My mother did not sew…at all. If we needed an alteration, Mrs. Norlin, our crusty but industrious Norwegian neighbor, would come to the rescue.
But we had a sewing machine – Grandma Olander’s treadle. The machine stood next to our Philco radio in the dining room. It intrigued me, and I think when my mom’s sister, Aunt Anna visited, she taught me how to fill the bobbin, raise and lower the foot-feed, master the complexities of the tension knob and of course, how to thread it.
My first project, May Day baskets! For several months before the important date, I reminded Mom to save the used butter cartons. I cut them crosswise, refolded them into a half-box and used each half for a base. Mom gave me enough money to buy two packs of crepe paper at Bergeson’s store, where I found my favorite pastels – pink and green.
Carefully I’d cut the paper into strips about an inch higher than the base (the butter cartoon) and then the fun began. I’d stitch the paper, creating pleats of ruffles, layer perhaps one layer of green, one layer of pink, or two layers of pink, or two layers of green—big decisions! Fastening the paper to the carton was difficult, because staplers weren’t yet household items and Scotch tape was yet to be invented. I think I used anything I could get my hands on – yarn, old ribbons, strips of material – and simply tied the works together.
As a preteen, I must have made twenty or twenty-five May baskets each year, because on May 1st I delivered baskets with a cookie and popcorn in each (Mom to the rescue again) to everyone I knew in our little town of Ogema.
I joined the Loyal Workers 4-H Club. My only project, sewing. I managed to cobble together a dirndl skirt that received a third place (the judge was generous!) at the Spirit Town Hall fair. The humiliating part? My cousin, Bonnie Jean, belonged to the Hillbillies 4-H Club and under her mother’s tutelage, had blossomed into a budding seamstress. Needless to say, she received first prize in each of her entries. (I wonder how many times my mother asked me “Why can’t you be more like Bonnie Jean?)
In high school my clothing budget depended upon how many baby-sitting jobs I’d taken. At twenty-five cents an hour, I didn’t shop at Dale Peterson’s Drapery Shop for their lovely remnants very often, but my sewing improved a bit, and dirndl skirts were still in fashion.
Fast forward to marriage and motherhood. Mom let me take Grandma’s machine and I faced the fact I needed to become proficient, because two and a half years into our marriage we were parents of two precious daughters. I took several sewing classes offered through vocational school, and learned everything from laying out a pattern on fabric to installing a zipper. Paul and I went shopping at the Montgomery Ward store on State Street and purchased a portable sewing machine on the monthly payment plan. Exciting elements of my new machine were zigzag and decorative stitch cams and, unlike the treadle, it could sew in reverse. I sewed dress, pajamas, slacks, maternity tops, jackets, snow pants, a slipcover for our davenport, pleated drapes for our living room and even winter coats for the girls. I was instrumental in creating a quilting group at our church and the machine stitched many quilts for world relief.
We returned Grandma’s treadle to my parents in Osage, and when we visited, I often did mending for my Mom on the old treadle.
I began teaching adult vocational knitting classes during the late sixties and stashed away my earnings in anticipation of purchasing a Swiss Bernina sewing machine, the Cadillac of machines. I envied my friend Pat and sister-in-law Audrey, who already owned one.
I bought my new three-hundred dollar machine, encased in red, from Hans’ Sewing Center on Williamson Street. Hans required purchasers to take lessons from his mother in order to validate the guarantee. Their family had emigrated to Madison from Switzerland following World War and his elderly mother spoke little English.
Heeding the requirements, I attended four sessions above Hans’ shop. The only student in the small, closet-like space, I sat next to the elderly woman’s left. She didn’t permit me to touch her precious Bernina – my task was to observe. Of course, I couldn’t understand her verbal instructions, but being a visual learner, I learned the basics.
In turn, I mentored Kari and Lori, threatening any violations of the Bernina rules would result in their return to the old machine. Enthralled with the new machine, I didn’t have to demote either of them – they kept it humming throughout their high school years. (And they both own a Bernina today.)
I took sewing classes to learn how to sew on the new polyester knits, and advanced to sewing lingerie. Kari and Lori had a photo-op to model polyester nightgowns for a featured spot in the Family Circle magazine.
My neighbor Jean Hanson and I teamed up and sewed several hundred pairs of fur fabric slippers over two decades We purchased the fabric (trade name “Borgana”) by the pound from the outlet in Jefferson, Wisconsin. We’d cut the slippers out at her house one evening, then sew them at mine another. We gossiped incessantly while we worked—either happenings in our neighborhood or church politics. For years at Christmastime our families and friends were the recipients of our warm fuzzy slippers.
In the eighties I took a quilting class or two, and got it out of my system. I did tackle a big project when I designed and sewed a screened-in tent we attached to the back of our new Plymouth van for our 1990 Alaskan adventure. Paul removed the van’s bench seats and built a raised plywood platform so we’d have storage underneath. Our cozy sleeping quarters featured an air mattress and sleeping bags. The mosquito proof tent functioned as a dressing room and screened-in porch.
Since moving to Carpenter, my machine has a room of its own, a small closet off an upstairs bedroom. It’s always there, ready to be of service. I’ve knitted Norwegian sweaters in the round, then stitched and cut them to create a cardigan, but mostly, my Bernina is used for mending and stitching buttons onto Paul’s jeans for his trademark suspenders.
