Carol’s Column

Some people even sew for fun

EVERY person has their own cross to bear in life.

The problem is that some are heavier than others.

Mine is definitely heavier than most and older too.

No, it's not my mother-in-law I'm talking about, it's a sewing machine.

A sewing machine with a difference.

Many moons ago, an elderly, respectable but rather eccentric spinster friend of my father, gave him a sewing machine for his 21st birthday.

She thought it would broaden his horizons and make him a useful member of society.

Of course, my father, dutifully thankful, put it where it belonged.

In the garage. And forgot about it until the happy day, his only unmarried daughter was taken off his hands for good.

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With great aplomb, my new spouse and I were handed the gift-wrapped sewing machine.

It was then that my husband decided he'd made a terrible mistake.

Of course, what with everyone crying all over, and celebrating — and our plight just having been trothed, so to speak, there wasn't much he could really do about it.

After flatting here and there, in the way that young couples do, we bought a house to accommodate the sewing machine.

For a year, other than a mattress, it was the only item of furniture we owned.

When we could finally afford a lounge suite, we moved the sewing machine where it belonged.

Into the garage.

And then came the first of the thundering herd of many boy children, who woke up early, due to the light streaming in through his curtainless windows.

It was then, that my husband, in one of his many moments of inspiration in our marriage, said: "Why don't you make some curtains? You've got a sewing machine."

It was a novel thought. In fact, I'd never really thought of the sewing machine in terms of sewing.

You know how it is? When you're young and newly married, you'll try anything once.

I bought some beautiful chocolate-coloured material and hauled the sewing machine out.

Considering it hadn't been used for more than many years, it worked remarkably well.

It could even stitch.

It didn't really matter that the curtains were a little long. When closed, they served as a carpet too.

After my first success, I became a sewing maniac.

I sewed curtains and sheets by the metre, and then, for his 30th birthday, I made my husband a shirt.

A gentle, kindly man by nature, he didn't even comment on the fact that the sleeves were different lengths.

He walked with a list for a week.

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There were, of course, the other disasters.

It will suffice to say that not one of my four children would wear a garment made by me.

Over the years, the old sewing machine, other than an odd rumble or two, never let me down.

All she required was the odd litre of oil here and there.

My sewing has improved. Why, only this morning, son-number-two, Ralph remarked on my prowess.

"Ma, thanks for stitching up the hems in my pants," he said.

"I really appreciate it, it's just I can't get my feet through — you sewed the bottoms up too."

"So, put your shoes over them," I replied, "be grateful that you've got a mother who cares."

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