Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Getting Comfy With Your Sewing Machine
13 people in a 10 maxium class AND 3 of them are men. O! AND I have the first married couple ever to participate in my class. Awesome! Its great to see so many people interested in the art of sewing.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Update on: Get Comfy With Your Sewing Machine
Just received confirmation - 12 registered for the new 3 week session. GREAT!
Monday, March 21, 2011
"Get Comfy with Your Sewing Machine"
Tonight was the last class of my 3 wk session of "Get Comfy with Your Sewing Machine." The class was a small group, which is a good thing because I'm able to spend more time with each participant. Some nights I'm too tired to get to the class, but everytime I arrive, I'm so motivated and excited to be there. And tonight was no exception. Especially when one of the women wrote a peice in the paper about the class. It really put a smile on my heart. And it stories like hers that makes my work so exciting.
I thank God for the talent that he has given me and the ability to share it with others.
Enjoy the story and have a good night.
I thank God for the talent that he has given me and the ability to share it with others.
Enjoy the story and have a good night.
Family threads
I might need remedial help, I thought to myself walking into theschool with my sewing machine.
Then I saw a fellow night class student carrying a sewing machinestuffed inside a black garbage bag, and I knew I'd be fine.
Though I wasn't sure how to turn my machine on, it at least camewith a nice plastic cover.
I hadn't sat behind a sewing machine since my 8th grade homeeconomics class. If only I had paid more attention then and appliedmyself to making that 3-inch pin cushion, my life could be sodifferent.
I might have become a great seamstress. A New York City fashiondesigner. Or, at the very least, someone who would never want for3-inch pin cushions.
But alas, I was too consumed with my crush on nameless boy and onfiguring out how many shades of eyeshadow I could fit on my lids.As a result, I didn't earn my "E" for effort in sewing.
Fast forward a couple decades and I'm back at a middle school deskwith a sewing machine ready to do it all again, but this time Iactually wanted to learn something. (And, I don't wear eyeshadowanymore, so that's one less distraction.)
I was joined in my continuing education class, "Getting Comfy withYour Sewing Machine," with a half dozen other young women, who bythe looks of them didn't pay attention in home economics classeither.
"Um, I don't have one of those little round things," said oneclassmate, sitting behind an old Singer.
"It's called a bobbin," said our instructor.
We came to the class lugging machines once belonging to mothers andgrandmothers. The machines were handed down to the next generation;the skills to use them, however, were not.
After some instruction, I got to work threading my machine withlime green thread, the color that was on it when I inheritedit.
I pulled out my mother's sewing kit to look for a pair of scissors.The plastic case was packed, largely with stuff that had absolutelynothing to do with sewing: a bundle of eyeglass nose pads, a GirlScout cookie badge from 1983, a finger puppet of a little bald manwho looked like my father - a strange time capsule, for sure, andone without a pair of scissors.
The 20-something girl across from me was having bobbin trouble. Shecalled her mom on the phone. As I listened to them chat, I felt atwinge of jealously wishing I could phone my own mother and ask herabout her sewing machine with the lime green thread. But my mom hasbeen gone for two years now. After I thought about it, I was notreally sure how much hearing her say, "I don't know how to get thedamn thing working!" would really be all that helpful or inspiring.Nothing could get my mother in a sour mood quicker than placing herbehind a sewing machine.
By taking the sewing class, I figured I'd naturally follow the samepath. A few minutes with the machine and I'd be cursing at thething just like she used to - what a beautiful connection.
But something amazing happened during that class. Everythingactually went right.
I loaded my bobbin. Threaded my machine. Adjusted tension. Chosethe stitch setting. Then, I took a piece of cloth and gently, everso gently, pushed down on the floor pedal.
Ziz-Ziz-Ziz-Ziz
My heart beat fast with excitement. I was actually doing it! Istitched and turned, stitched and turned. Ziz-Ziz-Ziz-Ziz. After afew minutes, I had created a design that looked like Pangaea.
It was liberating.
Today the world on a piece of muslin. Tomorrow ... a cocktaildress!
By the end of the two-hour class, I felt like a domestic goddess. Icouldn't wait to get home. I had a date with a pair of plaid pajamapants sporting a hole in the rear.
After that, I might even get around to finishing that pincushion.
Martha Petteys writes a weekly column for The Post-Star. Writeto her at petteyshome@aol.com.
Then I saw a fellow night class student carrying a sewing machinestuffed inside a black garbage bag, and I knew I'd be fine.
Though I wasn't sure how to turn my machine on, it at least camewith a nice plastic cover.
I hadn't sat behind a sewing machine since my 8th grade homeeconomics class. If only I had paid more attention then and appliedmyself to making that 3-inch pin cushion, my life could be sodifferent.
I might have become a great seamstress. A New York City fashiondesigner. Or, at the very least, someone who would never want for3-inch pin cushions.
But alas, I was too consumed with my crush on nameless boy and onfiguring out how many shades of eyeshadow I could fit on my lids.As a result, I didn't earn my "E" for effort in sewing.
Fast forward a couple decades and I'm back at a middle school deskwith a sewing machine ready to do it all again, but this time Iactually wanted to learn something. (And, I don't wear eyeshadowanymore, so that's one less distraction.)
I was joined in my continuing education class, "Getting Comfy withYour Sewing Machine," with a half dozen other young women, who bythe looks of them didn't pay attention in home economics classeither.
"Um, I don't have one of those little round things," said oneclassmate, sitting behind an old Singer.
"It's called a bobbin," said our instructor.
We came to the class lugging machines once belonging to mothers andgrandmothers. The machines were handed down to the next generation;the skills to use them, however, were not.
After some instruction, I got to work threading my machine withlime green thread, the color that was on it when I inheritedit.
I pulled out my mother's sewing kit to look for a pair of scissors.The plastic case was packed, largely with stuff that had absolutelynothing to do with sewing: a bundle of eyeglass nose pads, a GirlScout cookie badge from 1983, a finger puppet of a little bald manwho looked like my father - a strange time capsule, for sure, andone without a pair of scissors.
The 20-something girl across from me was having bobbin trouble. Shecalled her mom on the phone. As I listened to them chat, I felt atwinge of jealously wishing I could phone my own mother and ask herabout her sewing machine with the lime green thread. But my mom hasbeen gone for two years now. After I thought about it, I was notreally sure how much hearing her say, "I don't know how to get thedamn thing working!" would really be all that helpful or inspiring.Nothing could get my mother in a sour mood quicker than placing herbehind a sewing machine.
By taking the sewing class, I figured I'd naturally follow the samepath. A few minutes with the machine and I'd be cursing at thething just like she used to - what a beautiful connection.
But something amazing happened during that class. Everythingactually went right.
I loaded my bobbin. Threaded my machine. Adjusted tension. Chosethe stitch setting. Then, I took a piece of cloth and gently, everso gently, pushed down on the floor pedal.
Ziz-Ziz-Ziz-Ziz
My heart beat fast with excitement. I was actually doing it! Istitched and turned, stitched and turned. Ziz-Ziz-Ziz-Ziz. After afew minutes, I had created a design that looked like Pangaea.
It was liberating.
Today the world on a piece of muslin. Tomorrow ... a cocktaildress!
By the end of the two-hour class, I felt like a domestic goddess. Icouldn't wait to get home. I had a date with a pair of plaid pajamapants sporting a hole in the rear.
After that, I might even get around to finishing that pincushion.
Martha Petteys writes a weekly column for The Post-Star. Writeto her at petteyshome@aol.com.
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