Sew it goes

After 40 years, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my sturdy Sears Kenmore sewing machine finally bit the dust. It had three stitch types - straight, zigzag and blind hemming – and a lever to drop the feed dogs. That’s all I needed to make suits and coats and bathing suits and pajamas and drapes and even machine-quilted wall hangings. It was a heavy, all-metal machine, and I kept it oiled and dusted and really hoped it would see me out. I feel like I’ve lost an old friend.

When you haven’t bought a sewing machine for 40 years, you venture into the market and start to feel the earth shifting under your feet. Planned obsolescence has taken over. Most machines are made of flimsy plastic now, inside and out, with fragile dials and levers that might not survive the trip home. You can lift those machines up with a couple of fingers; they feel like toys. Ask the staff to let you try one out, and watch it bounce all over the table. To distract you from the dismal manufacturing quality, they try to snow you with technology. Machines are ranked according to the number of stitch types they offer. A mechanical machine might offer a dozen or two; a computerized machine could include over 200 kinds of stitches. According to the canny marketing line, those mechanical machines with just a few stitches are meant for beginners. More advanced sewers, they advise, will want lots of stitches. So I’m a beginner, because I sew mostly clothing, and have never felt the urge to machine-embroider a daisy on a pillowcase. To me, advanced sewing means mastering techniques like flat-felled seams, piped seams, bound buttonholes, welt pockets, invisible zippers, pinch-pleated drapes. It’s mostly a question of skill, not technology. I can’t imagine that most home sewers would need more than a handful of stitches for their projects.

All of which makes for a very nerve-racking shopping experience. I tried to do my homework, researched blogs and reviews and manufacturers’ websites, and picked a few possible models. I made sure I was clear about what I needed and didn’t need. I promised myself that I wouldn’t yammer on about my late lamented Sears Kenmore. Then I made the rounds of department stores and dealers, testing and observing as much as I could. In the end I bought a mechanical workhorse from a dealer where the staff do repairs and teach classes, and even offer a tutorial to each new customer so they learn about their own machine. It felt reassuringly heavy as I lugged it up the stairs. Pretty soon I’ll have to make a new bathing suit for aquafitness class. That’s when I’ll find out if I made the right choice. Wish me luck.