The sewing machine suicides

I never intended to pray to the iron idol--I'd had the scriptures quoted to me enough times. The meaning was very clear in those passages: don't rely on false gods to save you or to provide your eternal happiness. I must have gone wrong in the early, formative years.

My first sewing experience was with my mother's 50-year-old Singer. That machine weighed a ton; it had exactly one stitch type (straight--zigzag hadn't been invented yet); and it gave me a headache every time I went to thread it. It still does: the dratted thing refuses to die. (It will, however accept expensive tension repairs, light-bulb replacements, and quarts of sewing machine oil. It's the mechanical equivalent of a crabby miser who lingers at death's door for years, all the time enjoying the fun of making his downtrodden heirs miserable.) I was ten, and my mother had determined it was time for me to learn the feminine art of sewing. Or maybe I just complained too much about never having something new to wear. Whichever. She picked out the pattern--the fewest possible seams, no zipper, no buttons; she had realistic expectations of my aptitude. I chose the fabric--the brightest sock-you-in-the-eye yellow with strawberries I could find. We set to work. She demontrated the cutting, I tried my hand at it. She bought more fabric and cut it out herself. She showed me how to sew a seam. I copied her movements. She taught me how to unpick the seam I had sewn. The pattern (ye gads! terrible yet unintended pun!) of my sewing life had been set. I still have that dress folded carefully in my cedar chest, as a reminder of how far one can go astray even while using a pattern.

My next project, using the same machine, was required for a Home Ec grade. I received a D-.

I figured that nowhere in the rulebook of life did it state that Melia had to sew. All the sewing machines in the land breathed gratefully.

I went to college with a firm declaration of majoring in International Relations. I was going to bring peace to the world and enjoy the diplomatic life. My clothes would be expensively made by someone else. That was the plan. Until I learned a little something--almost enough for a D--about Economics, which was my downfall. I needed a new major. Flipping through the university catalog, I saw a class that sounded good--Costume History. Practically a guaranteed A, since I had been studying my mom's costume history textbook for years. (Three years later I earned a C+ in the class. It's a long story.) On the frail foundation of that one course requirement I selected my major: Theatrical Costume Design. I figured I would get some good, stimulating challenges, and there weren't too many sewing classes required.

The writers of university catalogs should be spanked.

I started sewing in classes the very next semester, and wasn't allowed to graduate until my fingers were callused, my eyes were squinty, and my posture was permanently ruined. Each time I turned in an article I had sewn, my teachers would wince, close their eyes--I swear they all went to inservice training for this maneuver--and say kindly, "You know, your creative ability exceeds your sewing aptitude." I persisted regardless of professorial pain. I sewed until 3 a.m. on graduation morning and had to sign a contract pledging myself to sewing my own wedding dress, blessing clothes for all my (then future) children, and prom dresses for at least 13 needy young women.

Along the way I acquired my first sewing machine. I received it from my mother, who had been given the beast five years before, and who had refused to touch it. Now I knew why. The tension was permanently off-kilter, the internal computer was programmed by a mad scientist, and the thing weighed 42 tons. On the plus side, I was able to take it in to the Physical Education department and receive a Weight-Training grade for lugging it around campus. Somehow, we came to an agreement and it--unwillingly, to be honest!--sewed all of my projects (some of which are still in wearable shape), all of my "I'm so sick of my clothes and tomorrow is Sunday" dresses, and some of the clothes I took on my mission. One week after I graduated, while I was in the middle of a tricky seam, it died. Out of sheer cussedness, I assume.

My second machine was bought soon after because I was getting married and needed to fulfill the terms of my graduation contract. It was bought for $99 and the price reflected the absence of anything resembling guts. It spluttered when I sewed chiffon, for Pete's sake. I had to drag thin cotton through its works, muttering curses under my breath. None of my children have hand-me-down homemade jeans, because fabric that thick would have spelled instant flaming death for my machine. It finally gave up the ghost while on my husband's workshop operating table. Its last whirrs were feeble and relieved. "At least she'll never flog me with a zipper again," it whispered in its last moments.

I searched the Internet for machine recommendations. The next victim would be sturdy and strong, capable of tearing through upholstery material, ripping through denim, and still delicate enough to make sweet Easter dresses. I chose and bought one, and loved it. I praised it to the skies. It had a self-threading mechanism! It had stretch stitch! It could sew anything! It gave up the ghost after 18 months! The repair man called it a bent bobbin spindle. I still maintain it died of jealousy. I had bought a serger the week before, and my poor Janome couldn't handle the division of affection.

I opened up my new machine's box today. I have costumes to make and banners to sew. Camp is coming up and my machine and I will become very close. My husband is already considering taking out a life-insurance policy on it.