pattern 2836, Vogue Men, jacket and pants. Loose-fitting jacket, full and very straight legged pants with pleats and cuffs - it would be a trip back to 1990. That suit was, for me, that Ralph Rucci dress; fresh, stylish, on trend. I drafted one. I wore it to a wedding, and the bride had leg of mutton sleeves, sleeves as big as her hair. M.C. Hammer had just released "You Can't Touch This". Paula Abdul had a hit in the top ten with "Opposites Attract". People didn't drive SUV's. I had long hair, really long. I had hair. And how well I remember 52 inches at the chest and 35 1/2 inches at the waist, the loose jacket with the lower armsyces; a great look for me, the tent jacket...and, of course, I didn't need a muslin because I was in a hurry and didn't have the time and knew what I was doing and it was going to work out so well with this great wool I'd spent too much money to buy on a trip to London. and was still trying to fix it as I walked out the door to get to the church...maybe a thread on expensive lessons learned at SG is in order...how could I forget that suit. What, dear reader, were you wearing in 1990. Can you identify it in the latest Vogue catalog? Not quite vintage, yet. I bet Vogue pattern number 2836 will still be in print when it becomes so.
I just checked the BWOF site and found, in the new for spring 2009 section, a (a, not a few, not some...LOL) pattern for men. A jacket. Jean jacket variation, with zippered pockets on the chest? Michael Jackson, I recall, had one of those, and parachute pants. (Note that I'm on record as NEVER WEARING PARACHUTE PANTS, NOT EVEN ONCE.)
Maybe the economic woes will create a bit more demand for Mens patterns. They can have the "Unisex". Who wants to wear something that doesn't know what it is. Mens patterns, maybe ten pages, or eleven. That would be great.
Seen but not believed...
A friend and fellow stitcher, in the the market for a used machine, asked me to have a look at eBay and get back to her if I found anything I thought was noteworty. I did. Contained in a listing for a Bernina Virtuosa 160:
The machine is in great working order but does have a few flaws. We got the machine fro a retiring tailor who wasn't much on keeping things in order. It has 3 of its original 6 feet, An optional accessory, The RUFFLER/PLEATING attachment, The arm cover / attachment tray and the foot control & cord. It is missing some feet, The bobbin door cover, knee lift arm and instruction book. You can get these items at any bernina store for around $100.
While I think we'd all agree the $100.00 figure is inasanely optimistic, the machine could still be made whole. But then I realized the machine had a larger issue:
My Bernina wasn't offered with the ashtray. I feel cheated, bitter.
The machine is in great working order but does have a few flaws. We got the machine fro a retiring tailor who wasn't much on keeping things in order. It has 3 of its original 6 feet, An optional accessory, The RUFFLER/PLEATING attachment, The arm cover / attachment tray and the foot control & cord. It is missing some feet, The bobbin door cover, knee lift arm and instruction book. You can get these items at any bernina store for around $100.
While I think we'd all agree the $100.00 figure is inasanely optimistic, the machine could still be made whole. But then I realized the machine had a larger issue:
My Bernina wasn't offered with the ashtray. I feel cheated, bitter.
Friday, January 9, 2009
A Foggy Notion
Writing this post makes me feel, at once, ungrateful and sad and euphoric. Conflicted should be added to that list, don't you think? In December of 2003 dear friend of mine began living with the effects of chemotherapy as she underwent treatment for breast cancer. Her hair is really, though it's difficult to explain, an integral part of her personality. After a two weeks of searching, it was evident that wigs were not going to be a very good option as no wig seemed to fit. It was bad. An uncertain future, given the stage of the cancer, was enough to live with on a daily basis. Baldness in the dead of winter was one of those issues that, though from a distant perspective might seem minor, in the moment quite acute. Baldness was critical mass, the tipping point: We were witnessing a meltdown.
It was difficult to consider, as a friend. I think, by and large, those who sew are those also inclined to "fix". We create, we repair, we reinforce. I'm always a bit more aware than most of not fitting the average, the standard. My friend had issues with wigs because her head as not a "normal" shape. Someone actually made the mistake of saying that to her. In all likelihood, that statement was not intended as derogatory, but, given the circumstances...
I totally understood this situation. I empathized with her. I wear a size fifteen or sixteen shoe. The idea of walking into Nordstroms, or anywhere else, picking the shoe I like, and then telling the clerk, "Yes, I'd like to try this in a sixteen." More pertinent to this situation, when I played football in high school my helmet had to be custom made by the same company that provided custom helmets to the NFL. When all the players were getting measured for standard helmets and it was my turn, the guy taking the orders measured the circumference of my head. Then he measured it again. Then he looked at the coach and said, "Pat, this one's going to take a lot of bake sales to pay for it. " He wasn't kidding.
So, being someone else with a not "normal" head, being someone who doesn't take things sitting down but rather gets up and goes to work, I had to do something. At 3:30 am on a Saturday morning, I'm awakened by the dog. He's managed, somehow, to put himself in an awkward position: His head is stuck inside my duvet cover, between two of the buttons; of course consequent duvet covers are designed to ameliorate this unforeseen issue, but then, no. He's barking and whining. I'm laughing. It's quite a bit of hat for even a big dog. Hat, big, hmm. It's, to paraphrase Eudora Welty, the moment of illumination. Hats. I'd made a few in college, in that theater arts class, the class I wanted to take because I wanted to build sets, work rigging, set flies - not the type with zippers. It didn't work that way. I happened to take my jacket off in one of the first classes and someone noticed the free motion embroidered label "James-o 1987". The questions followed, and I was suddenly project leader for costuming and not very happy about it. (And everyone paid for that in pin pricks, sticks, and some selective over fitting.) I could make hats.
Make hats I did, starting at that moment. Floppy hats, tall hats, wide brimmed hats, snoods, rain hats, dress hats, formal hats, holiday hats, hats in calico, hats in ermine from an old coat found at the thrift store, hats from a Pucci dress my mother had kept despite the cleaners ruining one of the sleeves in 1973 - just in case. I put someone in charge of an exhaustive search for every one's "no longer needed" cashmere sweaters and flannel anything - warm, soft lining for the hats. A hat made from neckties provided by the all the guys she worked with, then another made from a pastiche of some bridesmaids dresses provided by the women she worked with - perhaps the best use I can imagine for a bridesmaid's dress; a hat from an exquisite piece of hand worked black linen, and, the one I will never forget, the hat and purse made from the Hermes scarf a woman who I didn't know, who didn't know my friend, who happened to strike up a conversation with me at the fabric store, took from around her shoulders, put into my hands, and pointed me toward the perfect tweed to compliment the design.
All that generosity, people stepping up and doing something because they could, they would, and they should. My machine was enabling more than just the joining of seams, it was facilitating the joining of people. It was making it possible to make it a little bit more bearable for someone who had too much to bear, almost.
The great news is it all worked out in the end. The hats, for the most part, were donated to hospice, given to support groups, sent out to do what they did for someone who needed it. They no longer fit my friend since she had, once again, that integral part of her personality. And the generosity goes on, too. Last night, by surprise, as part of the celebration of the five year mark, someone dropped a wrapped box on my screen porch. Inside was a gift card for fabric and tons of sewing notions: pins, needles, bobbins, hook and eyes, bias tape...name it, it's in there. I was so touched. I wish I knew who to thank even as I love the fact that someone just did it because they could, they should, they would.
Now comes the rub. We're finally getting to the foggy part of this. It took me a while. I haven't bought notions in a long time. I was lucky in finding myself with a pocket full of Christmas money and a mother load flea market find about ten years ago. Schmetz needles, pins in every shape and size, tracing paper, buttons, closures, zippers, bobbins, all good stuff, and all had cheap. It was notion nirvana. I loaded up with this stuff. It's not like pins go bad. This morning I was fiddling around with some silk for a necktie, and did realize pins can, after ten years, go missing. So, the box of loot was well timed, indeed. But the pins, in a Dritz package, aren't the same as the old Dritz pins. They're softer, some of them don't have heads, some of them don't have points, they feel almost fragile when compared to my old pins.
I started comparing items in the box to the items in my stash: Old bobbins so smooth with a nice weight and perfectly symmetrical, new bobbins that look pitted with no weight and a tendency to wobble across my cutting table more than role across the table; safety pins in the stash so sturdy and secure when fastened, new safety pins with closures that actually spin around on the tops of the pins; t-pins in the stash so fine and smooth yet sturdy enough to drive like nails, the new t-pins, perhaps the worst of the new lot, some not straight, some rough, some with burrs, mostly with not quite even t's, t's just begging to pick, snag, and make my crazy. These aren't Wal-Mart notions - I'm very anti-Wal-Mart. Everyone knows that if they know me. These notions were purchased in a specialty shop as a special gift from a special friend. This was a special act. Sadly, the notions, try as they might, just can't seem to be special. I'm left feeling gratefully perplexed. It's a foggy notion, yes, but it's where I am.
It was difficult to consider, as a friend. I think, by and large, those who sew are those also inclined to "fix". We create, we repair, we reinforce. I'm always a bit more aware than most of not fitting the average, the standard. My friend had issues with wigs because her head as not a "normal" shape. Someone actually made the mistake of saying that to her. In all likelihood, that statement was not intended as derogatory, but, given the circumstances...
I totally understood this situation. I empathized with her. I wear a size fifteen or sixteen shoe. The idea of walking into Nordstroms, or anywhere else, picking the shoe I like, and then telling the clerk, "Yes, I'd like to try this in a sixteen." More pertinent to this situation, when I played football in high school my helmet had to be custom made by the same company that provided custom helmets to the NFL. When all the players were getting measured for standard helmets and it was my turn, the guy taking the orders measured the circumference of my head. Then he measured it again. Then he looked at the coach and said, "Pat, this one's going to take a lot of bake sales to pay for it. " He wasn't kidding.
So, being someone else with a not "normal" head, being someone who doesn't take things sitting down but rather gets up and goes to work, I had to do something. At 3:30 am on a Saturday morning, I'm awakened by the dog. He's managed, somehow, to put himself in an awkward position: His head is stuck inside my duvet cover, between two of the buttons; of course consequent duvet covers are designed to ameliorate this unforeseen issue, but then, no. He's barking and whining. I'm laughing. It's quite a bit of hat for even a big dog. Hat, big, hmm. It's, to paraphrase Eudora Welty, the moment of illumination. Hats. I'd made a few in college, in that theater arts class, the class I wanted to take because I wanted to build sets, work rigging, set flies - not the type with zippers. It didn't work that way. I happened to take my jacket off in one of the first classes and someone noticed the free motion embroidered label "James-o 1987". The questions followed, and I was suddenly project leader for costuming and not very happy about it. (And everyone paid for that in pin pricks, sticks, and some selective over fitting.) I could make hats.
Make hats I did, starting at that moment. Floppy hats, tall hats, wide brimmed hats, snoods, rain hats, dress hats, formal hats, holiday hats, hats in calico, hats in ermine from an old coat found at the thrift store, hats from a Pucci dress my mother had kept despite the cleaners ruining one of the sleeves in 1973 - just in case. I put someone in charge of an exhaustive search for every one's "no longer needed" cashmere sweaters and flannel anything - warm, soft lining for the hats. A hat made from neckties provided by the all the guys she worked with, then another made from a pastiche of some bridesmaids dresses provided by the women she worked with - perhaps the best use I can imagine for a bridesmaid's dress; a hat from an exquisite piece of hand worked black linen, and, the one I will never forget, the hat and purse made from the Hermes scarf a woman who I didn't know, who didn't know my friend, who happened to strike up a conversation with me at the fabric store, took from around her shoulders, put into my hands, and pointed me toward the perfect tweed to compliment the design.
All that generosity, people stepping up and doing something because they could, they would, and they should. My machine was enabling more than just the joining of seams, it was facilitating the joining of people. It was making it possible to make it a little bit more bearable for someone who had too much to bear, almost.
The great news is it all worked out in the end. The hats, for the most part, were donated to hospice, given to support groups, sent out to do what they did for someone who needed it. They no longer fit my friend since she had, once again, that integral part of her personality. And the generosity goes on, too. Last night, by surprise, as part of the celebration of the five year mark, someone dropped a wrapped box on my screen porch. Inside was a gift card for fabric and tons of sewing notions: pins, needles, bobbins, hook and eyes, bias tape...name it, it's in there. I was so touched. I wish I knew who to thank even as I love the fact that someone just did it because they could, they should, they would.
Now comes the rub. We're finally getting to the foggy part of this. It took me a while. I haven't bought notions in a long time. I was lucky in finding myself with a pocket full of Christmas money and a mother load flea market find about ten years ago. Schmetz needles, pins in every shape and size, tracing paper, buttons, closures, zippers, bobbins, all good stuff, and all had cheap. It was notion nirvana. I loaded up with this stuff. It's not like pins go bad. This morning I was fiddling around with some silk for a necktie, and did realize pins can, after ten years, go missing. So, the box of loot was well timed, indeed. But the pins, in a Dritz package, aren't the same as the old Dritz pins. They're softer, some of them don't have heads, some of them don't have points, they feel almost fragile when compared to my old pins.
I started comparing items in the box to the items in my stash: Old bobbins so smooth with a nice weight and perfectly symmetrical, new bobbins that look pitted with no weight and a tendency to wobble across my cutting table more than role across the table; safety pins in the stash so sturdy and secure when fastened, new safety pins with closures that actually spin around on the tops of the pins; t-pins in the stash so fine and smooth yet sturdy enough to drive like nails, the new t-pins, perhaps the worst of the new lot, some not straight, some rough, some with burrs, mostly with not quite even t's, t's just begging to pick, snag, and make my crazy. These aren't Wal-Mart notions - I'm very anti-Wal-Mart. Everyone knows that if they know me. These notions were purchased in a specialty shop as a special gift from a special friend. This was a special act. Sadly, the notions, try as they might, just can't seem to be special. I'm left feeling gratefully perplexed. It's a foggy notion, yes, but it's where I am.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The P Word
A title that gets attention...it reminds me of sitting in a journalism class, circa 1987, my mind wondering, as it is wont to do. The day that comes to mind is a Thursday, just before Thanksgiving. I was resenting this 75 minute class. Boredom washed the entire south end of the campus into a bad gray; gray that looked perfect on the bolt, but then manages the icky, dead on arrival green cast the moment it hits the cutting table.
I felt the need to be back in my dorm room, cutting and pinning and planning. I'd decided I didn't have room for my sewing machine and it remained, at the ready, back home. The pile of things cut and pinned had grown like weeds. It was all going home for a marathon sewing session. I didn't really like the idea of no sewing machine, but it was a concession to practicality and to physics: the law of conservation of matter indicated nothing else could make it's way into the dorm room. I couldn't argue with the law of conservation of matter. The only known loop hole in the law regards atomic chain reactions. My New Home 920 wasn't nuclear, still isn't. So much for the loop hole.
I missed sewing. It would have been the perfect foil to Rugby practice. Better still, when the urge, the inspiration, the moment occurred, I could flip the switch, press the foot control, and set set the machine that moves imagination to reality into motion. But the space issue was a big one...the space small, the stereo was not...who remembers the rack systems with the 300 watt speakers and five or six "components". Having no sewing machine was one thing, having no stereo was impossible. I took pride in my stereo and the ability contained therein to shake the dorm with Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Vivaldi, The Smiths, or, if I really felt devious, the album of George Jones and Tammy Wynette...their greatest hits, no less.
The class finally ended. In the fifteen minutes I had to make it across campus to Non-Euclidian Geometry, with the professor who didn't believe in an attendence policy, I made my way to the dorm, changed clothes, and went for a run. Perfect day for a run. Me, thoughts of pinning and planning, and the English Beat in my cassette Walkman making our way. Not running to, not running from, just running, just getting the rush, just shaking off the boredom.
Halfway into the journey, I cut through a side street, into this great old neighboorhood, the kind of neighboorhood where the trees lining the streets overarch. I love that way that looks in the late fall, the trees, just bare and stippling the sky. I'm looking at the sky as I nearly run into a pile of junk spilling forth from the driveway of the house beside me. Then I saw it. It looked like a sewing machine case, 50's era, hardsided, with the leather handle afixed to the top, the toggles on hold the base and the lid together at the sides. Naturally, I'm looking into this.
I opened the case and died laughing. I reached for the handwheel, it turned. The presser foot moved, the feed dogs barked, the manual, the box containing the attachemts, all there. A Greist buttonholer with not just the four feet that came with it, but additional feet, including the "new" eyelet template. God looks after children and fools. I was nineteen. You, kind reader, may decide on that score.
So, halfway through my run I'm now running-ish with a Morse "Lightweight" - 30 pounds with case, but the price you pay for all metal gears - sewing machine in it's case. I'm thinking about what fun this is going to be. The machine was nearly thrown in front of me. It was clearly meant to be. The space issue, hmm, that's tricky, but I'm not accepting the oppression of issues like that, not while I'm running-ish down the street carrying a sewing machine. I kept laughing. It was ridiculous. It was such an endorphin rush. People watching me at intersections, wondering what was in the box. I just laughed. It was all coming together in my head. This machine was perfect for me. It suited who I was: this 6'4" guy with shoulders as wide as a seat and half in coach class, running down the street with a sewing machine, thinking of the rugby jersey that needed the sleeve cap reattached and the pile of planning and pinning and the thrill of rescuing this Morse "Lightweight" - no one knew what to do with it, so they sent it out into the world. I knew what to do with it. I would make people wonder. People have a hard time fitting me into a category. I would name the machine Enigma. And Enigma would do his part to perpetuate the wonder. Enigma was vivid lilac PINK.
I felt the need to be back in my dorm room, cutting and pinning and planning. I'd decided I didn't have room for my sewing machine and it remained, at the ready, back home. The pile of things cut and pinned had grown like weeds. It was all going home for a marathon sewing session. I didn't really like the idea of no sewing machine, but it was a concession to practicality and to physics: the law of conservation of matter indicated nothing else could make it's way into the dorm room. I couldn't argue with the law of conservation of matter. The only known loop hole in the law regards atomic chain reactions. My New Home 920 wasn't nuclear, still isn't. So much for the loop hole.
I missed sewing. It would have been the perfect foil to Rugby practice. Better still, when the urge, the inspiration, the moment occurred, I could flip the switch, press the foot control, and set set the machine that moves imagination to reality into motion. But the space issue was a big one...the space small, the stereo was not...who remembers the rack systems with the 300 watt speakers and five or six "components". Having no sewing machine was one thing, having no stereo was impossible. I took pride in my stereo and the ability contained therein to shake the dorm with Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Vivaldi, The Smiths, or, if I really felt devious, the album of George Jones and Tammy Wynette...their greatest hits, no less.
The class finally ended. In the fifteen minutes I had to make it across campus to Non-Euclidian Geometry, with the professor who didn't believe in an attendence policy, I made my way to the dorm, changed clothes, and went for a run. Perfect day for a run. Me, thoughts of pinning and planning, and the English Beat in my cassette Walkman making our way. Not running to, not running from, just running, just getting the rush, just shaking off the boredom.
Halfway into the journey, I cut through a side street, into this great old neighboorhood, the kind of neighboorhood where the trees lining the streets overarch. I love that way that looks in the late fall, the trees, just bare and stippling the sky. I'm looking at the sky as I nearly run into a pile of junk spilling forth from the driveway of the house beside me. Then I saw it. It looked like a sewing machine case, 50's era, hardsided, with the leather handle afixed to the top, the toggles on hold the base and the lid together at the sides. Naturally, I'm looking into this.
I opened the case and died laughing. I reached for the handwheel, it turned. The presser foot moved, the feed dogs barked, the manual, the box containing the attachemts, all there. A Greist buttonholer with not just the four feet that came with it, but additional feet, including the "new" eyelet template. God looks after children and fools. I was nineteen. You, kind reader, may decide on that score.
So, halfway through my run I'm now running-ish with a Morse "Lightweight" - 30 pounds with case, but the price you pay for all metal gears - sewing machine in it's case. I'm thinking about what fun this is going to be. The machine was nearly thrown in front of me. It was clearly meant to be. The space issue, hmm, that's tricky, but I'm not accepting the oppression of issues like that, not while I'm running-ish down the street carrying a sewing machine. I kept laughing. It was ridiculous. It was such an endorphin rush. People watching me at intersections, wondering what was in the box. I just laughed. It was all coming together in my head. This machine was perfect for me. It suited who I was: this 6'4" guy with shoulders as wide as a seat and half in coach class, running down the street with a sewing machine, thinking of the rugby jersey that needed the sleeve cap reattached and the pile of planning and pinning and the thrill of rescuing this Morse "Lightweight" - no one knew what to do with it, so they sent it out into the world. I knew what to do with it. I would make people wonder. People have a hard time fitting me into a category. I would name the machine Enigma. And Enigma would do his part to perpetuate the wonder. Enigma was vivid lilac PINK.
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