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Baby Lock sewing machine with flowers

Dear Baby Lock,

There are times I think you hate me.  There are times when I feel thankful for your considerable weight.  Moments when the scent of your oiled mechanism, when I open the door to untangle stubborn thread from the cage that encircles your bobbin, is so potent yet so welcome.

The story of how you were acquired is to me cherished family mythology: my mother, driving, was once struck by another car.  An insurance payment for the damage went not to correct the dent, but instead brought you into our lives.  You impressed us with your newness, your computerized components, and our ability to program you, if only we understood how.

You who sewed a winning ice cream sandwich costume.

You who foiled my brother’s attempts to repair leather car seat covers, despite the specially purchased needles.

Who passed semi-frequently from my mother to her sister at rest stops on the New Jersey Garden State Parkway, both of whom would take you home with good intentions, and then accomplish nothing.

You with not a single actual opinion about me -love or hate- but much to say about denim.

We think we can do more with you than we are realistically able, but just having you in our possession inspires us to dream.