Mother at Her Machine

Chapter 8

The window above my mother’s sewing machine held either sunlight or moonlight. It seemed to depend on the shade of her mood. When she was happy, the machine clipped along, and when it paused, her scissors click-clacked, snipping the thread. Other times she mashed the floor pedal so hard the machine vibrated and banged against the wall beneath the window.

Joy and Robin wearing dresses sewn by Joy.

The space under the table was tight, but that’s where I liked to be. I played there when I was small, and later curled up with books while she sewed above me. I stayed clear of her feet and the pedal while the needle rose and fell overhead. Fabric scraps fell like molted feathers around me.

I liked playing on the floor wherever she was in the house, and Mother was a darter. At any moment, she could spring from her chair without warning, the chair legs scraping against the floor. The next minute, we might be standing in front of the dryer folding clothes. To keep up with her, I had to be ready to move, so I kept my toys in a worn cardboard shoebox. I filled it with my Sweet April doll and her tiny hairbrush, bottle, and swing set. She made tiny clothes for her that matched my own.

When making my clothes, she liked having me nearby to try them on. I ouched and whined as straight pins pricked my skin. More pins rested between her teeth while she checked the fit. Her eyes showed little concern for my complaining.

One day, I was crawling beneath her sewing machine when a needle slipped into my foot. When I sat up to look, all I could see was the thread hanging from my skin. She leaned over from her chair and pulled the needle free in one quick motion. There was no kissing of boo-boos—at least not over a needle, not in this house. If it bled, I got a Band-Aid, but that was all. She told me we were tough old birds, and birds don’t cry.

She worked for hours without stopping for a snack or even a drink of water. When she paused, she massaged the back of her neck. If a thread tangled or a needle snapped, her cheeks flushed red and a low growl escaped her. “Aw, come on now,” she would say. Then she went right back to work.

Once a piece met her standards, I wore it the next day. Those clothes never twisted; the hems fell straight, and the fabric carried a weight store-bought clothes never had. Tiny stitches, neat as handwriting, spelled my name inside the collar or marked my initials on a cuff.

For years, she sewed under that window at night while the house slept, squinting at hems and seams. Then I grew old enough to beg for store-bought jeans and shirts with familiar labels stitched across the pockets. After that, the sewing machine sat quiet more often than not.

Years later, when I planned my wedding, I chose store-bought dresses when I could have asked her to make them. I was angry with her then, and I knew exactly what I was doing. She had sewn beautiful dresses for my stepsisters’ weddings. Mine remained store-bought. Looking back, I understand that making things for me was one way she showed her love. I wouldn’t let her.

But when I think of my mother now, I don’t picture those years when we were angry with each other. I see her at that sewing machine, the window bright above her and the machine clipping happily along.