It was a fixture in our house for as long as I can remember being as much a part of our kitchen as the big Findlay Oval range, the baby's crib and the wood box. We just called it the machine and that definition worked because there was no other contraption in our home that you would refer to as a machine. Well, that is not quite true because at one point we bought a gasoline washing machine but we called that the washer. The appliance that separated milk from cream was called the separator. The next closest thing to a machine was the six Acadia motor that powered my father's skiff and that was simply called an engine. So when Mommy said that she was going to use the machine, everyone knew that she would soon be busy with her foot on the pedal, passing some kind of fabric under the needle as the familiar whir filled the kitchen. I loved to watch Mommy open the top, and pull up the actual sewing apparatus. I found it quite intriguing that when the sewing machine was not in use, I could sit to it like a desk with my pencil and sheet of scribbler paper. It was a fine piece of furniture with four drawers that were designed for holding your sewing paraphernalia. Sewing stuff however was the least of what filled up those drawers. At any given time, there might be anything in there from horseshoe nails to hair rollers to trout hooks. Pencil stubs were stowed in there to be used in time of need. Even those little plastic tubes that fitted over the top of baby bottles were kept there for easy access. Singer, the machine was named, with the black metal capitalized letters displayed predominantly above the foot pedal and I think S-I-N-G-E-R was the first word I learned to spell. I loved watching Mommy fill the bobber with thread. Funny though, when I became old enough to learn the mechanics of the machine, I refused to be taught how to sew. One very unwanted product that came my way via Mommy's Singer sewing machine was a school bag she sewed for me when I was in grade four. The material was second hand stuff from a red and black plaid jacket that had belonged to my father. Having a flap with a big black button and a nice strap for easy carrying, in other circles or at another time, it might have been considered quite attractive. But such was not the reality for some of the children in the school yard in Branch in the 1950s. "Your father's coat! Your father's coat!?" I went home in tears and my poor dear mother had to spend the whole night sewing me a new bag that was dark brown or grey or some such nondescript color. I think that the infamous plaid one was later used as a hay bag when Daddy was hauling wood in the winter. The first time I saw my mother creating miniature clothing out of white flannelette, I thought she was making dolls' clothing. The sweetest remembrance of something produced by the Singer is of a soft yellow baby blanket with pictures of alphabet blocks and circus animals. When it was laid away in a drawer with a pair of knitted booties and other tiny stuff, I was still too young to put two and two together. After my darling brother Reggie was born, my seven-year-old mind would sometimes wonder how Mommy knew beforehand that we were going to get a new baby. In 1954, children were definitely not as savvy about the facts of life as are today's kids. Ah yes, memories of an old Singer sewing machine taking me back to times that were much different but oh so much simpler.   Submitted By: NULL