guitar in, featherweight out: music in middle age

This blog saw me pick up an ukulele for the first time, create a group to start playing with friends, and mess around in a million different ways trying to make instruments and cases and crazy headstock hats for ukes.

The group is still humming (strumming?) along, and some of us have even started music lessons. There is a whole genre of literature on taking up a musical instrument later in life, all of which I'd like to read some day. Meanwhile, it is clear to me just from a casual survey of friends that there is a special pleasure in learning music after years of raising children a/o focusing on work.

It could turn into a real problem.

This summer my teacher casually mentioned that I might enjoy playing tenor guitar. I didn't know what a tenor guitar was; Bob explained that it was a transition instrument originally made for tenor banjo players in the 1920s and '30s, and tuned CGDA like the tenor banjo. It had multiple tuning options, though, one of which was DGBE, like a baritone ukulele.

Hm.

Last week an old tenor guitar popped up on craigslist. You know what happened next.

It's a 1950's Stella, sold in catalogs at the time for around $23, less than a quarter of what I paid for it 60 years and several scratches and dings later. The neck has been reset, and the tuners have been replaced; but it still plays fine as far as I can tell.

Elvis played a Stella tenor in the movie Frankie and Johnnie (1966). It's a brief segment of this clip from about 0:10 to 0:20.

The only catch for me is that age is also inspiring me to pare down; and a guitar, even a little one, hardly fits into the downsizing spirit. So I went to the same craigslist and sold the Singer Featherweight.

There were good memories tied to this machine. My older son named her Betty and learned to sew (and to oil and adjust machines) on her. He made quilts, pajama bottoms, and Halloween costumes over the years; but his interests have changed, as well, and I prefer sewing on the 201 and 301. So the Singer is gone, and the guitar is here, and that seems to sum up for me how what we value changes over time.

Or there's this: the night before S was born 16 years ago, I stayed up late talking with my childhood friend Rel. A few hours later, my water broke and I called another friend, Carey, who came to be with 5yo C during the home birth.

As it happens, I saw both of these friends in the last week. Rel now plays fiddle and mandolin. Carey and I play ukulele together.

star quilt: finished at last

It's done. C slept under his sparkly stars last night.


You'd think I'd be elated about having one less project nagging at me, but I only feel a sort of tired relief—like when you've been in labor for hours and the baby is finally there, small and wet and wrinkled. Sure, you're happy, but you also can't help wondering: after all that effort, well, shouldn't it be a little more...attractive?


The free motion quilting turned out to be a bear. I finally gave up on the Singer and took out a newish (90's) Pfaff that had been passed to me when its owner died. This modern machine had several advantages over the vintage Singer:


1. electronic control, which allowed sewing at an even, steady speed.
2. an integrated walking foot, which made it easy to feed through the layers of the quilt.
3. a free motion foot calibrated specifically for it, rather than a generic aftermarket version.
4. needle stop in the down position (oh, how I love this feature now).


On the other hand, it had less space under the arm than my old machine, and it sat several inches above the table, forcing the quilt to go over it like a bump—not the easist way to sew a big project like this.


This is the best set up I could come up with: the quilt spreading out over two plastic folding tables, foot control against a weighted cooler so it wouldn't slide around, and me sitting on a barstool in order to gain a little elevation. But I still wished for a bigger machine surface to be able to freely move that quilt in all directions.

On the very last day, it occurred to me to search online for some product that might help. I found this. Too late for this quilt, but maybe not for the next.

facelift for an old sewing cabinet

Back in April, I thought I might go ahead and finish the star quilt on the Singer 301.

Then I took took out the Singer 201 and changed my mind.

The Singer 201 is, as you may have guessed, the predecessor to the 301, manufactured primarily through the 1940s. It also came in handcrank and treadle versions, and in later years with an aluminum body—but the steel body with the potted electric motor is probably the most common. It is large and very heavy, not even close to being portable. It was meant to fit into a solid wood cabinet.


This 1947 electric is my old favorite, found a thrift store for $60 and somehow hoisted, cabinet and all, into the back of a minivan with two small children in tow. That's what infatuation will do for a person. This is a machine with exceptionally pretty lines.


But as thrilled as I might be with the machine, I could never deny that the cabinet looked rough. The finish was scratched, water-stained and dried out. I'd always meant to spruce it up, but didn't get around to it until last spring. All that procrastination, and it turned out to be a quick and straightforward weekend project.


First, a trip to the hardware store. This paint sample, although purplish in hue, was a perfect match for the face frames.

Dr. Woodwell took care of the rest.
"Dr. Woodwell Wood Elixir" sounds a little like snake oil, and the website looks like a midnight infomercial. But I have used it on a few projects over the years, and it is a genuinely wonderful product for cleaning & revitalizing old wood.  

Thus we went from this

to this

And from this

to this

The machine head, though it has nicks and chips in the expected places, is timelessly gorgeous. Like the 301, it sews an exquisite straight stitch with a quiet hum.

Time for the last push on the star quilt.

buying a singer 301

A Bay Area friend mentioned that she was looking for a Singer 301 and as luck would have it, there was one available in our area again. It was being offered at a garage sale on a day I couldn't make, but DH happily went in my stead—he loves anything mechanical, and he loves a good garage sale.

Knowing how solid these machines are, I was pretty certain he'd come home with it; and he did. It's a beautiful beige tone.

With the exception of a couple of tiny chips in the paint (one is visible in the photo above at the upper right near the handwheel) and a dark ring on the cabinet, it is in very clean condition. Look at the inside:

DH added some lubricant to the gears and oiled the moving parts, and the machine was ready to sew.

When buying a 301, it's important to be sure the bobbin case is present. The bobbin cases sit vertically and can easily drop out when the machine is moved.

And if you're a nerd, you may also want to check the serial number to date it.

Singer's site lists this machine as being made in 1956 in Anderson, South Carolina.

For $125, the machine came with nine bobbins, a box of attachments, an original Singer screwdriver plus a couple of extra screwdrivers, a buttonhole attachment, a zig zag attachment, and a photocopy of the original manual (the woman selling it had two 301s, but apparently only one manual). Manuals in .pdf form can also be downloaded for free here.

But the best thing that came with this machine was its cabinet:

This is actually a No. 47 cabinet, originally sold with the Singer 15-91s in the 1930s and 40s. Almost certainly the original owner (the grandmother of the woman who held the garage sale) had decided to upgrade her machine in the 1950s but kept her cabinet. My photo makes it look like one leg is lighter than the others, but that's just the sun. It's truly a lovely piece of furniture, with turned legs and an inlay of burl in the doors. I don't even mind the water ring. To me it suggests that its owner regularly kept a vase of fresh flowers on her machine when it was closed; it must have sat in the living or dining area.

Open, the cabinet has space for its accessories and half a dozen spools of thread. It operates with a knee press, keeping the floor space uncluttered.

How does it sound? It sounds just like a 301 should:

—and makes a perfect stitch:

I so enjoyed sewing with the machine in the cabinet that I suddenly remembered this table we'd picked up on, yup, Freecycle.

301 tables are fairly hard to come by, and when DH answered the post he'd told the woman offering it that she might want to consider selling it instead. She didn't: she just wanted it gone. It had a broken leg mechanism, and all she cared about was that it go to a home where it would be repaired and used. DH was able to fabricate the part, but I was so used to my 301 as a portable that I had not gotten around to trying it until yesterday. What a revelation: instead of bumping up out of our awkwardly round kitchen table, the 301 can sit flush in an uninterrupted sewing surface. I may even use it to finish the star quilt.

quilting on a singer 301

quilting UFOs

The term UFO is quilting lingo for "UnFinished Object"—all those bits of fabric which were intended for quilts but haven't quite made it there yet. They might be in any stage: single blocks, partially pieced tops, even quilts that are nearly complete but haven't been bound around the edges yet.


I recently took out all my ufos and decided to get them into quilts once and for all, no matter how long and tedious the process. Both kids are suddenly more independent, and there are large swaths of time that I haven't  had since they were small. I counted: there are at least ten quilts' worth of blocks stacked up. Among them is C's baby quilt.


C turns 18 in a few months, so this has really gone on too long.


I'm sewing on a singer 301, which is my very favorite machine for this kind of work. I'll never forget arriving at my friend Diana's years ago to sew together for the first time. Stepping inside, I could hear the soft rattle of her machine running the living room, and a sudden Proustian rush caused me to blurt out, "That's the machine my mom had when I was little!"


Of course, I had no way of knowing whether it was true or not; I'd learned to sew on a Touch and Sew. But somehow the distinctive chug of the 301 made me think of sitting under a table, or of drifting off to sleep. When I found one for sale nearby, I bought it immediately, even though it seemed expensive at $100. I just wanted to hear that sound when I sewed.


And as it turns out, the machine has been well worth it. The 301 makes a reliable straight stitch, needs almost no adjusting and, at 17 lbs, is light enough to move easily while also sitting solidly on the table.

It's also beautiful. I believe it's the last black-and-gold sewing machine Singer made, although it also came in tan and tan/white versions. Someone once said it looks like an old locomotive engine, and I think that's pretty good description.


More recently, S remarked that it reminds him of Christopher, the alien in the movie District 9. It's...possible, I suppose, depending on your point of view. Can you see it?

In any case, this has been my go-to portable for years; and I have been using it to finish up these old blocks, particularly the blocks that will make up C's quilt.


(Please bear with me a minute while I shift gears.)


When Dad died 3 years ago, my sisters and I discovered how much and how thoroughly he had saved. It wasn't quite an episode of Hoarders, but let's say it made my fabric stash seem tame. In spare bedrooms and up in the garage rafters were boxes full of ledgers, receipts, photos, letters—50+ years of a family's minutiae. I wish I'd been able to go through everything at leisure, but we were focused on getting the house ready to sell so instead buzzed through it all quickly, glancing and shredding over and over again. Because there were three of us tossing these papers in succession for hours each day, I considered it sheer luck that one piece which ended up in my hands was a receipt dated a month after Mom and Dad married. It was for a sewing machine.


A Singer 301.


The machine had cost $175, which I'd learned a few minutes earlier was Dad's entire monthly salary at the time. It was their first major purchase together.


Mom's 301 was clearly an indispensable tool, an investment in keeping household costs down. I'm sure the reason its sound was so recognizable to me is that she used it daily when I was young, making clothes and toys for three growing children. She even made us quilts from the leftover fabric. Mom's sewing skills far surpassed mine, but the quilt she made for my bed was not a pastime she could afford to spend years on. It was made without the luxury of choosing prints and colors, pieced simply, and batted with a wool army blanket.

I remember looking at this quilt knowing which garments each of the fabrics had come from. At night, its weight was warm and comforting and helped me sleep. I suppose that is the reward all quiltmakers want, to know that someone is sleeping peacefully under their work.


With that in mind, I'd better get back to the quilt I've been making C for the past 17 years.


I wonder if he'll remember the sound of it being sewn.