Out with the Old

More than forty years. That was the lifespan of the sewing machine my parents gave me when I became engaged. My mother knew I enjoyed sewing and anyway, to women of her generation, a sewing machine was a practical gift as was a sock darning egg. I’m pretty sure that today, mending of that type is an archaic concept.

I used that machine sporadically over the years. In a burst of energy, I sewed animal-shaped toys for babies, thankfully before instructions came down from on high that toys in a crib were a safety hazard. I sewed sheets to cover a piece of foam cut to the size of the sail locker that served as our baby’s sleeping quarters during our Pacific crossing. Over the years, I constructed a few costumes. Our eldest daughter learned to sew on that machine (something her younger siblings showed no interest in doing) and I even occasionally did a bit of mending.

When the machine stopped zigging and zagging or even producing a straight line, it had earned its retirement. It was exciting to get a replacement, one which boasted features that were unknown or uncommon forty years earlier.

After producing two dresses, six aprons, and a few other projects over five years that are hardly evidence of overwork, that machine has now taken what I label as an early retirement. In the middle of a time-sensitive undertaking it viciously snapped three needles, making it clear that it was under the weather. Let’s be clear—I am not terribly skilled. Yet, I take inordinate satisfaction in creating, even if the results are amateurish. The machine wasn’t the cheapest available, but neither was it meant for professional usage. Its abilities were very much on par with my earlier machine. Its lifespan was not.

Considering its youth, I looked into getting it repaired. Tallying the cost and the wait time for the repair, replacing rather than repairing made the most sense. Yet thinking of a sewing machine as a disposable item pains me. It troubles me that I am not giving business to the family-run Sew and Vac store of a type that I assume is becoming obsolete.

Two days later, my husband asked whether I had raised the temperature in our refrigerator as his juice didn’t seem as cold as usual. The fully defrosted soup containers in the freezer were a clue that another appliance had laid down its load. Once again, this machine gave valiant service, lasting through two moves and many years. And once again, the newer model that will replace it warns not to expect it to stay long enough to grow attached.

There are many tools that I have never owned: a butter churn, a washboard, an icebox. Each of those had a lifespan the paralleled that of its owner. My grandmother was known to wash and reuse aluminum foil. She couldn’t accept the wastefulness of a ‘one and done.’ I am grateful for the inventions that save me time and effort. But I am still adjusting to the notion that major appliances are now, routinely, like aluminum foil, frequently recurring purchases.

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