I wanted a sewing machine because I wanted something that would last through my rapidly changing tastes. It would last me decades, through every fad, sway or tremor. It would last me through grunge, punk, modern, post-modern, contemporary and everything in between. Really, what I wanted was a trade.

When I told my grandma I asked for a sewing machine for Christmas, her face lit up and I finally felt like I connected with her because she had believed that the fads had taken her sewing machine. No one cared anymore for a trade. Her precious art of sewing was lost forever in a heap of sweat shops and factory labor. It no longer made sense to make your own clothes when we can buy them for ten cents on the dollar. But, my grandma lit up because she could pass something on even in her old age. A little part of the proud matriarchal family sewing tradition would live on through me and if she was lucky, my children. For a second, she saw a glimmer of hope in our brave new world, a hope that the old ways will not be lost.

What I really wanted was the past. Sometimes I feel lost and disconnected. When I sew, I am living alongside twelve generations of my proud ancestors. I am living alongside thousands of years of sewing craftsmanship. I am living with my sisters who have lived before.