When I was 4, I remember sitting on the floor of my parents’ room staring up at my mom, while she pushed her foot down on the huge black metal pedal of her industrial Singer sewing machine.
She would toss threads and scraps down on the floor, and I would make little piles on my dolls, as if the scraps were now magically clothes. Cher doll would never have been caught dead in any of my creations, but she tolerated my creative fashions.
Later, when I could reach the pedal, she taught me simple stitches. In my teen years I took in the sides of my jeans so tight I would have to jump up and down to get in them.
Of late, it has been an unfulfilled obsession to get a sewing machine and get into mending and repair, some simple alterations.
So, just this last week, I went out and got a machine. It’s not a Singer. But my mom insisted on setting it up for me, and she really approves.
mac and muggi 