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shoes. I remember the hesitation as she placed her foot upon my treadle, her pedaling slow and unsteady at first, then slowly growing father, more rhythmic as my needle sang along the flowered quilt she stitched. During that first year, I was mainly used for big project: quilts, a few dresses, slipcovers, or gifts. But tragedy struck. I can’t quite say struck; it was slow, subtle. I began to notice that the family wasn’t as nicely dressed. There was less new furniture, less shopping bags, less customers in the
store. The cherry cabinet was sold. Though I didn’t know it, the country found itself in a depression, and my family was no exception.
But, ironically, their tragedy was, for me, my saving. Suddenly I was used more and
more, to convert old curtains and clothing into new items. An old skirt became a child’s jacket, while the fraying curtains became dozens of new dresses, skirts, and scarves. My treadle raced almost constantly as the young woman began to sell our work. The family came to use me, no, to rely on me, in their time of need. I took in the mending for the neighborhood, taking in a stitch here, fixing a burst seam there, turning this and that into something extraordinary. The family would fall asleep to the sound of the young woman pumping on my treadle.
All went well for years. Things were turning up for the family. Then tragedy struck once more.
I don’t know how the fire started. Maybe it came from the building next door, or maybe it started from a stray cigarette, or a burner left on in the kitchen. I remember an orange glow flooding through the window, not the glow of daylight, no, it was far too late for that. The flames became more and more distinct, clawing up the sides of the window.
Then the sound began. A terrible, gnawing, cracking sound, that grew and the glow grew closer and closer.
I don’t suppose people can relate with this feeling. They can move, they can run, they can scream and yell. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t shout. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even look and see if the family was still in the house. I had to wait, with only the imagination of how the fire would slash the wallpaper into scorched strips, how my wood surface would be tinder for its insatiable appetite.
Suddenly, the young man burst into the room, along with some of his relatives.