Life Without a Sewing Machine

                    Life Without a Sewing Machine

This is not a story about a seamstress. 

This is not a story about someone who wants to be a seamstress.

This is not a story about talent and motivation. 

This is a story about how sewing machines can really screw with you.

My learning to sew period began with home economics teacher, Mrs. Seebach, 1956 era. Girls took home ec. Say it as one word. The boys took shop. One word. Many things Mrs. Seebach taught me still, seventy years later, are my ways of doing home ec stuff. For example, always have color on the plate, level the measuring cups with the backside of a knife, maintain meticulous sewing habits starting with pinning the pattern expertly on the cloth.

The machine I had for years and years kept me in a marriage. Damn machine! It was a gift from Santa shortly after my junior high home ec classes. I really took to sewing and made many of my clothes. I graduated to Vogue patterns and still recall a black coat dress of heavy fabric I made with big buttons. The Christmas I received a brand new machine in a maple cabinet was splendid. The small upstairs room in our home had become the sewing room where I had been pedaling away on Mom’s treadle machine. My new beautiful machine sat in front of the window overlooking the community college and my dreams.

This machine was the only piece of furniture I took to Chicago after marrying my first husband. Shortly after the October 1964 wedding I returned home to my parents with a blackened face. Yes, I was physically abused. However, I still question why I returned to him.  Mom said, “You kept saying you loved him.” I think I was loving my sewing machine and couldn’t just leave it. How dysfunctional and deranged was I! Damn sewing machine! 

It feels good to type that!

And so I had this machine for years, sewing draperies, clothes and then the maternity tops that hid pregnancies in the 60’s and 70’s. Why did we hide the bump? Why did we think a flouncy full blouse hid anything? Nowadays it’s spandex the baby.

More than once did sewing projects not get finished. I recall a white elephant I took to a party - an unfinished cocktail dress in a box with the pattern and pieces cut out. It was satin fabric, white and light blue. Unfinished but off my 

to-do list.

And then there were the half-done maternity tops that carried from one pregnancy to the next. This scheme of getting pregnant one more time was not motivated by the incompleted maternity clothing, I hope. One can only wish that the subconscious is more discerning. I remember one top I sewed with a rope-like tie under the belly so there I was, a balloon shape reinforced by a bulging baby with a snug tie under the bulge. And it was my favorite! Could that have been a premature spandex the baby?

This sewing machine became vintage while in my possession. It was given to an acquaintance who collected sewing machines, or so she said. How many folks collect sewing machines? In 2013,  I wanted to be free of all things that required finishing! I wanted to roam and free spirit my awakenings.

                     *            *            *                 

Mom passed away in 1997.

Mom’s treadle machine, which had been Grandma's, became mine. And such a supreme working wonder. I recall mending one last item for Mom in her final days in the retirement home. She was visually impaired with macular degeneration, but we were able to thread the machine and treadle away. 

I regret my impatience now. 

The machine was shipped with a few other pieces from Iowa to Texas.  The machine was in my truck bed for some unremembered reason. My friend had an errand to run.

“Just take my truck,” I said. 

The machine rolled around in the back and a couple of the drawers flew out.

He went back to retrieve them, but they were nowhere to be found.

I attempted, by giving one good drawer to a woodsman at a craft show, to replace the missing drawers. I never heard from the woodsman or saw him again. 

The machine with its three holes became a depressing eyesore for me. Mom would never have allowed this wonderful working marvel to be in such disrepair, although missing drawers would not affect its ability to stitch.

I sold it, as is for $50, to a friend that made contraptions out of sewing machine parts.

Mom/Grandma’s beautiful machine was dissected and the body parts placed in newer working items. Sounds like resurrection to me or at least a treadle replacement donation bank. Now that is a bit more positive than I originally pondered. Grandma’s machine parts are alive and moving in a new apparatus.

Year is 2013, the year of roaming reckoning.

                   *         *        *

I don’t sew anymore. I haven’t bought a pattern in decades.. 

However, I bought a sewing machine in a WalMart for $88 a few years ago simply because I could. I bought it for the nonresponsible reason that a Brother sewing machine at $88 has to be the best deal. And the sewing machine void in my home should be filled. I had no intention of using it immediately. I just thought that I should own a sewing machine. 

Shoulds can be damning.

I used it twice. Once for sewing the curtains and seat covers in my children’s bookmobile and once for sewing bags for my native American flutes. I recall vividly where I was sitting/living in both instances when sewing these projects. My recollection is alarmingly scaringly specific. 

Following these projects, back into the box the machine went, into the guest room closet, into the flood waters of July 4, 2025, never to be reckoned with again. 

Gone. 

I shall not replace it. I am not mourning the loss. I am somewhat relieved that I don’t have to feel guilty about its nonuse.

This was a therapeutic story. 

I have been therapeuterized.*

This is healing.

This is all true because I have learned, truth is scarier than fiction.

I reckon the roaming is reemerging.

*potentially misspelled I am told. Obviously, wordcheck doesn’t have my dictionary.

                                                  *                         *.                          *                    

The above essay was originally written for a Chelsey Clammer assignment, 11/28,/2025. That is today! I have much to blog about since the flood took our home, all the interior, the vehicles, the rv. We are recovering and I shall be posting various essays I have written since July 4, 2025 here in The Hill Country, Texas.

We're Going on a Field Trip

           We’re Going on a Field Trip

I love to sing with children and often include “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt,” using the book for visuals and the body for action.

This morning as I am planning my inspirational field trip, “We’re Going on a Field Trip” resonates in my mind as I ponder the words and melody:

We’re going on a field trip and you echo, we’re going on a field trip.

We’re going to The Empty Cross and you echo, we’re going to the Empty Cross.

Please bring a notebook  (echo…)

Please bring a pen  (echo…)

Say a prayer  (echo…)

sit and meditate (echo…)

then we’ll write  (echo…)

We’re leaving as soon as I get dressed this Sunday morning.

I haven’t been to The Empty Cross for several years. It is a cross built high above Kerrville, Texas by Max Greiner, Jr. who was inspired by God. That is the crux of the story. You can find details on this website: https://thecrossatkerrville.org/

And now to the meat of this essay. I am seeking God’s Direction in finding a place to worship with other Christians. Currently, my husband and I are members of the Hunt Methodist Church. However, it isn’t meeting my needs. 

And just what are your needs, Joan?

That is what I seek to know. 

I was raised in the Evangelical United Brethren Church which was swallowed by the Methodists years ago. Grandpa Hoffner was a Presbyterian trained minister who served during my childhood as a EUB pastor in very small churches in Iowa. I attended weekly Sunday School and church, proudly wearing my string of Sunday School pins for perfect attendance year after year after year.

When I was a teenager I sang in the choir.

All five of my children have been raised in the church.

My husband and I always joined a church as we moved many times throughout our twenty-five years of marriage.

During my divorce and thereafter, I served as a church choir director, church organist, church pianist with various denominations, not large churches. The extra income was appreciated and somewhat needed.

And now, some twenty five years later:

I don’t want to be tied down every Sunday with the job.

I don’t want to be tied down every Sunday with a church-affiliated position.

I have been a “none” for the past many years until my husband and I joined this local church as previously mentioned. 

Being a “none” does not mean I am a non believer. No, no, no!

I believe! Oh, yes, I believe deeply.

With that backstory, let us go on our field trip. I know we’ll be walking so wear comfortable shoes and comfortable clothes. I am wearing my shorts and t-shirt.

I have been told by volunteers who are involved with rebuilding our home that their visits to The Empty Cross were inspiring, maybe spiritually renewing. Let’s see.

Here I begin by standing under the 78’ cross that dominates the landscape and can be seen as one approaches Kerrville from east and west, north and south on I-10 and Highway #16.

There are a few folks on the paths but it’s Sunday morning and churches are where many visitors to this Sculpture Prayer Garden are currently worshipping. I don’t feel guilty. I feel fortunate to have this opportunity.

I pass several boxes where donations can be made. They are tied with green ribbons.

I sit at a picnic table and write. I have difficulty meditating simply because there is music being broadcast through speakers and simply because I have difficulty meditating anywhere. The mind is scattered.

I write a prayer in letter form to Dear God. As prayers are answered, beliefs confirmed, it is You, Lord Jesus, to whom I submit…and then I ask and I acknowledge His Power and His Willingness and His Guidance. Yes, I am praying with my pen and letting words flow.

And now I am ready to walk down the path between the white crosses, many white crosses that memorialize the one hundred thirty-eight lives lost in the July 4th flood. There are markers attached to the wooden white crosses for messages to be written to the deceased, you will not be forgotten, you are loved, you will be missed,  forever in my heart, sweetest family. Several crosses include all the members of one family. Teddy bears and this crocheted doll are at the base of crosses for the children who perished. 

 

I go back to the truck not doubting God read my letter. I did not hear an audible voice as some do. I did not receive a flash of wisdom. I do not know where I am to worship. I do know that I will continue my seeking, my place of worship. I wish it were as clear to me as building the cross was to Max Greiner. His church is down the road from the KOA where we are currently staying. Perhaps, just perhaps, we should pay The Impact Church a visit.

(Originally penned for a Guided Autobiography Class, 10/12/2025)

Journey in June - Part 2

                                                            410 State St., Dysart, Iowa

Memories from youth became my fuel as we continue this road-trip. I had miles and miles to recall events from my childhood as we drove from the middle of Missouri to Central Iowa. When I was a freshman in high school we moved to Iowa Fall, Iowa. Before that welcomed event, I had spent my entire young life in Dysart, Iowa, a small town, population 1100.

Following our Sedalia musical highlight, we traveled north through the hills of southern Iowa, crossed Interstate 80 and headed to Dysart. Mom told me repeatedly, “I would never live south of 80.” I smiled, never asking why.

Dad owned a Coast-to-Coast hardware store in Dysart. We ate lunch in the same building and as expected, it seemed so small to me. Two doors down was Wuest’s drug store where I could buy long ropes of black licorice and Katy Keene comic books. The storefront appeared the same, but closed up to any type of business. The new library is across the street, in the middle of this block-long downtown. I am proud of it being in such a prominent spot! 

The next check-in was the house that Dad built in the 1950s where we lived prior to our move. It’s for sale, $159,900! What a shock that would be for Mom and Dad. I checked Zillow to peek inside the house, discouraged by its presentation. Mention was made of vintage kitchen cupboards which means Dad’s skilled workmanship is still intact, but the glorious pink and turquoise kitchen has been redone.

410 State Street is now the address. We had PO boxes uptown where we procured our mail, no street address. One current unusual Dysart phenomenon was the presence of golf carts, on the streets, two parked in front of the restaurant, other carts transporting folks around town.

We visited the cemetery and my plot is waiting for my arrival. One Christmas I received a deed to the plot next to Mom and Dad, a very practical gift.  I’m planning to have my urn buried there with those wishes recently written in the will!

We then traveled north to Hubbard where a dairy farm listed on Harvest Hosts was expecting us. Harvest Hosts is an online system of various establishments where one can boondock, sometimes electricity hook-ups are available. Purchases are anticipated and we bought milk, ice cream and cheese. We came within five miles of Iowa Falls, but I had no desire to visit there this trip. 

(to be continued)

Journey in June - Part 1

                           Beginning of Our Journey in June                                             

Perhaps I have over-booked on this trip.  Perhaps we are covering too many miles.

"Heck no," I say. "We just have to pace ourselves....rest...don't plan so much each day."

My husband and I are journeying now, June 2025, to points far into the Northwest, including British Columbia. We have traveled in a recreational vehicle every summer to the Northwest where we each have family. We did not meet in Coeur d' Alene, Idaho, but that is our destination annually. It is coincidental, both of us from CdA meeting in Palomas, Mexico. Another story, another blog.

As I type, we are in the fairly new fairgrounds rv park, Coeur d' Alene. Hubby is having breakfast with his son. I am reeeeeeee-laxing this cool morning as my daughter works half of the day. 

The journey to this point has been a bit stressful but we are able now to decompress. I have driven many miles. I choose to be the primary driver.

The trip began in Hunt, Tx. with Night #1 at Inks Lake State Park, a wonderful park where we have been several times. It was about an hour to my daughter's home near Austin where we had been invited to spend Memorial Day. The next morning we traveled to another favorite state park in Arkansas, Queen Wilhelmina. It is the second highest point in Arkansas, atop Rich Mountain. https://www.https://www.arkansasstateparks.com/parks/queen-wilhelmina-state-park   A repeat visit for us, but we ate in the lodge for the first time this visit. It was a very delicious evening meal made special as the couple at the next table was extraordinarily generous. The waitress spoke after they left, "They paid for your meal." We must pay it forward soon, don't you think?

Day #3 already! We traverse Hwy 65 north to Sedalia, Missouri, birthplace of Scott Joplin. An annual ragtime festival is held on the last weekend of May with the best of the best performers on piano and various instruments.  https://www.scottjoplin.org/ragtime-festival-performers. As a pianist, I play ragtime music daily and am always motivated following my attendance at this festival. In addition to the amazing pianists, I found a favorite band, the Lovestruck Balladeers. Their CDs were sold out. Believe it or not, they have created a 78 rpm record, but alas, no record player in my possession. How nostalgic would that be!

Three days of pure ragtime on venues and stages throughout downtown Sedalia. Parking is easy, the crowds are minimal, ragtime enthusiasts are primarily older folks like us although it is always rewarding to hear a younger person tickle the ivories. We left with smiles and Joan saying, "I am going to the San Antonio ragtime meeting when we get back to Texas. This is definitely my delight!"

It's June 1st and we leave Sedalia saturated with good vibes and head north to Iowa where Joan was raised. The Missouri greens are lush out the truck windows towing our 22' Winnebago Micro Mini travel trailer.

Life is good at 70 miles per hour. 

(to be continued)

joanconnor 06/06/25

Bad Art

Bad Art

(penned to NaPoWriMo’s prompt Day 8 - 

write a Ekphrastic poem using link to Museum of Bad Art)

no need to travel to the Museum of Bad Art

i have created my own!

just step out to the patio and view hangings 

on the side of my home.

it’s a mere collection not a gallery

showing  to questionable applause

six originals available for viewing

in house artist proud because….

each painting reveals a memory

each painting represents trust

step by step following the teacher

while sipping dipping the brush

“no, not in the wine,” we laugh

and smile our way to create

the masterpiece of the moment

sipping dipping and learning 

           to appreciate….

the better art of Monet and Van Gogh

the hours true art requires

my masterpiece is definitely bad art

but only took two hours.

(the one top right was done 

a night out with Daughter Maureen)

years ago was our first attempt

to drink paint and follow along

the bonding far surpasses

the reality of artwork done wrong.

with Louise the bumblebee I created 

hers was proportionately done right

reminds me of a best friendship

Louise has passed into the “night.”

more memories from artwork

i cannot conjure up

have not done it for awhile 

but you can be assured 

there’ll be a space to hang my bad art

if given another chance

to create the very best memories 

with    just     one     glance.