After checking emails and checking groups, checking blogger and checking forums, my mind sought a relief from the devil’s playground and I turned my idleness around to face her. Just two days after acquirement, she has already become a common fixture in the spare room. Sitting untouched and partially disassembled; the ominous presence of this twenty dollar lady all but hidden. There she was, as if asleep, among grocery ads and empty water glasses.
Deep breath. I can do this.
With inflated lungs and apprehension, I placed 
myself upon the beaten wicker chair in front of the extra desk and stared at this little monster. I cleared the space of its accumulated clutter and pulled her close, inspecting: knobs I had no names for, numbers and squiggly lines who’s meanings I can only presume. I twisted circular handles and flipped switches, absorbing, savoring the moment.
myself upon the beaten wicker chair in front of the extra desk and stared at this little monster. I cleared the space of its accumulated clutter and pulled her close, inspecting: knobs I had no names for, numbers and squiggly lines who’s meanings I can only presume. I twisted circular handles and flipped switches, absorbing, savoring the moment.I sat thinking of what her purpose would be; what magnificent things would she help to create. I laid my head beside her and stared sideways at the needle, imagining it steadily jabbing with my digits nearby.
And as I inhaled with my head on the desk, time flitted away and I was my mother’s child again. An aroma of warm metal and fuzzy particles of thread; of industrial comfort and nostalgic craftiness. Of my mother holding a torn seam, flipping on a switch and whirring away as I watched in mild fascination. It was the scent of all being good and nothing being able to hurt, with the exception of that fearful needle.
I sat up, feeling a sense of placement, as if I was slipping on my mothers shoes and knew it was about time. I pulled the peddle from the plastic bag and searched for the plug-in. I flicked the On/Off switch to On and smiled as its small hidden bulb lit, suddenly recalling that forgotten but still familiar glow.
I paced across the house to find an old t-shirt wadded in the bottom of the plastic bin of rags and flattening it out to practice straight seams, I wondered how Z had ever fit into such a size.
I remembered my mom adjusting the fabric then flipping something before starting. Reaching underneath, I found the lever I memorized in my mother’s movements and secured the worn fabric.
Here goes nothing; line it up, press the peddle and watch your damn fingers.
And away she whirred; that old familiar sound, the comforting buzz that lulled me as I lay on the rickety trundle in what was the spare room. Propped on laced pillows, my cheek against the cold white rail of the bed; I remember now.
I’ve only attempted to learn one other time. Somewhere in my preteen years, I sat in front of my moms machine as she attempted to guide me through it. I managed approximately 2 minutes, before deciding I’d be content just taking my mending to her.
Now here I am, sitting under a sunny window as my mom had, fiddling with adjustments and sewing and resewing lines across the old shirt, trying to understand the differences between settings and getting nowhere fast.
I felt a connection to history as if suddenly I was every women before me, in generations past. It felt comfortable and steady, as if I were right where I should be.
Leaning back, slowly pulling my uneven stitches out, I tallied a list of needed supplies: scissors, fabric, patterns, thread…and more things I don’t have a name or known use for; words I remember but can’t place, like bobbins or spools and what about a thimble? Would I need a thimble?
I’m anticipating the opportunity to pick the brains of the experienced, anticipating something comfortable with a drawstring…anticipating band-aids.
I wonder if Z will share the same memories I share with my mom, or if some day I’ll be able to teach him.
I wonder if they now carry patterns not reminiscent of a school teacher…or my mother’s wardrobe. 
I'm Tara Wagner, life coach and creator of the Digging Deep process, where I coach women out of survival mode to recreate their lives and families.
I think I have that same machine! I use it rarely and still don’t really know much about it. When I do use it I just fly by the seat of my pants. Knowing what things are called and what they are supposed to do is so overrated and tedious.
I can’t wait to sew with you! I am going to look through my supplies and find some stuff to pass on to you to fuel your new adventure. I need to cull my stash…
Oh, brother, everytime I read your blog I cry. Mom
I can not wait for our sew party Miranda count me in!
Loves,
Dharmez