I still own the same sewing machine that once belonged to my grandmother and great grandmother. The small black Singer machine assisted me with making childhood clothes, my wedding dress, and curtains hanging today in one of our rooms. In the past, when people saw my machine, they often asked, “Is it a toy?” No, it’s a sentimental gift I inherited from my great-grandmother—an old, small, reliable machine with a lot of miles on its motor that still works—a little like me.
But for the past two decades, I’ve ignored the Singer, leaving it in a closet for rare moments when something needed a repair. I’ve replaced my active sewing hobby from younger years with writing. Sewing needed to go bye-bye if I was going to complete novels.
Then a friend suggested making baby blankets from our family’s Scottish tartan pattern for our growing brood of grandchildren. I agreed. Unfortunately, when I threaded up the machine, the threads appeared unevenly on the fabric, some too loose, some too tight—a tension problem. As a child, I used to descend into tears when tension problems occurred with my thread until my mother appeared, usually from the kitchen, when she heard my cries for help. Quietly and patiently, she adjusted the machine, talking to me in a soft voice. I calmed.
When I brought the machine into a local repair shop recently, the familiar amused look appeared on the repairman’s face when I lifted the machine onto the counter so he could give me an estimate to get it running again. Within minutes, he was suggesting I turn it in for a new model.
Not a chance.
While I’ve created many items on this machine, mostly the Singer is a tangible reminder of some of the best moments with my mother who emotionally struggled in many ways. In that scene above where I mention her helping with quiet patience, I failed to mention the rarity of those kind of responses from her. Maintaining a healthy relationship with her during my adult years became challenging. Despite being able to find words for many of my broken family’s turmoil, I’ve struggled to find the words to write compassionately about her.
But when I pulled out this outdated sewing machine, my attitude softened, allowing me to see her complexity.
While the machine’s sturdy, compact, and simple 1950s design seems obsolete to some people, to me it holds some of the warmest memories of my mother. Engaging in domestic tasks brought out the best in my mother. Where the world outside our door seemed to intimidate her, domestic life gave her pleasure. She loved cooking, sewing, and keeping a nice home, and taught me those skills. Looking back, I believe she appreciated how I stepped into her domain with enthusiasm. Whenever we sewed or cooked together, a transformation took place and she became the world’s most patient mom.
If only we could have threaded together words of apology and retraction with that old Singer machine. Her relationships and family would’ve been different.
In a few days, my novel, The Forgotten Life of Eva Gordon, makes its debut, offering a glimpse into some of the pain involved in broken relationships, and the challenges of dealing with a difficult, hard-to-love person. While Eva Gordon is a fictional character, the idea of challenging behavior comes to mind when I think of my own mother. I’ve heard it said authors sometimes have one story they are trying to work out through their fiction. Maybe my story is how characters can be complicated—difficult to love, in desperate need of empathy and compassion, and loveable all at the same time. I hope I’ve conveyed some of that truth in The Forgotten Life of Eva Gordon.
The Forgotten Life of Eva Gordon is available wherever books are sold. Follow me on Instagram @lindamackillopwriter or Facebook at lindakerrmackillop. And let’s keep in touch via my newsletter!