Earlier this
week I was happily sitting upstairs at my desk, still in my pyjamas, drinking my
mid-morning coffee and reading blogs, when there was a knock at the kitchen
door. Despite my protests at my state of undress, DH insisted on my coming
downstairs, where I was greeted by my youngest sister who dragged me
outside to see the surprise she had found for me for my birthday next week.
There, on the
makeshift bench by the door, sat an old hand sewing machine, which she had just
found outside the local antique shop and snapped up, knowing that I had been
searching for just such a machine to replace my hated modern electronic one.
Now it is sitting on the table in the conservatory while I clean and polish it, before trying it out for the first time.
Having checked a specialist website on old sewing machines, we believe it was made in the late
1920s, and in its probably chequered career it has lost all its spare bobbins
and the key to its lovely wooden case. While DH ferreted among his hoard of ‘things that may come in useful’ for a substitute key, I went off to search through
my crammed and untidy sewing-box for any bobbins left over from the ancient
Singer treadle machine, which, in a fit of temporary insanity, I long-ago
replaced with the modern monster.
After an
exhaustive search I did indeed find a spare bobbin, which will soon be residing
in the nifty accessories compartment in the sewing machine base, along with packs
of almost vintage machine needles. However this was only the beginning.
Having gradually
emptied the entire contents of the sewing-box onto the spare bed in my search
for the bobbin, I found myself trapped in a hoard of almost-forgotten bits and
pieces, heavy with memories and nostalgia.
First there were
the buttons, so many buttons. Spare buttons from clothes long gone, including probably
almost every suit or shirt DH ever wore in his working career. Cards of buttons
from abandoned knitting or sewing projects, mute testimony to my ability to get
distracted, and a medley of old buttons, obviously kept just because they were attractive
or unusual.
Among these were three
small, pretty, flowered buttons, which catapulted me back to our first married
home and the flowered maternity dress my mother made for me and which I wore
during both my pregnancies.
Then there was a
chaos of hooks-and-eyes and press-studs (remember them?) and spare zips and
bits of Velcro, and even the odd buckle from the children’s sandals, kept just
in case…. Tangled among these was a somewhat dusty length of black velvet ribbon,
which I last wore nearly forty years ago, when it did duty as a necktie for the
academic dress required for me to attend the formal ceremony at which I belatedly received my degree.
In another
compartment lurked the battered, curved top of what had once been a brass
darning-mushroom, together with a small, heavy, horseshoe magnet for picking up
dropped pins and needles. Both of these once belonged to my grandmother and
were passed on to me by my mother for my little sewing kit, when I left home for
college in the mid-1960s.
With those was
the now battered felt needle-case or hussif, made as a Christmas gift for me by
DD when still at primary school. The inner 'pages' are now rust-marked and one
of the appliquéd holly-leaves is missing, but I still treasure it.
Finally, at the
very bottom of the box, hidden under the dressmaking scissors and pinking
shears, I discovered a couple of the tiny garments I made on my old treadle
machine for DD’s Barbie doll back in our impecunious youth. I even made a
snowsuit from old sheeting for DS’s Action Man, but that has sadly vanished.
Perhaps I should
stop teasing DH for being such a hoarder, as I try to
convince myself that what I've been hoarding aren't just things, but
irreplaceable memories.
