Week 41 of the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks challenge is Passed Down. I’ve become the de facto keeper of family heirlooms. I’m not great at saying no when someone offers me an object that once belonged to a deceased relative. I’ve always liked a bit of clutter and I enjoy old things, especially when they have sentimental value or are just plain cool. If it was solely up to me, I’d live in a big, old, creepy-looking Victorian house decorated and furnished with an eclectic mix of antiques. I love old, worn belongings that have a history. I inherited many items from my mom’s side of the family, but I don’t have much in the way of heirlooms from my dad’s side. The two things I do have belonged to my great-grandmother, Blanche (Laberge) Ladd, whom I called Nana Peep because she kept parakeets. I have a crocheted red and white apron she made, and I have her 1941 Singer cabinet sewing machine.
Nana Peep didn’t teach me to sew. I learned during a sleep-over at a friend’s house when I was eight and was instantly hooked. Coincidentally, Nana Peep passed away that same year, and some of my earliest memories of her involve sewing. She was the person I’d run to whenever a stuffed animal got a hole in it, or a doll lost a button. She’d go to her bedroom, return with a needle and thread, and fix whatever needed fixing, usually at my grandmother’s kitchen table while I anxiously watched. She was a fun great-grandmother. She knew I loved animals so if she was given a greeting card that had an animal on it, she carefully cut it out for me. My dad showed me how to use double-sided tape from the big, brown rolls he brought home from the paper mill where he worked, and I’d make my own stickers with the pictures. Nana Peep always joined me in any crafty activity I was doing, whether it was coloring, painting, making some sort of monstrosity out of pipe cleaners, or creating something out of Play-Doh. Her eyes always twinkled, and she had the most infectious laugh -- a cross between a child’s giggle and an old lady cackle. You always wanted to make her laugh just so you could hear it. She was teeny-tiny, but I remember her being strong, not frail. She was energetic. “Spritely” is the best way to describe her.
Her death seemed sudden to me – if she was sick or in the hospital, I wasn’t aware of it then. I had lost other relatives, but at eight, hers was the first death I was old enough to truly understand. I remember my dad calling us out into the living room, his voice so stern and serious I was sure my brother and I had done something wrong and were about to catch hell for it. We even gave each other that “uh-oh” look, my five-year-old brother’s big, brown eyes mirroring my own fear, as my brain frantically tried to recall what we could have done to illicit that tone. Instead of anger, my dad had a strange look on his face. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice cracked, and he began to cry. Through tears, he told us our Nana Peep was gone, and hugged us hard. It was the first time I had ever seen my strong, tough father cry. The combination of witnessing his vulnerability (Dads could cry! I didn’t know dads could cry!) and processing my first major loss of a loved one was overwhelming. I missed her, and comforted myself with Yo-Yo, the stuffed koala she had given me earlier that year, while I made sure my brother had Rammie, the stuffed ram she had given him. I told him to hold onto Rammie because he was special – he was Nana Peep’s last gift to him. I didn’t know you could receive a gift from a loved one after they had passed away – especially more than thirty years later. That’s how long it took that old Singer to find her way to me.
Her sewing machine came to me through my uncle, who stopped by my mom’s house one day and asked her if she thought I might like to have it. I don’t think he realized that sewing was one of my favorite hobbies when he offered it, but I sew almost every day. Owning something that belonged to my great-grandmother which also tied into one of my passions meant so much to me, and my mom knew that, even though my uncle didn’t at the time. She didn’t bother to call and ask me if I wanted a big cabinet machine – she knew I would and said yes on the spot.
I couldn’t wait to get it! I envisioned a treadle machine with a glossy black finish and ornately painted designs. I was surprised when I received it to find that it was electric, and instead of the glossy paint and lovely flowers I’d seen painted on every other old Singer, Nana Peep’s machine had a rough, textured, black matte finish with minimal gold scrollwork. Though it wasn’t what I was expecting, it was still old, and cool, and most importantly, I had something special that belonged to my great-grandmother. It needed some TLC, but for an almost 80-year-old sewing machine, it looked pretty good. I loved that it was used. This wasn’t a decorative piece that sat untouched in a corner gathering dust. The finish on the cabinet was scuffed and worn. The cord was frayed. Some screws needed to be tightened. The visible wear and tear meant that Nana Peep spent a significant amount of time sitting at this machine sewing things. As I explored my new heirloom, it felt like I was getting to know a piece of Nana Peep I was too young to recognize when she was alive.
Her sewing machine held several surprises. It included a matching stool with a removeable seat for storage, which I didn’t expect. When I opened up the cabinet door, there was a spool holder and a tray. Inside the tray I discovered the original user’s manual and a Singer box full of all the attachments. There was a replacement light bulb in its original packaging. A vintage can of sewing machine oil was held in place by a metal bracket under the table. Most people would have lost some or all of these pieces over the years, but Nana Peep must have loved and appreciated this machine to keep all the pieces together so carefully. Her sewing machine was a useful tool, but I wondered if it was also a somewhat extravagant expense and a treasured possession for a working-class family.
I named the machine Tiny, which was Nana Peep’s nickname, and I sent it off to get serviced and have the cord replaced. Because I didn’t have a dedicated sewing room at the time, she sat folded up in a corner of our playroom/guestroom for a few years until I turned that room into a sewing studio. I gave Tiny a place of honor where she could remain opened up and displayed. Then I set about restoring her former beauty and learning more about her.
I cleaned the cabinet and stool and then rubbed it with a product to hide and reduce scratches and worn areas. It's stuff that goes right over the original finish. Then I brought back its shine with some beeswax polish. The dry wood sucked it up, and began to glow. I covered the brown vinyl seat of the stool with a pretty gray and purple vintage cotton. The opened table was a great place to display some sewing bits and bobs – my doll-sized dressmaker’s dummy, glass jars of buttons, one of my creepy dolls that looks like it could steal your soul, and to pay tribute to Nana Peep, I printed and framed my favorite photo of her. It was taken about 1919 when she was 21. She’s holding her daughter, Mildred, while her son, Everett, sits next to her on the left, and my grandmother, Helen, is to her right.
I looked up Tiny’s serial number when I brought her home, so I knew she was issued on June 4, 1941 in a run of 20,000 machines, and she was a Singer 66-18. Beyond that, I didn’t know much about her. When I shared pictures of my sewing studio in an online group for such things, I was surprised by people's reaction to Tiny. They oohed and aahed over her, proclaiming her a workhorse that would run forever. A couple people told me how lucky I was to have a “Godzilla.”
Godzilla? I knew old Tiny didn’t have flashy colors like many vintage Singers, but calling her a monster was a bit much….yet people said I was lucky, so what was the deal?
I did some further reading and research and learned that the Singer 66 was a revolutionary machine in its day. It was produced for about 30 years and was considered an “engineering masterpiece” capable of sewing anything from fine silk to heavy canvas. I found YouTube videos of a 66-18 sewing through thick leather and ten layers of denim! As people pointed out, it is indeed a workhorse! These heavy-duty machines were built to last, and they were among the first to offer a drop-in bobbin, which was much easier to use and is still used in most machines today. It was a common model. When I looked at pictures of other 66s, many did have the traditional Singer paint. I didn’t see any that were rough and matte black like mine.
I learned that Tiny’s rough, rather plain finish is known by collectors as “crinkle,” “wrinkle,” “crackle,” or “Godzilla” and is somewhat rare. This finish was only produced in limited runs on four models of Singers between 1941 and 1953. Mine is one of the first ever made with this unusual finish. The gold paint was rubbed off many machines with this type of coating while cleaning, so the fact that all of her paint is intact with minimal wear shows that Nana Peep cleaned it carefully. That got me wondering again about whether this was an extravagant purchase in 1941. How much did a sewing machine cost back then?
The average cost for a Singer 66 electronic console machine between 1936-1946 was $155. According to the 1940 census, the household income for Dana and Blanche Ladd for 1939 was $1,000. Assuming their income stayed about the same, Nana Peep’s sewing machine cost 15.5% of their annual income – and I believe the income on the census was the gross income, not the net. Adjusted for inflation, $155 in 1941 is equivalent to $3,046 in 2022, and $1,000 is equivalent to $20,147 (at least according to an online calculator I used). It’s no wonder she took great care not to lose any of the pieces, yet also spent enough time sewing over the years for her Singer to show the wear and tear of a well-used and beloved piece of machinery.
Like usual, I’m left with many questions. Was this a replacement for an old crank or treadle machine she had previously? Was it something she asked and planned for, or did Dana surprise her with it? Did the family purchase it on a payment plan? Did she like the rather plain, textured finish over the more elaborately painted models because it looked sleek and modern? I’d most like to know what she sewed with it. Did she make clothing, curtains, quilts? Did she sew for pleasure or was it a necessary chore? What I wouldn’t give to sit down with her and ask her all these things!
People often ask me what I’ve sewn on it. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but nothing yet. As strange at it sounds, Tiny intimidates me! I’ve turned her on and stitched a few test stitches, and she seems to run just fine. I plan on making a doll dress in 2023 based on pictures of my grandmother, Helen, in the early 40s when she was a young woman. I don’t know if Nana Peep sewed any clothes for her young adult daughter, or if my grandmother made her own clothing, but if it was handmade and not store-bought, it was sewn on that machine. When I finally sit down to use that old Singer for the first time, maybe I’ll feel another connection through space and time to the great-grandmother I remember fondly.
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