Weekend Antiques

Ever since I was a child, I have loved the hunt of going to thrift stores. By necessity, it's where we shopped, even through my teenage years. Although I sometimes yearned for a brand new pair of jeans, most of the time I was thrilled with the idea that I could get an entire garbage bag of used clothing for the same price. 

I loved flea markets too. We would travel to an old drive-in movie theater that converted to an outdoor flea market nearly every weekend. 

Auctions were even better -- but as a child I was often a little fearful of even scratching my nose, in case the caller thought I was bidding on something. Sometimes they had flea market finds for sale too. I liked those. No bidding involved -- no potential for nose-scratching-accidental-purchases. 

Once, I bought an old cigar box that had tiny seashells glued to the cover. The old man selling it looked at me quite seriously after my purchase and said, 'Now you take care of that box, honey...' 

I felt responsible for that box. This man had entrusted me with something that had been special to him -- now I was the keeper of the box. 

I had that box for years. It held trinkets, pens, anything small enough and special enough. I got a little nostalgic when I finally realized I no longer needed it and should just give it away. I thought about what little girl might buy it for a dollar at Goodwill and what she would decide to store in it and then I happily added it to the 'giveaway' pile. 

We never really went antique shopping though. Antiques to me symbolized people who had money... and we didn't. It would be years before I realized that while many antiques are worth a small fortune, there are plenty to be had within budget -- many of them can be found at those same flea markets and thrift stores, disguised under the label: 'junk'. 

Nowadays, I love to poke around antique malls and stores. This past weekend, a friend and I spent the entire day wandering through endless shelves of old stuff. 

There were old toys...

Dishes.... 

 

 Cutlery...

 

Cookie cutters...

And much more.

 

I walked away with a few vintage hankies, a sock darner, some refrigerator pyrex I had been on the hunt for (more on that later...) in addition to a few blisters. The Sailor had warned me that the boots I put on that morning probably weren't made for walking. He knew his prophecy to be true when I came home and crumpled into a heap on the sofa.

Sore feet aside, I also scored these fabulous 1940s dish-towels: 

Perfect for my often mismatched and rather kitsch kitchen. 

Stories to share

Often, if I haven't done a particular craft for a while, I start to get antsy --  like I need to pick up the glue stick and scissors and start making something different to what I've been working on -- anything. 

This week, I pulled out some forgotten projects and I got to work. 

I forgot how thrilling it is to see blank pages in a blank book and to just stuff them full of thoughts. Who cares if anyone sees it. Don't over analyze. Just write. Maybe glue a bit of stuff in between. 

 

Sometimes though, once those blank books are filled, they are actually meant to be shared. 

The Singer

My sewing machine and I go way back. My mom took me to Sears over 20 years ago and together we picked out a basic Singer. I had been using an old knee-pedal machine to learn how to sew, but it was time to move up to a more modern model. Mom told me at the checkout counter that no matter where I go in life, that machine was mine. 

I was a little giddy. We didn't really have a ton of money for extra stuff when I was growing up, so the thought of having something that cost $100 be mine -- all mine -- was pretty amazing for a 16-year-old.

Although I didn't take it with me to college, I sewed when I came home for breaks. When I moved overseas, I sewed when I came back across the pond. And when I moved to a ship off the coast of Africa, I purchased a machine from another crew member who was leaving. I didn't get overly attached to it though. I knew I'd have to resell it when I left the ship. I made curtains for my cabin and a few dresses with African fabric.

I still missed my Singer. 

Whenever I was actually home, I made fleece jumpsuits and jackets for my friends' babies. Fleece creates fuzz. The fuzz collected in the bobbin area. I took apart the bobbin box one day, to see if I could clean it. I'm fairly handy -- and ever since the Sailor bought me a fabulous mini (pink) leatherman, I have been fearless about trying to fix things on my own.

For a while, the fuzz seemed to have disappeared. Over the past few years I haven't sewn quite as much as I used to. Our tiny apartment doesn't have the space to leave the machine out for days on end (hence the obsession with more compact ways to create garments... like knitting!) I kept the Singer in the box, in a closet, and pulled it out when I needed to hem jeans or fix the curtains. 

But everytime I did, the bobbin would just jump out mid-seam. My hems looked like I sewed them by hand, with my left hand (I'm right-handed), blind-folded. They were a disaster. 

I knew the Singer needed help. Serious help. 

I got the number of a sewing machine repair man a few towns over, from my former home economics teacher. For a mere $30, and in only 48 hours, this elderly man took my machine apart properly and cleaned it. 

Then he politely scolded me for trying to do it myself in the first place. Apparently my little experiment in cleaning the machine myself caused the problem in the first place. The screws needed to be properly adjusted and callibrated -- otherwise the machine won't work right. 

The sewing maching isn't going back in the box. Nor will it ever. The sewing machine master put a metal spool holder on the top of my machine, since the plastic one I had was removable (and therefore fell off all of the time) in order to get it back into the box. But now, the machine won't fit in the box. 

That's probably a good thing. There's a pile of fabric waiting around the corner. 

Central Park Hoodie

It's finally cold enough to wear my Central Park Hoodie. I finished it over six months ago -- just as the temperatures hit a scorching 85 degree mark. I had the yarn stashed since last year this time and couldn't wait to tuck into it, but I had multiple other projects going and I hadn't yet decided which sweater I would be making with Kraemer's Perfection worsted.

 

The Sailor suggested I knit a zip cardigan with a hood. The Central Park Hoodie won. I even added these pockets, because really, what's a hoodie without a place to stuff both my hands and my tissues? 

 

It's not often that I finish a project and think: 'let's make that all over again!' Usually by the time I've completed something big like a sweater, or a blanket, I'm pretty much done with that particular pattern. (This is why I was both a successful and terrible seamstress all at once... in high school I wanted to make my friends' fancy dresses in one night. Usually it took several nights, and by the time I got to the hem I was DONE with sewing and wanted to throw the machine out the window. True story.) After big projects, I'm ready for instant gratification. I want to make a dishcloth or even a hat I can complete in one night. 

But as I cast off the sleeves and put the final finishing touches on the pockets, I was already plotting Central Park Hoodie gifts for people. I think I may have found my favorite pattern ever.

Planning

plotting the day's course