I am at Grandpa’s house, a wonderland of my childhood with a treasure-filled attic and scary basement. I love most the button jar stowed behind a door in the hutch. Each time I cross Grandpa’s threshold, I run to the buttons. Perhaps that is why Grandpa gives me sewing cards, a set of pre-punched designs on cardboard that I sew around with a shoe lace.

Now I am in Junior High School home economics class. I have before me a pattern, fabric, and enormous scissors. I cherish the feel of corduroy fabric and marvel at the rows of bright thread on wooden spools.I have purple, lacy hem tape that matches the jumpsuit fabric. Finally, we sit at our sewing machine, one in a long row of machines across the room from the gleaming kitchens. Our stylish sewing teacher tells us to thread the needle. Thread the needle. Thread the needle. I carefully snip the end of the thread to make a blunt end and slip the purple thread through the needle, a humble, ancient tool that unlocks a new world of creativity. Thereafter, an indulgent mother allows me to stay up too late so I can sew. Sometimes, when I am home from school with a minor ailment, we go to J.C. Penny’s where I wander the rows of fabrics and choose a project at last.

Now, I am sixty-one. Last night I stay up too late working on a hand-embroidery project. The needle is long with a large eye that holds the divine Number 8 Perle cotton. The night before I also stay up too late working on a scrap project at the sewing machine. I outfit the machine with a heavy-duty denim needle that sews through the many layers of scraps and clumps of thread. The day before, I meet the women for coffee and pull out a crochet project that I am creating with an ergonomic wood crochet needle.

Now, I imagine that I am in the nursing home one day in the future. My sewing needles went to the thrift store and the sewing machine to a girl down the street. The needles now bring medicines into my sagging veins.   I crave the feel of a needle in my hand and long for the soul-soothing experience of moving that needle through fabric or around yarn, yet my hands ache and my eyesight falters. I cannot sit here if I cannot create. At that moment, my smiling son comes in the room holding a Hobby Lobby bag and says, Mom, I got you some sewing cards.I look in the bag and find one set of images from the movie Frozen 4 and the other from the book The Hungry Caterpillar. I take out an Elsa card and hide the rest in my sock drawer so that the woman next door cannot steal my treasures. Life is good again.

This essay is part of the Cherished Blog Fest. The topic is “write about an object that you cherish”. You can read blogs of the other participants as follows: