Great Grandma's Legacy

I wish I still had it. Maybe it’s buried at my mother’s house somewhere— if Mom had known what it was, who had helped me craft it, I think she certainly would have kept it, right?

I couldn’t have been much older than 7— first or second grade. I remember having to use my tippy toe to push down the sewing machine pedal. I sat with my Great Grandma, not knowing what an honor it is to be able to sit with your Great Grandma, at my grandmother’s sewing machine. The smooth whir of the motor had newly interested me and I hadn’t yet been formally taught how to sew, so Great Grandma Marget taught me how.

My grandma hovered. My mom hovered. It was a special moment but I couldn’t figure out why. How many women in my family had learned to sew on this sewing machine?

We made a potholder. It’s long lost now but I remember it distinctly. It was floral on floral on floral. One unique pattern on each side and another for the border. The old-fashioned kinds of floral patterns that I’m sure I thought were boring as a kid but would absolutely adore now. Vintage charm. Great Grandma Marget taught me how to infuse the batting between the pieces and quilt them together. To this day I remember the then mind-blowing trick she taught me for putting the border on, sewing one side then wrapping it around and sewing again. I’ve never again been able to do it quite so neatly.

Among the things I didn’t know at the time was what a love I’d grow for that machine. I’ve never devoted the time to it to become anything more than proficient. (My foot can reach the pedal now.) But sitting down and hearing that whir never fails to remind me of Great Grandma. The sewing machine is like an old long-distance friend, a pen pal. We always pick up right where I left off.

Over the years I’ve had the pleasure of crafting many things with that little skillset (read: legacy) Great Grandma taught me. As a child my main products were small unfinished quilt pieces, doll clothes, and weird art projects sewn together with recycled pairs of denim jeans. I made my fair share of purses and pillows, excitedly showing each one to my mom and then ditching it for a new design.

When sewing by hand was a unit in my elementary school art class I was a whiz. I churned out my pink felt pig with a perfectly embroidered edge in a much shorter timeframe than my art teacher had planned for the project to last. She then crowned me to be the helper of the class while they completed their sewing projects. As a perfectionist, follow the rules, wants-to-be-the-head-of-the-class type of student, this was of the highest honor to me. Thanks, Marget.

Middle school home economics class was next. I sat bored through demonstration after demonstration, the teacher carefully explaining all facets of the sewing machine to make sure none of her students put a needle through their finger while sewing their aprons. I, of course, already knew. Thanks, Marget.

Among my peers I was always the friend who “knew how to sew,” even up through my undergrad art education courses. The fact that I was the token sewer, and therefore a point-person and receiver of questions, of any group of people always made me chuckle. If only they could ask Marget, she’d know. If only I could ask Marget.

My most recent project was a large quilt for my husband. It features half hexagon pieces, a pattern so ambitious that I gave up on perfect corners almost instantly. I muddled through it, the finished product a bit sloppy but not lacking in love. The pinwheel pieces of a quilt for my son sit unfinished in the basement and my brain often buzzes with ideas of quilts for my new daughter, Marget’s namesake. Floral on floral on floral? I think so. Great Grandma would love it.