As a young girl, I used to love to watch my Mom at her sewing machine. I loved the wrrrrrrrrrrrrr and the taptaptaptap that came from inside that magic machine. I loved to watch her replace the bobbin with a new colored thread and marvel at her fingers as she wound the thread up, around, under and through on its path to create something.  My Mom’s sewing machine lived in a beautiful cabinet… light blond wood… that had all kinds of little shelves inside.  I longed for the day that I could open that cabinet and pull up that machine, lock it in place, wind the thread and create something myself.

It would be 8th grade Home Economics class that made this dream come true.  Each student… female, that is… because boys did NOT take Home Ec. way back then… chose her own skirt pattern, fabric, matching thread and basting tape.  I chose an A-line skirt pattern, royal blue wool-blend fabric and matching thread and tape.  I remember walking into that Home Ec. class and feeling actually giddy with excitement…

And I sewed just about all of my own clothing from that day on.  I sewed skirts, pants, blouses.  I sewed little stuffed animals.  I created all of my dance and prom dresses.  I even sewed lined coats and a couple of bathing suits.  I deviated from patterns and created my own little designs.  One Christmas, the new “must-have” in sewing were electric scissors.  I remember being at Sears with my parents, watching them watch the demonstration in the sewing machine department… hoping they would get those scissors for me.  They did.

I never needed a new sewing machine.  I used my Mom’s… the one inside the blond cabinet.  I pretty much took it over, because my Mom enjoyed buying clothing more than she enjoyed sewing them!  My sewing machine and all my sewing stuff had its own little corner in our finished basement… near my father’s desk.  My favorite memories are talking to my Dad as I sewed up a storm while he worked at his desk.  We solved lots of the world’s problems while I sewed and he did his paperwork.

I didn’t bring my sewing machine to college.  I didn’t bring my sewing machine to my first apartment… it was way too small for that blond cabinet.  Maybe I was too busy teaching to appreciate its magic.  Maybe choosing patterns and fabrics and thread and basting tape took so much more time than heading to the mall to catch a good sale. Then I got married.  The kids came.

So… my sewing had come to an end.

It nearly broke my heart when my Mom and I made the decision, about 15 years ago, to finally, finally donate that blond cabinet with its magic whrrrrrrs and taptaptaptaps to a local Goodwill center.  I actually waved good-bye to it.  But I kept the electric scissors.  I still have them.

And this brings me to one day last week.  I was at Audrey’s home, and 2-year old Henry came to me with a sad little face… holding a little pink stuffed animal.  He pointed to the rip on its tummy, a 2-inch or so tear on the seam.  I said, “Is your little duck broken?”

Henry answered, “Yes. But it’s a goose.”

I said, “Do you want Grandma to fix your goose?”

Before Henry had time to answer, Audrey chimed in from the kitchen.  “Mom,” she said, “that duck is from that *”Loser Machine” at Mozzarella’s.  It’s ripped.  I’m throwing it away.”

(*The “Loser Machine” is one of those 50-cents per “try” to grab a .02-cent stuffed animal from an obviously rigged claw machine.)

I looked at Henry cradling his goose.  I saw his sad, sad eyes.  I called to Audrey in the kitchen, “It’s a goose.  And I can sew it.”

Henry then, of course, asked if I could fix it “now.” I asked Audrey where she keeps her sewing box.  Well, I may as well have asked her where she keeps her Hope Diamond. There is no sewing box.  So I took Henry to my house.  I got out my sewing basket… a far cry from my sewing cabinet with hundreds of spools of silky threads and bobbins and ribbons… but it serves its beautiful purpose right now.  I removed the lid of the basket and Henry’s eyes filled with delight at the magic inside.  As I found the perfect pink thread and the right needle, Henry went about his work of stacking the thread, making towers and castles.  He was fascinated with the thread colors as they intertwined with his play.  He watched as I clipped the thread to de-tangle the bunches.  He played with the buttons and the measuring tape while I sewed his goose brand-new.

When I finally presented Henry with his fixed goose, he hugged it like it was the only goose on earth… not like some ripped goose from a Loser Machine with one webbed foot in the trash…

I know I probably failed my 2 beautiful daughters in the sewing department.  I really, really did.  I know neither of them owns a sewing box or basket.  I know neither has a bountiful collection of buttons or dozens of spools of luscious threads.  I know neither of them felt the joy of fabric flowing through their hands as a sewing machine wrrrrrrrrr’d and taptaptaptap’d its music… or even know what a bobbin is.

But what I do know is that when something needs to be mended, sewn, buttoned or brought back to life… like the little pink goose… my hands can do it and my heart is in it.  It warms me to my very soul.  Sewing brings back such wonderful, wonderful memories to me.  Maybe that’s what grandmas are for, anyway.

Henry never let go of his goose for the rest of the day, and he couldn’t wait to show his brothers how Grandma had fixed it.  And you know what?  I think Henry completely gets this sewing thing!