My Dad gave me my Singer 15-91 sewing machine about 3 years ago. I needed to sew something that was very heavy- oh, I remember now- I wanted to sew through several layers of knitted fabric. He had already told me he was leaving to me the 15-91, and I knew it was heavy duty enough to sew through the fabric, but I didn't know about the clearance under the foot.
I forget how we got it here - my sister must have brought it. Oh, yes, I remember telling her to be very, very careful with it, and did he remember the key to the Bentwood case? We are spread out geographically, so she would have picked it up from him on a visit, taken it to her house, and brought it to me on a visit. How much anticipation did I have? A lot. I thought my father would live forever, so in my mind, I knew there would be hours and hours of talking about the 15-91 and how it sewed.
It worked out differently. The clearance under the foot of the 15-91 was lower than I needed. I used another machine to sew that project, and the 15-91 has been sitting, beautiful in it's Bentwood case for three years. I made a small quilt with it, I did some small-item sewing with it, but I mainly would look at the machine, among 6 other machines, and think "what do I sew with that?". Or "That's the machine Dad gave me"
Recently there was an upheaval of our lives when Dad suddenly died. I didn't call him soon enough, didn't get the police there fast enough, they didn't drive the ambulance fast enough, the doctors didn't think fast enough, life was leaving my father. I hate the term "passed". I tolerated the term "passed away" for most of my life, being raised with the Catholic Church as the religion in our family. My father is free. Of us, our troubles, our not being fast enough.
So, my sister and brothers packed his apartment, moved his things, and decided to bring many things here. I spent the first few days wondering and wowing over his Wheeler and Wilson treadle, tinkering with it, putting the belt on, doing the little things he would have done at some point. I played some of my old records that he had had. I bought a couple new records. I got angry with the Singer model 66 that he had mickey-moused the wiring on, and then realized he had been old and tired, and the wiring was fine for him. That machine will blossom into a hand-crank machine. That wiring is precious now, because he did it. But I'll take the motor and pedal apart because the wiring is not up to his own standards. I sound like I am babbling, and I have been. I walk around and see all his things around me, and wonder when he is going to come and get them.
I yelled at my sister the other day - something about Dad giving her a beautiful sewing machine, did she forget???!!!! Ha! It took me a full day to have that thrown right back in my face by looking at my Singer 15-91. The machine that has sat like a jewel among my possessions. Not because it's all that much "better" than my other machines, well, okay, yes, it is. My father had that Yankee/Irish/Tom O'Meara ingenuity to find excellent sewing machines in excellent condition, at the right time, in the right place. And he left each of us one.
A couple of days ago, I got the 15-91 out, put it on a table near my work area, and guess what? Somehow the cord to the foot pedal got cut. Somehow. Today I re-wired the foot pedal. And for the last two days, while my head spins with all the upheaval, this silly 15-91 is in the back of my mind, just there. An image, a knowledge of it, there.
What do our parents really leave us? Anything? My mother left me her yarn and the thought to knit and everything will be okay. I am currently surrounded by 12 sewing machines. Seven are mine, five are my father's. Today I started selling my "extra" machines. Not his, because that's another story. But mine. I had actually purchased my 237 for a specific reason. When I had down-sized from 25 or so machines to 6 or 7, I kept those I kept for a specific reason. Guess what sewing machine is really "my sewing machine" - yes, the 1952 Singer model 15-91. Do you know why?
Children meander all over life, making choices, making a stand, claiming they know what's best for them. Yes, I have always been the problem child, the rebel, the one who isn't quite as organized as the others. And through all those years, good or bad, great relationship or rough, when my father used his Irish gifts to pick out something for me when he was gone, he chose a Singer model 15-91. Underneath the nice guy personna that my father truly had and shared with everyone he met, was a true Irishman, a leprechaun - and this is when it gets spooky in a wonderful Irish way.
I just looked up how to spell leprechaun, and Wikipedia shows this:
"A leprechaun (Irish: leipreachán) is a type of fairy in Irish folklore. It is usually depicted as a little bearded man, wearing a coat and hat, who partakes in mischief. They are solitary creatures who spend their time making and mending shoes and have a hidden pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. If captured by a human, the leprechaun has the magical power to grant three wishes in exchange for their freedom. Like other Irish fairies, leprechauns may be derived from the Tuatha Dé Danann.[1] Leprechaun-like creatures rarely appear in Irish mythology and only became prominent in later folklore."
Yep, that could be Dad. The sentence regarding Tuatha De Danann caught my eye just now- guess what record I had purchased the other day? The band De Danann's "Song For Ireland". Hmmmm. And I couldn't find a meaning for de Danann online, and had asked my son to find out for me. I have had some Irish music in the past, but some of the jigs and reels can be harsh, but after my father died, I found de Danann because my father loved Mary Black as an Irish singer. And a random search with her songs brought up de Danann, the group, because she used to sing with them. Hmmm. Meandering my way back home.
What do our parents really leave us? Well right now, I'm thinking that being a true Irishman, my father knew better than I did about magic and fairies, and fairietales, and freedom, and life. My father left me a 1952 Singer model 15-91 sewing machine. And although he wasn't really a leprechaun, I'm not going against his choices anymore.
Thank you for your Service Dad. The Army played
"Taps" for you, and they fired their guns in a salute, and tears were shed, just like what would be in a John Wayne movie that you loved so much.
