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A few weeks ago, for my birthday, my family gave me a new sewing machine.

It wasn’t a surprise because I had to pick out the one I wanted to replacing my much-beloved older machine.

I have missed having a working sewing machine for the past year or so, a sentiment I am sure my mother never thought I’d express — ever.

The summer I was 14, my mother, desiring to teach me a skill she knew would benefit me in the future, declared that I was going to learn to sew. She helped me pick out the blue-and-white-striped strawberry material for a simple sundress I would learn to sew under her supervision. 

I had no interest in sewing. Learning how to fill the bobbin, thread the machine or, even worse, having to tear out my mistakes was torturous to me.

I fought the process of learning step by step. My mother desired to teach me a skill, but I wanted to be anywhere besides sitting at that sewing machine.

Eventually, after a few weeks of what seemed to be an endless process, a sundress took shape.  Although it was nice to wear to church and school, I had no desire to repeat the process again anytime soon.

The reprieve did not last long. Once again, with my best interest at heart, my mother insisted  I needed to take home economics in ninth grade. Part of home economics was learning how to sew.

 When the time came for me to conquer the sewing portion of the class, my mother, working within the teacher’s guidelines, helped me pick out a shirt pattern and the materials I would need. 

Through the following weeks, while at school, I followed the sewing directions.  My mother even came to school during my class offering extra help as needed, ensuring I would actually end up with a shirt that would be wearable. 

With the shirt finished, I figured my life as a seamstress was over.  I knew a little bit about how to sew, but it wasn’t my thing.  I walked away knowing I had at least tried.

Years later, about the time I was preparing to have my first child, one of my mother’s friends was selling her old machine for $10.  It was set in a sewing table, similar to my mom’s.

 My mother asked if I would like to have it, if for nothing more than to mend clothes, hem pants or something. I agreed, figuring not much would happen with it once I brought it home.

After that machine came into my home, I found myself wanting to sew something.  I attribute the unusual desire to sew again to that nesting instinct women often experience about the births of their children.

I wanted to sew something for my baby daughter, Hannah. I figured it would be small, and making something for her would motivate me to see the project through to the end.

As I began to sew, I had a lot of questions. With each question, I would call my mother, opening the conversation by asking, “Is this 1-800-Help-Me-Sew”? 

Those efforts resulted in a lopsided jumpsuit Hannah wore a couple of times — around the house only.

I was not discouraged and continued to try to sew now and then as I learned more about how to read patterns and to choose fabrics that would work.

The more I tried to sew and the more I practiced, the more I enjoyed the process of making things for my family.

Sewing became a fun activity to do while the kids took naps or went to bed for the night. 

During their growing-up years, beyond the things I sewed for myself, I made my daughter shorts, shirts, jumpers and overalls. I made clothing for her baby doll and a layette for its bed. I sewed sleeping bags for my kid’s beanie babies and a coat for one of my son’s stuffed dogs.

I even sewed my son and husband matching shorts one summer out of some inexpensive material I found at the Cone Cloth Store in Greensboro.

Like my mother before me, I sewed a couple of matching outfits for my daughter and me.

A year or so ago, as I was working on sewing old blue jeans into a quilt, my old machine stopped working. I think it was tired.

I debated long and hard between trying to see if the old machine could be repaired or if I should just buy a new one. The older one was black metal, and they certainly don’t make them like that anymore.  A newer one would have lots of features the older one did not have. 

I am still adjusting to my new machine, feeling somewhat disloyal to the older, stored-away one that served its first owner and then me for all these years.

On the flip side, I am excited as I begin this new journey with a new machine that will help me create new things out of all that material I have stored away, determined to teach my own daughter how to sew as my mother taught me before it’s too late. 

Linda Vestal is a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend living in Gibsonville. Contact her with comments or story ideas at lindavestal@triad.rr.com.