I have taken a bunch of quilting workshops over
the years. Mostly retired women show up with their fancy Berninas and
Husqvarnas, and every rotary tool yet invented. The instructors were
often female, but there were some high profile men who were in demand as
well. John Flynn is still piecing double wedding rings that have the
precision of a civil engineer, which he is.
Usually as the instructor walked around telling women to get their fabrics out, one or two would cry out in alarm.
"My machine suddenly won't work!"
The
teacher would saunter by and flick the bobbin winder in place and it
would magically be fixed. This is because clever designers made it even
easier to fill a bobbin by automatically stopping the main motor when
the bobbin is set to fill.
"Thanks, I forgot," the woman would sheepishly say. Every class someone would make the same mistake.
I
teach sewing to children and before they arrive I wake up all the
machines and make sure they are adjusted and happy. I smile at them and
tell them they are beautiful. Then a five year old starts sewing and the
tension abruptly goes haywire.
"This
machine is broken!" I hear the accusation. It takes a moment of
composure not to become defensive of my machines, whom I have named.
"Broken?
Really? Bernie was working just fine a moment ago..." I slide into her
chair and notice that the threading came unhitched. "Remember to check
how it is threaded, girls. The little arrows remind you where it should
go."
I
wish people could learn to take responsibility for the problem, instead
of hurling it in the direction of a defenseless Bernina.
"I
must be doing something wrong. Can you show me? Surely the sewing
machine is trying her best, and considering the fabulous quilts she has
produced her best is terrific."
People sometimes accuse their spouses of being broken.
"He
won't talk." I have heard that more than once. Then I find a chance to
listen to him or her alone and the words come reeling without pause.
Feelings, memories, fears come easily as the person unwinds.
Interruptions have a way of increasing the tension, as does blaming. Why are we surprised?
Some people have a design feature that disengages speech when they feel threatened.
Years ago, I was still resentful of the time John spent singing with the
barbershop guys. I could just barely tolerate that he was having fun every Tuesday night when I was wrestling little kids to bed. One morning I asked him about it.
"How was barbershop last night?" I spoke tersely.
Silence.
"Well?"
"If I say I had fun, you will be mad. If I say I did not have fun then you will be mad for other reasons."
True.
I am learning to put away the sharp implements when talking to John.
Photo by Jenny Stein
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