Posts About Sewing Machines

Tomorrow I intend to donate a 1920s Singer sewing machine to a local charity shop. 

Then I realised I needed a picture of it but it's already in the back of the van, along with a conglomeration of other stuff, kiddy car seats, cat baskets, and old tools and would not make a pretty picture. So I had to trawl through my House & Home folder, which took a while as there are 2,218 files and 145 folders. I cannot have cared much for the machine for there was just one photograph.  And that was mainly of a hen.

I cannot remember when I got the machine but it is the last in a long line. I'd never gotten around to using it and would have felt guilty about selling as it was gifted to me. 

I've been searching through the blog archive to see how long it's been here. No record. The photo is from six years ago so much longer than that. While delving into the past I found a few more sewing machine references.

This one from nine years ago is a true story about how I acquired my first Singer treadle.

The other day I was listening to a discussion on the radio about how the recession has affected ordinary families. One woman had this to say,

I'm cutting back as much as I can. I go to Aldi and Lidl, I'm on online auctions, I use Freecycle, I cut coupons. I don't know what else I can do!

And I couldn't help thinking.

Well, you could always consider not wanting so much stuff!

Then I remembered that, as a young woman with a very small budget, I too used to enjoy acquiring stuff.

I loved auctions, jumble sales and charity shops. I was good at jumble sales (sharp elbows) and diligent in charity shops but for auctions, it was a cunning strategy that was needed.

And it was just such a cunning strategy that was lacking when I spotted the notice in the paper, advertising a house clearance near Glarryford. I was looking for a sewing machine and there were two listed. Surely I'd get one Singer at least? No strategy needed!

In that part of the country, house clearances were very popular with second-hand dealers and farmers' wives. I reasoned that the farmers' wives at least, if they were keen on sewing, would already possess a sewing machine and that at least one of the Singers would surely be mine. I also decided that dealers would not be interested in sewing machines so they would be no competition.

The auction started in the yard at the back of the house. I was surrounded by grim-faced men in tweed caps and their equally grim-faced womenfolk. The Singers were lots number ninety-something so I had a bit to go. I passed the time watching how other people bid. Seven cushions came up. They were a mixed lot, tatty and well-worn, just the sort of cushions you could sweep off the seats in any farm kitchen. The bidding started at fifty pence. Then it went to a pound. Two women were bidding against each other and the price kept rising. The cushions were eventually sold for £12 and if I'd been the woman who lost (wised up) I think I'd have been mighty relieved. But this bidding frenzy for a handful of scruffy cushions rattled me. What if one or more of the farmers' wives couldn't bear to see me get a perfectly good Singer for a bargain price? What should I do? At last, my treadle machine was called. 

Who'll give me £5 for this Singer sewing machine in good working order?

Oh no! These Glarryford women won't be able to bear seeing me get this machine for a knockdown price. 

I rang out, 

Ten pounds!

Silence. Then...

Sold to the woman with no nerve!

So that was my bidding strategy. And it worked. 

The Weird and Wonderful

There was an article in the Guardian recently by Rowan Moore, writing about his love for weird and wonderful objects that don't fit in with current ideas of good taste. Moore wrote,

I’m drawn to things that show a desire, a dream or a belief, where you can get a sense of connection with the maker.

I was reading this one early morning, upstairs drinking coffee and I glanced down at the weird and wonderful quilt covering my bed.

I found it on eBay a long time ago. It's hard to know how I was drawn. The good description probably, the quilt carefully folded so that only the best bits are shown. I might not have been so keen on it if I'd noticed that chintz edging. 

The figures, flora and fauna are appliqued on coarse unbleached cotton. The stitching is not exquisite. The fabric used for appliqueing is vintage so maybe the quilt is decades old. I've had it for at least fifteen years and am guessing most of the fabric pieces are from the sixties/seventies.

At first, I thought the scenes depicted on the quilt were biblical but now I'm not so sure.

That creature must be a unicorn. There are no unicorns in the bible. 

This might be a dog, probably an Afghan hound although I'm not sure about the feet. I think I had a smock top in that brown fabric when I was about seventeen. Which was fifty years ago. Scary.

 These fabrics are actually rather fabulous. 

Aren't they?

Sprigged cotton juxtaposed with snippets of mid-century atomic. What's not to love about this creation. How great it would be if the person who made it (or her descendants) could know that it fell into good hands and that I love it and would not part with it for any money. That's my connection with its maker.

PS. I was working on a blog about death but did this instead.

Sparking Joy

I've not read the Marie Kondo book but I've heard all about it and these days it's practically the same thing as reading it. For instance, I know that if you're decluttering you should pick up an item and ask yourself this question,

Does this spark joy in my heart?

And if the answer is no, then chuck it, recycle it, give it away or whatever.

I can go one better than this. I ask myself the question before I even buy the damn thing. Consequently, I am coming home with ever lighter bags. A good thing as I am still awaiting my pension.

When I was in my twenties and thirties I was very attracted to vintage items. Old jugs, patchwork quilts, ancient books, and maps - that sort of thing. I still have a lingering affection for such items but not as much as before. A few evenings ago, looking at the bookcases in this room I said to my daughter,

When I was young I would have thought it heaven to have a wall of bookshelves and all those books. 

(There more than a 1000 books on those shelves and that's just in one place. There are hundreds more in other rooms)

Bookshelves

And see all those jugs on the top shelf?

(There are twenty-one. There are even more in other rooms and some stored away)

When I had just two that I picked up in the Fair Hill market back when you all were little - those two gave me more pleasure than all the ones I've gathered since. Now I find that they mean very little to me.

 My first jug

And now I find myself looking at things, things that have hung on walls or sat on chests for a decade or more and I wonder why they are still there. Nowadays when I go into shops that sell vintage items I am interested in what I see but it is like being in a museum. I want to look at the item, think about it but I do not want to possess it. Perhaps it is a part of growing older?

Debeukhaw & Freebody

I've owned this velvet jacket for 39 years and it was vintage back when I purchased it from a stall in Portobello Road Market, summer of 1977. I spent about three months that summer working as a chambermaid in a hotel off the Bayswater Road. We started early and finished early and on Saturdays my sister and I would  go to the market. My favourite part was the vintage clothes stalls under the bridge. In those days I mixed vintage with hippy-dippy and very lovely I looked in it too. I wore that jacket with everything but mostly with a loose black or white top and a mid-length red cheesecloth skirt. Footwear would be sandals or boots depending on the time of year.

For some reason I was rarely photographed in the jacket. This picture is the only one I can find and it might have been one of its last outings before relegation to the back of the wardrobe.  I came across it again while I was clearing out a wardrobe for Hannah. And briefly considered recycling it. And decided not to. It's almost unwearable now, places were the velvet has rubbed thin and the crepe de chine lining has become very delicate. It's been through a lot. I partied in that jacket. It occurred to me for the first time in almost four decades to examine the label which I found tucked in a side seam. It was hard to make out but I managed to decipher it. Debeukhaw & Freebody, London W1. Strange name 'Debeukhaw' maybe Polish? I decided to Google it. There was no Debeukhaw & Freebody, there wasn't even a Debeukhaw (although there is now thanks to my Google rating) but there was a Debenham & Freebody. My lovely jacket had been a department store buy! Albeit a very posh department store. I'm still going to keep it for another forty years.

Old Prams

tricia,dede,joeandco, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

This pram is a late 60s model. It was kept well filled so I'd imagine it is long, long gone.

Now this pram dates from the late 50s. It only ever held one baby (Bert) and it was carefully preserved. In fact the damn thing is still in my attic. What shall I do with it? Who would want it? Do you want it? Does Mr Bolan need another bogey?