The Death of a Sewing Machine

My poor little sewing machine.  It really didn’t know what it was in for when it came to live with me.  Well, I had no idea either …

I bought that little starter machine thinking that maybe I’d like to learn to sew, and a little just-over-$100 machine was a pretty good place to start.

But then I really enjoyed sewing.  I sewed most days.  That poor little machine was meant for someone who sews sometimes.  A couple days ago it started spitting out stitches like this:

No matter how I adjusted the tension, cleaned, readjusted, rethreaded, prayed, cussed or pleaded, this garbled mess is all it’s got left to give.  As much as I’ve loved it, I fear it’s not worth investing more money into a well loved but low end machine.


I started shopping, looking for a machine that wasn’t fancy, but well built, able to handle anything from wispy, sheer organza to fluffy quilt layers to thick, sturdy denim.  I didn’t want anything computerized, thinking I’d end up ignoring the pricey do-dads anyway.  I was tempted by a treadle machine — who knew they still made those? But in the end I stuck with electric.  I’ll regret that at some point over the summer when a thunderstorm knocks out the power, won’t I?

So meet Janome, who is currently packing herself up and getting ready to be my new best friend.  I hope we’ll have many happy years together.

But I pity my husband, who is getting spoiled by the way I clean and bake at the times when I might have been sewing …