That’s me!  A singing sewer.  Haha.  Isn’t the English language so loverly?  Me thinks to myself while writing the title, “I’m now a person who sews; therefore, I’m a sewer.”  Then I typed it and thought, “Oooh, that so does not look right.”  I looked it up though, and sewer can be defined either as

n.

An artificial, usually underground conduit for carrying off sewage or rainwater.

OR

n.

One that sews: a sewer of fine clothing.

Not that I’m “a sewer of fine clothing” by any means.

That explains the “sewer” part of the title.  The “Singing” part really should be “Singer,” but I do sometimes sing when I sew (or at least hum).  The “Singer” part is really what the post is about; I, as usual, managed to get off track though.

I am very grateful to own my grandma’s Singer sewing machine.  I did not have a machine and would use mom’s or Tracey’s the handful of times I needed one (that, or I would pay, beg or cajole them to do the sewing for me).  But with marriage, or the promise of marriage, came a need and a desire to sew.  It’s weird; it’s unimaginable; it’s fun!

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Tracey kindly passed on grandma’s Singer on to me on the advent of my marriage.  It sat in the closet for several months, patiently waiting to be serviced at the sewing machine servicing shop.  Well, serviced and cleaned and ready to go the ol’ girl is!  I literally have boxes of mending that have been accumulating, not to mention all the curtains and pillows and upholstery projects coming up, so my new machine from grandma will serve me well, I’m sure.

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I’m proud to say that I’m a singing Singer sewer!  (Say that ten times fast.)

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