My paternal grandmother, Mémé, had a sewing machine with a treadle, a great big thing in cast iron and wooden table. She would tread away and I would sit on the floor watching the wheel go round. By the time I was 3 years old, I was “helping” with the sewing. I was far too small to reach the treadle, so I would sit on Mémé’s lap and she would operate the machinery while I was guiding the fabric and do the proper sewing bit. When Mémé died, my aunt remembered the endless sewing sessions and gave me the sewing machine. It lives in the bay window in my bedroom and still looks as impressive today, even if I can reach the treadle on my own. I don’t use it anymore but it still works and will come in very handy when we get a zombie apocalypse and we’ll have to make all our own clothes but we’ll have no electricity to operate the newer machines.