Last night after dinner was like a bonus evening of sorts. My husband was happily watching football. The kids were playing quietly, but it wasn't a school night, so there was no rush to get bags packed and checked, clothes laid out, alarms set.
I went down to the basement and found the box, the one holding the sewing machine my mother gave me almost six years ago, for my last birthday before she died. She ran across it being sold by the Shenandoah County School District for the grand sum of $10. We were so tickled by that.
She had tried to teach me how to use her machine when I was maybe five, but the very first day I sewed straight through my pinkie nail and into my pinkie and swore it off. This one was to be my second try, more than twenty years later. She was going to get well and then teach me how to use it, but it didn't quite work out that way.
Last night I finally took it out of the box for the first time. I cleaned it. I plugged the pedal into the machine and the cord into the wall. And then I opened the little booklet that came with it and began to read.
I'm not going to lie to you: SEVEN STEPS just to thread the needle almost killed me; there's no hope of me ever using the double-needle stitches. Oh, and my first line looks like it was made by a madman or a drunk, but the second one is less crooked. And my zigzag stitch came out loose on top, but I called my amazing (both as a seamstress and as a friend) Vieve, and she told me over the phone how to tighten the tension. And I stink at backstitching, but I can practice.
Thank you, Mom. I love it. I love you.