Childhood Memories of Sewing Machine Delivery & Repair

Growing up, my dad would occasionally take me with him to help deliver cabinets, or to set up/ break down a booth at a quilt show. Generally, this was easy, straightforward work, but one time, when I was about 10 years old, he took me with him on a house-call that I’ll never forget. The plan was simple: the customer had an industrial machine that was in bad shape, so he was going to install a new motor onto the table, replace the motor belt, then sew off the machine so that she’d be ready for business.

We arrive at the address of her property. There was a gate to the driveway, so we open the gate, giving us access to the unpaved dirt driveway that led about a quarter-mile downhill to the house. It had been raining for the past week, so the driveway is muddy, and my dad makes a remark that he hopes the truck won’t get stuck in the mud on the way back up the hill.

At the bottom of driveway is a collection of four or five junker cars, paint chipped, metal rusted, wheels flat and doors missing. To the left of the cars is a massive pile of trash. Further to the left is the house.

We park and get out of the car. The first thing I notice is the cacophony of squaking of birds. On the left side of the house, in the front yard, there is a massive pen contructed from chicken wire. Inside the pen is a shoddy man-made pond and a ton of different birds, mostly chickens and ducks, but a couple of geese as well.

The second thing we notice is a strange man sitting in front of the pen, about 30 years old, reclined in a lawnchair. He was shirtless and had a big round beer belly that was shiny with tanning lotion. He doesn’t say a word, but gives us a wierd smile as we walk past him to the front of the house. I don’t know how to explain it, but he just looked like he didn’t belong.

My dad knocks on the front door. Moments later, a womans opens the door and greets us. She’s probably in her early 70s, very smily, seemingly kind. I remember thinking that her face didn’t match her clothes— she had on red lipstick and some makeup, but her sweatshirt and pants and boots were muddy, and she was wearing these muddy clothes inside. I also remember her fingernails. They were quite long, green near the cuticles and yellow at the tips, even though she wasn’t wearing nail polish.

“How’s it going?” My dad asks.

”Not good,” she says. “I spent all morning burying my ducks and chickens.”

”Woah… what happened?”

”Someone has been sneaking into the pen at night and decapitating the birds!”

”Decapitating? Who?”

”First night it was just a couple of ducks. Then both ducks and chickens. Then they got one of the goose, and last night they took out 15 more! A week ago I had more than 50 birds, and now I’m down to a dozen!”

”And you said they’re decapitated?”

”Headless! All of them!”

”Woah,” my dad says again, shooting me a glance. “Well, then… where is this machine?”

Instead of going in the house, she leads us off the porch and down a path to the sideyard opposite of the bird pen. We arrive at a large shed, detached from the house. She opens the door. This is her sewing room. To this day, it is the filthiest room I’ve ever seen.