Restoring Cleopatra
My sewing machine died. It was a fancy computerized electronic thing that could do everything except serve you breakfast in bed. I'd used it several years, sewing many miles of stitches from basic repairs to outfitting the Anson High School Show Choir. The past two weeks, it has been languishing in a sewing machine repair shop, while the repairman searches for a tiny part that is as difficult to find as a pair of Birkenstocks on the rack in Walmart. Like many products made in the past several years, I'm sure it was designed to be replaced instead of repaired. Meanwhile, I wanted to sew. While I was stuck inside during the recent icy weather, it occurred to me that I had another sewing machine. It was an old treadle Singer that I bought for $35 at an estate auction. It had belonged to my great-great-aunt Mary Austin. Her sister, Emma, was my Grandma Eula Belle's mother. When I purchased the machine about 25 years ago, it was still threaded, as though Aunt Mary had b...