Last spring the costume class I taught was a breeze. The two terms before that were as well but in March there was only one student. As in less than two. I could not believe the powers that be would not cancel the class, but then again the show must go on. She and I had a pretty sweet time of it with our machines humming along to a playlist. We finished the costumes for fifty three actors in plenty of time, so in May I invited her to make one for herself. She was excited to be attending a superhero convention, and felt great about what she created.

A week before classes began this fall I checked the registration. This could not be right. Sixteen students?! I am pretty much fearless when it comes to fabric and kids, but sixteen? I felt like Maria when she heard about the Captain having seven children. That is a hundred and sixty fingers to keep from bleeding. Thirty two eyes to not get stabbed. We are after all talking about needles, scissors, machines, and pins. Plus there were only eleven Berninas in the room and two of them were sluggish at best. 

I headed out to the place I take my machines so that the weaklings could be serviced, and since I would be needing more I brought two of my Featherweights to get a spa day. The store is half an hour away, but the sky was clear and the traffic light. The drive helped me adjust to the notion of having enough students for a football team. 

In a remarkably brief time they were ready. Three days to be exact. I returned to pick them up, and paid the bill. By the time the class actually launched eleven kids had changed their mind and the group was a cozy five souls. I invited them to pick a machine on which to practice threading, and to try some straight seams. In a matter of seconds, one of my darling Featherweights was jammed. A knot of yellow thread was stuck in the bobbin, and I only wrestled for a minute before asking the student to pick another machine. We are not doing Alice until next Spring but we suddenly had enough machines to do a Mad Tea Party tactic. 

I brought my black beauty home, and tried to unclog her. The thread would not budge. I got brave and tried to take out the tiny little screw that holds in the brace for the bobbin case. The one that is the size of a grain of rice. Short grain. I heard the tiny clink as it performed a kamikazi jump out of the hole and onto my floor. The one that is carpeted. I spent the next forty minutes crawling on the floor searching for a piece of hardware that is upwards of sixty years old, and probably frustrating if not impossible to replace. The notion of driving back to the repairman did not sound appealing, so I stewed. 

As chance would have it, I recently joined a Facebook group for Featherweight aficionados. They would know where I could get a replacement. It turns out I am not the only sewer to have such luck and the screw is indeed available. In fact, while I was searching I decided to spring for a few other specialty items like a fresh lightbulb and tweezers. You know. In case. 

What shifted in my attitude was going from the assumption that there would be no solutions, to finding out that there are. I am actually kind of eager to learn better how to take care of her. She is as old as I am, and one day it will be me with the loose screws.