35
Singer
by Lanie Mencinger
I was assembled in September of the year 1920. My carefully crafted wrought iron base was affixed to the delicately sanded pumpkin colored wood of my surface, where the sewing machine was affixed. My glossy black paint was adorned with the swirling designs of a carnival, gold and red leaves and twirling vines. My every needle gleamed. In my right-side drawer, a green pamphlet, still warm from being pressed, sat, embossed with the title “Singer Sewing Machine: No. 66”.
Surrounded by other machines, I sat in the showroom, my wood beaming with anticipation. It was in October, as the leaves began to steep from deepest red to parched brown that I was bought. A man with greying hair and a tall hat walked in with an elegant woman. Her thin gloves skimmed along my ebony curves, and he bent over, testing my treadle and examining my metalwork. In a matter of minutes I was trundled out to their obsidian car and crammed into the back seat. I bounced along until we had arrived at a quaint white house with green shutters. I was hauled out and rolled into the garage, where I was swathed with stiff, shiny paper.
In darkness, I careened about, my racing wheels barely visible from beneath the yards of paper. And I sat. For excruciating hours, not knowing what I was intended for. Finally, a barrage of sound broke that uncanny silence. A flurry of footsteps and voices flooded into the room. There was the clinking of glasses, numerous toasts and speeches, and the sound of dance music. Suddenly, as the noise slowly dimmed to a murmur, then was extinguished, but for a few pairs of footsteps, the paper ripped open and my world was illuminated. A mountain of torn paper, boxes, and tumbling ribbons surrounded me. The couple that had bought me stood behind a young woman in a long white dress adorned with glass beads, along with a young man.
My new home was at the top of a narrow staircase that connected the shop the young couple owned with their home. Slowly, the bare rooms were furnished, and I no longer sat alone under the window. A cherry wood cabinet that blushed deep crimson joined me, and as a group of people managed to lug it up the stairs, a small collision gave me the first crack on one of my corners. There was also the many glass vases, which spoke with silvery, echoing voices, the blue and white china, and, of course, the hard stool that sat before me.
For that first year, I was hardly used. I remember the first time the young woman used me with perfect clarity. She wore a pale blue cotton dress and brown leather