Welcome to my blog!

I have SMAD -- Sewing Machine Acquisition Disorder. Well, to be more specific, I have V-SMAD -- Vintage Sewing Machine Acquisition Disorder.

Others with this addiction will scoff at my claim that I'm one of them, since I own only (yes, only) six sewing machines. There are some among us whose collection (or herd, as it's sometimes called) numbers more than 20. I do actually sew with my machines, but I'm not a sewing addict. I spend a lot more time finding, reading about, tinkering with and occasionally selling machines (usually at a loss). I like the thrill of the chase, finding an unappreciated, neglected old Singer or Kenmore and fixing it up. (I can hear my husband laughing at the idea of chasing sewing machines.) Along with liking certain vintage sewing machines, I clearly love parenthetical phrases.

This is what my favorite Kenmore
looks like. It's a model 158.17741.
I heart this machine.

I don't know how this happened, honestly. Until about 2-3 years ago, I was the contented owner of two machines, which sat completely ignored, probably in my basement. Until my daughter came along, I pieced quilts on those machines. When she was about 10, I realized she was grown up enough that I had a little bit of time on my hands, It could be used for sewing (along with watching baseball and football games). It sort of spiraled from "I should really start sewing again" to "How did I end up with eight sewing machines?" The youngest

of them was 30 years old. I think only one of those is still in my house, my beloved, heavy, all-metal brown-and-beige Kenmore. It replaced the plastic Singer that my parents had bought me for graduation from college. That machine died within six months of regular use, which prompted the purchase of my oldie-but-goodie Kenmore. And that's why I only use old, all-metal machines.

I'll get to the "How did this happen?"  and "Where did those other seven machines go?" stories soon enough. But I'm going to start by telling the story of reviving a dirty, dusty, non-functioning 1933 Singer Featherweight. Her name is Lenore, and her story is coming bit-by-bit in the next few posts.

My 1933 Featherweight looks
a bit like this (photo from the good
ol' Internet) but mine was well
loved. Translation: Mine doesn't
look this good.

Welcome to my blog! I'd love to share your stories, too, so once I figure out this whole blog thing, I'll let you know how to send them.

Ms. Rhymes-With-Tequila, in Colorado