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Not sewing
Jul. 27th, 2005 10:34 amMy sewing machine is in the shop. Its motherboard died suddenly on Sunday. I sewed a few seams before dinner, turned the machine off while I ate, and when I turned it on, the only thing that responded was the light bulb. On an old electric sewing machine, all the mechanical stuff would still work if the electrical connection was disconnected, but you'd have to turn the wheel by hand. The only thing that electricity does on an electric sewing machine is turn the wheel, which in turn propels the needle, the bobbin race, and the feed dogs. All the stitch settings are done by hand. On a computerized sewing machine, it didn't even occur to me to try to turn the wheel by hand, because all the mechanical settings are mediated by the electronic interface.
I still have sewing machines in the house, of course. I have an industrial Pfaff from the early sixties, which does a straight stitch and a zigzag stitch. It's a perfectly fine workhorse machine, but I don't like it, and therefore I don't use it. I intend to sell it. I don't like it because it's so noisy and it doesn't have a lot of the features that modern industrial machines have. Of course, if it had those features, it would be a computerized machine as well, and just as vulnerable to motherboard failure. I was very worried that I wouldn't be able to get a replacement for the motherboard for my main machine, because it's about ten years old, ancient in computer years, but apparently Pfaff understands that people expect to keep sewing machines longer than they expect to keep computers.
I also have a Pfaff serger (I'm a Pfaff loyalist out of irrational motives; I like saying Pfaff better than I like saying Bernina or Juki). I've only had the serger for a few months, and I haven't mastered threading it yet. Sewing on the serger is easy; threading it is also easy, but adjusting the threads just so is difficult, and troubleshooting is difficult. Once I've mastered the whole thing, it will be easy, I'll have the knowledge in my eyes and in my fingers, and everything will fall into place, but I'm not there yet. I decided that I could finish one of my current projects on the serger, so I spent some time fiddling with it yesterday. I'll have to fiddle with it some more today. Many people do all their garment construction on the serger, but it doesn't do topstitching, and I don't like it for most seams (that is, I don't like other sergers I've used for most seams; I haven't spent enough time with this one yet to be able to predict how my long-term relationship with it will turn out).
And I have an antique Singer that was Anna Vargo's. I haven't sewn with it; I don't know if Anna ever sewed with it. I made clothes on a machine that belonged to her when we were young; I think we sold that machine at her estate sale. I thought that this machine was a model 127, because that's what the manual with the machine says, but on consulting an antique sewing machine collectors' site and examining the machine closely, I find that it's actually a model 99 (Singer didn't put model numbers on their machines before the 1950s, but one can figure it out from the features and the serial number), made in Clydebank, Scotland, in 1929. Anna probably picked up the machine and the manual at separate yard sales; it's the sort of thing she did, patiently putting things that go together back together.
It's a beautiful machine, all metal, a heavy, solid little tool, with gold scrollwork on the glossy black body and chasework on the faceplate. It has a motor, but the motor looks like an afterthought. The manual (all the manuals are available online from a web site maintained by Nick Hubbell, because sewing machine collectors are fanatics) makes it clear that the motor was optional; one could run this machine with a treadle, as I remember my grandmother running hers, or with a motor, or by hand. I'm sure that if I oil it, put in a fresh needle, and start it up, it will sew as straight and true as it ever did. It isn't one of the Featherweight machines beloved of quilters; those are the later and lighter model 221, but Singer built good machines, and there is no particular reason they should stop working if all the parts are there.
In any case, I should try to avoid sewing on any of these machines for a few days. I sprained a couple ribs back in February, sewing many layers of thick, stiff fabric on a machine at school set on a table too high for me. I've been taking it easy for months, waiting to heal and waiting to heal, and thinking that I'm all healed, or mostly healed, and re-injuring myself doing some perfectly ordinary thing. I've come to the conclusion that right now, sewing is something I can for a few minutes at a time, not a few hours at a time, and I have a hard time keeping myself to those few minutes. A few days of no sewing allows me to concentrate on sorting fabric and spending time with the grandchildren instead.
I still have sewing machines in the house, of course. I have an industrial Pfaff from the early sixties, which does a straight stitch and a zigzag stitch. It's a perfectly fine workhorse machine, but I don't like it, and therefore I don't use it. I intend to sell it. I don't like it because it's so noisy and it doesn't have a lot of the features that modern industrial machines have. Of course, if it had those features, it would be a computerized machine as well, and just as vulnerable to motherboard failure. I was very worried that I wouldn't be able to get a replacement for the motherboard for my main machine, because it's about ten years old, ancient in computer years, but apparently Pfaff understands that people expect to keep sewing machines longer than they expect to keep computers.
I also have a Pfaff serger (I'm a Pfaff loyalist out of irrational motives; I like saying Pfaff better than I like saying Bernina or Juki). I've only had the serger for a few months, and I haven't mastered threading it yet. Sewing on the serger is easy; threading it is also easy, but adjusting the threads just so is difficult, and troubleshooting is difficult. Once I've mastered the whole thing, it will be easy, I'll have the knowledge in my eyes and in my fingers, and everything will fall into place, but I'm not there yet. I decided that I could finish one of my current projects on the serger, so I spent some time fiddling with it yesterday. I'll have to fiddle with it some more today. Many people do all their garment construction on the serger, but it doesn't do topstitching, and I don't like it for most seams (that is, I don't like other sergers I've used for most seams; I haven't spent enough time with this one yet to be able to predict how my long-term relationship with it will turn out).
And I have an antique Singer that was Anna Vargo's. I haven't sewn with it; I don't know if Anna ever sewed with it. I made clothes on a machine that belonged to her when we were young; I think we sold that machine at her estate sale. I thought that this machine was a model 127, because that's what the manual with the machine says, but on consulting an antique sewing machine collectors' site and examining the machine closely, I find that it's actually a model 99 (Singer didn't put model numbers on their machines before the 1950s, but one can figure it out from the features and the serial number), made in Clydebank, Scotland, in 1929. Anna probably picked up the machine and the manual at separate yard sales; it's the sort of thing she did, patiently putting things that go together back together.
It's a beautiful machine, all metal, a heavy, solid little tool, with gold scrollwork on the glossy black body and chasework on the faceplate. It has a motor, but the motor looks like an afterthought. The manual (all the manuals are available online from a web site maintained by Nick Hubbell, because sewing machine collectors are fanatics) makes it clear that the motor was optional; one could run this machine with a treadle, as I remember my grandmother running hers, or with a motor, or by hand. I'm sure that if I oil it, put in a fresh needle, and start it up, it will sew as straight and true as it ever did. It isn't one of the Featherweight machines beloved of quilters; those are the later and lighter model 221, but Singer built good machines, and there is no particular reason they should stop working if all the parts are there.
In any case, I should try to avoid sewing on any of these machines for a few days. I sprained a couple ribs back in February, sewing many layers of thick, stiff fabric on a machine at school set on a table too high for me. I've been taking it easy for months, waiting to heal and waiting to heal, and thinking that I'm all healed, or mostly healed, and re-injuring myself doing some perfectly ordinary thing. I've come to the conclusion that right now, sewing is something I can for a few minutes at a time, not a few hours at a time, and I have a hard time keeping myself to those few minutes. A few days of no sewing allows me to concentrate on sorting fabric and spending time with the grandchildren instead.
