I Know You're Always With Me

My grandmother died when I was eight years old. She was young, not yet 60 years old, and the cancer took her quickly. I was too small to understand, though I remember small pieces of what she was going through. I remember her and my mother driving to Mexico for some experimental treatments with me laying down in the back of my mom's gold 300ZX. I remember a long chain with a pendant that she would suspend over food - if it swung left and right like a pendulum, the food was ok for her to eat, but if it circled, it was unhealthy. I remember visiting her in the hospital just once and being frightened at how thin she looked.

While she lived, my grandmother was a strong woman - some would go so far as to say intimidating. She was petite, but carried herself with grace and strength. She had a hard early life and had terrible luck with men, so she learned quickly to become self-sufficient. She made many of her own clothes and taught my mother to sew as well. Finally, her hard work and drive paid off, and she was able to open her own business. Once she began doing well, she stopped sewing with such frequency and instead went shopping. I remember at least one pair of tight black leather pants, and many pairs of high heels. Things were great for a while, and then she got sick. After she died, my parents and I moved into her house. Her clothes and shoes were too small for my mother and too large for me, so my great aunts (her sisters) took everything from the old, hand-sewn dresses to the new designer shoes.

What they left was my grandmother's sewing machine. She bought two identical machines sometime in the 70s: one for herself and one for my mother. When my parents moved from her/our home in southern California to Virginia, my mom's machine came upstairs, but my grandmother's remained in the basement.

This past Christmas, mom and I packed up the machine, and I brought it back with me to New York. It sat for months tucked away in the corner of our bedroom, as I had no idea whether it would work, and even less of an idea where to take a 30-40 year old Bernina for repair.

A few weeks ago, I decided to give it a chance. Having never wound a bobbin without my mother's supervision, getting the machine properly set up and threaded was a challenge. I held my breath as I did some test stitches, which came out perfectly, as though the machine had only been purchased yesterday. I happily altered my shirt, thinking all along of how much this little machine has seen in its long life.