Sewing with the Elsies

So there I sat, at my great-great grandmother's sewing machine, which had been in my great-uncle's barn until he decided I should have it.  I, car-less as I was, waited for my mother to deliver it once when she decided to visit.  Minnesota, the brand of the machine.  Still with implements in the four drawers of the sewing table.  Ahh, the tracing wheel...the one that must have made all the tracing marks on the drop leaf table that my grandmother used for sewing, or sometimes for extra dinner guests.  Hundreds of tracks of dimples, driven into the finish of the table top, spoke of a lifetime love of fabric and sewing.  First my grandmother's grandmother, Elsie, and then my grandmother, Elsie. Later I'd be given a picture of the first Elsie and her two sisters, clothed stylishly, in dainty cotton dresses.  Pretty girls, of whom I knew little.  But my cousin and I played with their vast collection of paper dolls.  We named one "Delicate and Fragile."

The machine, with a scrollwork metal treadle, did not work with a smooth motion as had my grandmother's Singer.  But it had lived in the hay mow of a barn, with hay and cow feed, and owls and baby calves, leftover ropes, buckets, hoses, and farm implements.  So I was happy, treadling away on my 1970's jersey.  There were extra needles, an extra bobbin or two, a lock of hair.  My grandmother's grandmother's machine.

My dress came out fine, and the wedding to which I wore it was joyful.  The marriage lasted a few years.  I saw the bride, my co-worker Sue, years later on the street.  She ran up behind me and told me where she  now worked, and her new name.  I can't remember it now.  It might have even been her maiden name.  I wish I had taken her to lunch, but life was pressing down hard on me.  I hadn't even recalled that I had any friends.  There I was, with a real friend, for a few precious moments on 17th and K Street.