{"id":27481,"date":"2026-11-08T00:10:14","date_gmt":"2026-11-08T00:10:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lifechaptersusa.online\/?p=27481"},"modified":"2026-11-08T00:10:15","modified_gmt":"2026-11-08T00:10:15","slug":"my-aunt-sold-grandmas-sewing-machine-for-dance-lessons-so-i-bought-it-back","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lifechaptersusa.online\/?p=27481","title":{"rendered":"My Aunt Sold Grandma\u2019s Sewing Machine for Dance Lessons\u2014So I Bought It Back"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The One Who Sews
Part One: The Folding Table
It went across a folding table in Grandma\u2019s farm yard for a hundred and fifty dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sale was on a Saturday in early October. Bright and cold, the way it gets in western Minnesota when the corn is half out and the soybeans are done. The yard was full of pickups. People from three counties walked between rows of folding tables with coffee in paper cups, picking up Grandma\u2019s things and turning them over and setting them back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her Pyrex bowls. Her canning jars. Her button tin. Her church shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her whole life, laid out on tables with masking-tape price tags.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was standing one step away when it sold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The auctioneer was a young man from Glenwood with a microphone clipped to his jacket. He\u2019d been going down the row of tables by the machine shed since ten o\u2019clock. Lawn mower. Two snow shovels. A box of Reader\u2019s Digests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he came to the Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was sitting on the end of a long folding table, by itself. Black and gold. A 1951 Singer 15-91, in its original wooden cabinet. The gold decals on the arm were worn thin where her hands had rested for seventy years. The little light on the front still had the same bulb she\u2019d replaced in 1988.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere\u2019s a nice one, folks,\u201d the auctioneer said. \u201cOld Singer. Runs good, I\u2019m told. Who\u2019ll give me fifty? Fifty dollars?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A woman in the back said fifty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man in a seed cap said seventy-five.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman said a hundred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man said one-fifty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOne-fifty, one-fifty, do I hear two?\u201d the auctioneer said. \u201cTwo hundred for the Singer?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked around the crowd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked right at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSold,\u201d the auctioneer said. \u201cOne-fifty. Number sixty-two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He moved on to a box of Christmas ornaments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my hand was a note card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A small white index card, three by five, the kind with blue lines. I\u2019d found it a week earlier in the top drawer of her sewing cabinet, tucked in with her pinking shears and her tape measure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The handwriting was shaky. Slanted. Some of the letters went over the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer goes to Abby. She\u2019s the one who sews.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Two: Grandma Edna
My grandmother was Edna Lindquist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was born in 1933 in a farmhouse four miles from the one where she died. She married my grandfather, Arvid, in 1951. The Singer was his wedding present to her. He paid a hundred and twenty dollars for it at the Singer store in Alexandria. That was two months of his wages from the creamery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sewed on it for seventy-three years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She made everything on that machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her own wedding dress, the summer after she got it. Curtains for every window in the farmhouse. Arvid\u2019s work shirts. Her daughters\u2019 Easter dresses, every single year. Quilts for every grandchild. Christening gowns. Prom dresses. Halloween costumes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the church needed choir robes in 1969, she made twenty-two of them on that Singer. In three weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She taught me to sew when I was seven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My mother, Lorna, was Grandma\u2019s younger daughter. She died when I was six. A car accident on Highway 29, in an ice storm, on her way home from her job at the hospital in Alexandria.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father didn\u2019t know what to do with a six-year-old girl. He was a long-haul trucker. He was gone three weeks out of every four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I spent most of my childhood at Grandma\u2019s farm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She put me on a kitchen chair next to the Singer when I was seven. She put a scrap of blue gingham under the presser foot. She put my hand on the fabric and her hand on top of mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSlow,\u201d she said. \u201cLet the machine do the work. You just guide it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pressed the knee lever. The needle went up and down. Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The fabric moved under our hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I made a potholder that afternoon. Crooked. Lumpy. The seams wandered all over the place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hung it on a nail by her stove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was still hanging there the day she died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By ten, I could sew a straight seam. By twelve, I made my own skirt. By fifteen, I made my homecoming dress, and three girls at Brandon High School asked me where I bought it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By eighteen, Grandma said I sewed better than she did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was lying. But it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m thirty-six now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have a small alterations and tailoring business in Alexandria. Abby\u2019s Alterations. A storefront on Broadway, between the coffee shop and the flower shop. I hem pants and take in wedding dresses and fix zippers for half the county.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have two industrial machines in my shop and a modern Bernina in my spare room at home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t need Grandma\u2019s Singer to make a living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I needed it for something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Three: Connie
My aunt Connie is Grandma\u2019s older daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019s sixty-four. She lives in Glenwood, twenty miles from the farm. She\u2019s a retired school secretary. She has short gray hair, a purple fleece jacket she wears from September to May, and a voice that can stop a hallway full of seventh graders without being raised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She never learned to sew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know the whole story. I only know pieces of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know that when Connie was a girl, Grandma tried to teach her. On the same Singer. And I know that something went wrong. Connie broke a needle. Then another. Then she ran the needle through the tip of her finger and needed stitches at the clinic in Glenwood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She never sat at the Singer again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When my mother was alive, she and Connie fought. About everything. About who Grandma loved more. About who got the better Easter dress. About who got to sit in the front seat of the Buick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mom was the one who sewed. Connie was the one who didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Mom died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I was the little girl who sat at the Singer every Saturday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think Connie looked at me sometimes and saw her sister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think it hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the last four years of Grandma\u2019s life, Connie took care of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to say that clearly. I want to be fair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grandma had a stroke at eighty-seven. She couldn\u2019t drive anymore. She couldn\u2019t do stairs. She couldn\u2019t sew. Her right hand wouldn\u2019t close all the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie drove out to the farm every day. Twenty miles each way. She cooked Grandma\u2019s meals. She managed her pills. She took her to every doctor\u2019s appointment in Alexandria and Fergus Falls. She bathed her. She did her laundry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I came on weekends. Saturdays and Sundays. Connie came every single day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Grandma died in August, at ninety-one, Connie was holding her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was driving out from Alexandria. I got there forty minutes too late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Four: The Will
The will was simple.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grandma had it drawn up in 2015, at a lawyer\u2019s office in Glenwood. Before the stroke. Before everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The farm and the land went to be sold, and the money split between Connie and me. Half for Connie. Half for me, for my mother\u2019s share.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The household goods went to Connie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything in the house. Furniture. Dishes. Linens. Jewelry. Tools.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Connie was the executor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no mention of the Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lawyer read it to us at Grandma\u2019s kitchen table the week after the funeral. Connie and me and my husband, Nate. And Connie\u2019s daughter, Megan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he finished, nobody said anything about the sewing machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A week later, I was helping Connie clean out the house. Packing boxes for the estate sale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the top drawer of the sewing cabinet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I found the card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read it standing in the middle of Grandma\u2019s sewing room. The little room off the kitchen with the north window and the faded yellow wallpaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer goes to Abby. She\u2019s the one who sews.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know when she wrote it. There was no date.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the handwriting was shaky. Shakier than her Christmas cards had been. It must have been after the stroke. After her right hand stopped closing all the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d written it left-handed, maybe. Or with her bad right hand, one letter at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I carried it into the kitchen. Connie was at the table, wrapping Grandma\u2019s good china in newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it out to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she handed it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA note isn\u2019t a will, honey,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m not a lawyer. But I knew enough. A will has to be signed. Witnessed. Notarized. A three-by-five card in a sewing drawer, with no date and no witness, isn\u2019t anything a court would recognize.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The will left the household goods to Connie. The Singer was a household good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I was not going to sue my own aunt over a sewing machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the woman who\u2019d driven forty miles a day for four years to take care of my grandmother. Not my mother\u2019s sister. Not the only family I had left on that side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept my mouth shut.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Five: The Sale
So on that Saturday in October, I stood one step from the folding table and watched the auctioneer sell Grandma\u2019s Singer for a hundred and fifty dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To a gray-haired man in a green seed cap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He paid at the cashier\u2019s table by the garage. He came back with a ticket. Number 62.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He picked up the Singer. The machine and the cabinet together. It\u2019s heavy. Close to eighty pounds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He carried it off past the dish tables. Past the rows of Grandma\u2019s Pyrex and her canning jars and her church shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He loaded it into the bed of a blue Chevy pickup. He covered it with a moving blanket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He drove away down the gravel road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stood in the yard with the note card in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t cry. Not then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My husband, Nate, was out running a grain cart for his brother. It was the middle of harvest. The corn on the Larson place was ready, and it was supposed to rain Tuesday. Nobody takes a Saturday off in the middle of harvest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d texted me that morning. You okay? I can come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d texted back. Stay. I\u2019m fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wasn\u2019t fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Six: By the Coffee Pot
Later, after most of the buyers had gone home, I found Connie by the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They\u2019d set up a big silver urn on a folding table by the back porch. The Lutheran church ladies had run it all day. Coffee and bars. Lemon bars and scotcheroos and Grandma\u2019s own recipe for rhubarb dream bars, made by Mrs. Sundquist from down the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie was pouring herself a cup. She was still in her purple fleece. Her face was tired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She saw me coming. She knew what I was going to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou sold it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI sold it,\u201d Connie said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor a hundred and fifty dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what it brought.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie stirred powdered creamer into her coffee. Slowly. Round and round.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou want to know why,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She set down the spoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked out at the farm yard. At the empty folding tables. At the cars pulling out onto the gravel road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMegan,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Megan is Connie\u2019s only daughter. She\u2019s thirty-four. Two years younger than me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were close when we were little. We rode bikes down the gravel road. We slept in the hayloft on hot summer nights. We fought over who got to sit in the front seat of Grandma\u2019s Buick, just like our mothers did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drifted apart after high school. After my mom died. After the fighting between Connie and me got worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMegan\u2019s raising Kaylee alone,\u201d Connie said. \u201cSince the divorce. Three years now. Jason doesn\u2019t pay a dime.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe works at the Walmart in Alexandria,\u201d Connie said. \u201cCashier. Thirty hours a week. She can\u2019t get full-time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew that too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKaylee\u2019s eleven,\u201d Connie said. \u201cShe\u2019s wanted to dance since she was five. Since she saw The Nutcracker on TV one Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled a little. Despite herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe used to dance around Grandma\u2019s kitchen in her socks,\u201d Connie said. \u201cSpinning. Twirling. Falling into the cupboards.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a dance studio in Alexandria,\u201d Connie said. \u201cOn Fillmore Street. Lessons are sixty-five dollars a month. Plus shoes. Plus costumes. Plus recital fees.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMegan can\u2019t afford it,\u201d she said. \u201cSo I pay for it. Out of my pension.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took a sip of her coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I drive her,\u201d Connie said. \u201cEvery Tuesday. Forty minutes each way. Because Megan works till six.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe money from the household goods,\u201d Connie said. \u201cThe dishes. The furniture. The jewelry. The Singer. All of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the yard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s going to Kaylee\u2019s dance lessons,\u201d she said. \u201cFor as long as it lasts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn old machine in your spare room doesn\u2019t help anybody, Abby,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice wasn\u2019t mean. Just tired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLessons help Kaylee,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That stung.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because part of it was true.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I would have taken the Singer home. I would have set it in my spare room, next to my Bernina. I would have oiled it once a year and dusted it and looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I would have sewn on my Bernina. Because it\u2019s faster. Because it has forty-two stitch patterns and a needle threader and an automatic buttonholer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer would have sat there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A memorial. A museum piece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie was right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An old machine sitting in a spare room doesn\u2019t help anybody.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I poured myself a cup of coffee. I took a rhubarb dream bar. I walked back to the yard and started folding up tables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Seven: Number 62
On Sunday, I came back to help take down the rest of the tables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nate came too. The rain had held off. His brother gave him the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We folded tables and stacked chairs and hauled boxes of unsold things to Connie\u2019s van for the Goodwill in Alexandria.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When we were almost done, I went to close the gate at the end of the driveway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a clipboard hanging on the gatepost. On a nail. With a pen on a string.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sale\u2019s sign-in sheet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every buyer at an estate sale signs in when they arrive. Name, town, phone number. They get a number. They use the number to bid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I flipped through the pages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Number one, Arlene Sundquist, Brandon. Number two, Dale Peterson, Garfield. Number three.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept flipping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Number 62.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle Haugen. Herman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a phone number. And a rural route address. County Road 7.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Herman is a little town forty minutes west of Alexandria. Population four hundred. A grain elevator and a bar and a Lutheran church and not much else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took a picture of the sign-in sheet with my phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t tell Nate. Not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know what I was going to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I just knew I couldn\u2019t stop thinking about the man in the green seed cap, carrying Grandma\u2019s Singer past the dish tables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Eight: Merle Haugen
Monday after my last client, I drove out to his farm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My last client was Mrs. Bergstrom, who needed her Sunday slacks hemmed. She left at four-fifteen. I locked up the shop. I got in my car. I drove west on Highway 27.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t call first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know why. I think I was afraid that if I called, he\u2019d say no. And then I\u2019d have to stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

County Road 7 is gravel. It runs north out of Herman through flat, open farmland. Sugar beets and wheat and soybeans, all harvested. Shelterbelts of cottonwood and green ash. A big sky turning gold in the late afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Haugen farm was four miles up. A white farmhouse. A red barn with the paint peeling. A machine shed. A flagpole in the front yard with the flag at full staff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The blue Chevy pickup was parked by the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat in my car in his driveway for five minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I got out and knocked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opened the door. The gray-haired man in the green seed cap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was seventy, I\u2019d guess. Tall and thin, with big rough hands and a face like old leather. He was wearing a flannel shirt and work jeans and slippers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew who I was before I said a word. I could see it on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re the granddaughter,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, sir,\u201d I said. \u201cAbby. Abby Thorson. Edna Lindquist was my grandmother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou were standing by the table,\u201d he said. \u201cWhen I bought her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou looked like somebody was selling your dog,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stepped aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d he said. \u201cCoffee\u2019s on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Nine: The Kitchen Window
His kitchen was small and clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yellow linoleum. White cabinets. An oilcloth on the table, red and white checks. A calendar from the Herman Farmers Elevator on the wall, still turned to September.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And by the window, in the late afternoon light, Grandma\u2019s Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was sitting in its wooden cabinet. The lid was open. The machine was up. The light was on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was shining.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d cleaned it. Every inch of it. The black enamel gleamed. The gold decals glowed. The chrome on the handwheel caught the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he\u2019d oiled it. I could smell it from the doorway. Sewing machine oil. Thin and clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCord was cracked,\u201d Merle said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was standing behind me. Pouring two cups of coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOld rubber,\u201d he said. \u201cFrom the fifties. Dangerous. Could\u2019ve caught fire. I put a new one on her yesterday. Got the part from a fella in Morris who fixes them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He set a cup of coffee on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMotor\u2019s good,\u201d he said. \u201cBelt\u2019s good. Timing\u2019s good. Somebody took real good care of her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy grandmother,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI figured,\u201d Merle said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sat down at the kitchen table. He gestured for me to sit across from him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy wife sewed,\u201d Merle said. \u201cLorraine. Forty-six years married.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe had one just like that,\u201d he said. \u201cA 15-91. Black and gold. Her mother\u2019s. She made all my shirts on it. All the kids\u2019 clothes. Every quilt in this house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe passed three years ago,\u201d he said. \u201cPancreatic cancer. Six weeks from the diagnosis to the funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfter she was gone,\u201d Merle said, \u201cmy daughter took the machine. To her house in Fargo. She doesn\u2019t sew. It sits in her basement. In a corner. Under a sheet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI miss the sound,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cChuk-chuk-chuk. In the evenings. When I was reading the paper and she was sewing at the kitchen window.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen I saw that Singer on the table Saturday,\u201d he said, \u201cI just wanted to hear it again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not proud of it,\u201d he said. \u201cBuying a dead woman\u2019s sewing machine so I could pretend my wife was still here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kitchen clock ticked. Outside the window, a combine was crawling across a field a mile away, its headlights coming on in the dusk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me why you want it,\u201d Merle said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Ten: The Card
I reached into my purse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took out the note card. The three-by-five index card with the blue lines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I set it on his red-and-white oilcloth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it close to his face. He didn\u2019t have his reading glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he read it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer goes to Abby. She\u2019s the one who sews.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He set it down on the table very carefully. Like it might break.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHer handwriting,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfter a stroke, maybe,\u201d he said. \u201cLorraine\u2019s got shaky like that. At the end.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cAfter a stroke.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the will?\u201d Merle asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeft the household goods to my aunt,\u201d I said. \u201cShe was the executor. She sold it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd this card?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t a will,\u201d I said. \u201cMy aunt said so. She\u2019s right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle looked at the card for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy\u2019d your aunt sell it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I told him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

About Megan. About Kaylee, eleven years old, who\u2019s wanted to dance since she was five. About sixty-five dollars a month and forty minutes each way every Tuesday. About Connie paying for it out of her school secretary\u2019s pension.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

About an old machine in your spare room doesn\u2019t help anybody.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle listened without interrupting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I finished, he nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s not wrong,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I reached into my purse again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took out four hundred dollars. Four hundred-dollar bills. I\u2019d stopped at the bank in Alexandria on my lunch break.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I folded them once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I set them on the table. Next to the note card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle looked at the money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI only paid a hundred and fifty,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d rather overpay,\u201d I said, \u201cthan have you think I talked you out of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he picked up the four bills. He looked at them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy granddaughter\u2019s twelve,\u201d he said. \u201cLives in Fargo. With my daughter. The one with Lorraine\u2019s machine in the basement.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He folded the bills again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s been asking her mother to teach her to sew,\u201d Merle said. \u201cHer mother can\u2019t. And she won\u2019t let her touch Lorraine\u2019s machine. Says it\u2019s too old. Too valuable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe extra two-fifty,\u201d he said, \u201cis going to a new machine. For my granddaughter. A modern one. So she can learn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put the money in his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLorraine would like that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walked to the window. He put his big rough hands on either side of the Singer\u2019s cabinet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lifted it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eighty pounds. Seventy years old. He carried it out of his kitchen and down the porch steps and across the yard to my car himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He set it in my back seat. Carefully. He wrapped it in the same moving blanket he\u2019d used on Saturday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he stood back and looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll use it,\u201d he said. It wasn\u2019t a question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, sir,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot just look at it,\u201d Merle said. \u201cUse it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI promise,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put his hand on the roof of my car. He looked at the Singer in the back seat for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBring me something you make on it,\u201d he said. \u201cSomeday. A potholder. Anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drove home in the dark with Grandma\u2019s Singer in my back seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cried the whole way. Forty minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Eleven: The Phone Call
On Tuesday, I called Connie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I waited until evening. Until I knew she\u2019d be home from driving Kaylee to dance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat at my kitchen table with my phone. Nate was in the living room watching the news. The Singer was in our spare room, next to my Bernina.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d already oiled it. I\u2019d already threaded it. I\u2019d already sewn one straight seam on a scrap of blue gingham.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie answered on the third ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbby,\u201d she said. Wary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hadn\u2019t called her to fight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to be clear about that. I\u2019d thought about it all day. All the things I could say. You sold it out from under me. You knew what that card meant. You were angry at my mother and you took it out on me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say any of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cConnie,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve got Grandma\u2019s Singer back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The line went silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Connie said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI found the buyer,\u201d I said. \u201cOn the sign-in sheet. Merle Haugen, from Herman. I drove out yesterday. I bought it back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie didn\u2019t say anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could hear her breathing. I could hear her TV in the background. Wheel of Fortune.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow much did you pay him?\u201d she asked finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t matter,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbby,\u201d Connie said. \u201cIf you\u2019re calling to rub it in\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took a breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSend Kaylee on Saturdays,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSend Kaylee to my house on Saturdays,\u201d I said. \u201cIn the mornings. I\u2019ll teach her to sew on Grandma\u2019s Singer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFree,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The line went quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So long I thought she\u2019d hung up. I looked at my phone. The call was still connected. Forty-two seconds of silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy would you do that?\u201d Connie said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice was strange. Not angry. Not suspicious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Confused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked down the hall toward the spare room. Toward the Singer by the window. The black and gold. The light still on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause that\u2019s what the machine is for,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma taught me on it,\u201d I said. \u201cWhen I was seven. Every Saturday. She put my hand on the fabric and her hand on top of mine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKaylee\u2019s eleven,\u201d I said. \u201cShe\u2019s Grandma\u2019s great-granddaughter. She should learn on Grandma\u2019s machine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe doesn\u2019t sew,\u201d Connie said. \u201cShe dances.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDancers need costumes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was another long pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll ask Megan,\u201d Connie said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she hung up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twelve: The First Saturday
Kaylee came the first Saturday in November.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Megan dropped her off at nine o\u2019clock. She didn\u2019t come in. She sat in her old Ford Focus in my driveway and waved through the windshield and drove away as soon as Kaylee got to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee stood on my front porch in a pink puffy coat and a knit hat with a pom-pom. She was holding a backpack in both hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked terrified.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Kaylee,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi,\u201d she said. Barely a whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hadn\u2019t seen her in two years. Not since a Christmas at Grandma\u2019s farm, before the second stroke. She\u2019d been nine. Shy. Hiding behind her mother\u2019s legs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was taller now. Skinny. Long brown hair in a ponytail. She had Megan\u2019s big brown eyes and Connie\u2019s stubborn chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stood like a dancer. Even scared. Feet turned out a little. Back straight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I brought her inside. I made her hot chocolate with marshmallows. I showed her the spare room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stopped in the doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was sitting by the window in its wooden cabinet. The lid was open. The machine was up. The little light was on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d set a kitchen chair next to it. The same way Grandma did for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat was Great-Grandma Edna\u2019s,\u201d Kaylee said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was,\u201d I said. \u201cDid you ever see her sew on it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma Connie said it was too old,\u201d she said. \u201cShe said it might bite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t bite,\u201d I said. \u201cI promise. Sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat down on the kitchen chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat at the Singer like it might bite. Hands in her lap. Shoulders up by her ears. Leaning away from the needle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I said. \u201cFirst, we need a bobbin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the little attachment box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a small cardboard box. Green and gold, with the Singer logo on the lid. It came with the machine in 1951. It held all the extra parts. Presser feet and bobbins and a screwdriver and a buttonholer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie had thrown it in with the machine at the sale. I don\u2019t think she even looked inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it to get a bobbin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grandma\u2019s thimble was in the back corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was silver. Old. Worn thin on one side, the side that pressed against the needle for seventy years. There was a tiny dent near the top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d seen it on her finger every Saturday of my childhood. Her middle finger. Right hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought it was lost. We couldn\u2019t find it after she died. Connie looked everywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It had been here the whole time. In the attachment box. In the back corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it in my hand for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I turned to Kaylee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me your hand,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held out her right hand. Hesitant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put Grandma\u2019s thimble on her middle finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was too big.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It slid down past her first knuckle. It wobbled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t fit,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt will,\u201d I said. \u201cSomeday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wore it all morning anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Thirteen: Something Else in the Box
That first morning, after Kaylee went home, I sat down at the Singer by myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked up the attachment box to put it away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something slid in the bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a folded piece of paper. Tucked under the cardboard insert that held the presser feet. I\u2019d missed it when I took out the bobbin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I unfolded it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was another index card. Three by five. Blue lines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The same shaky handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abby \u2014 Teach Connie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She always wanted to learn. She was too proud to ask after the needle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t let her be too proud forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014 G.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat at the Singer for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read it four times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I folded it up. I put it back in the attachment box. Under the cardboard insert. Where Grandma had hidden it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t tell anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Fourteen: Pillowcases and Pot Holders
Kaylee came every Saturday after that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nine o\u2019clock to noon. Megan dropped her off and picked her up. She never came inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We started slow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first Saturday, Kaylee sewed straight lines on paper. No thread. Just the needle punching holes along lines I\u2019d drawn with a ruler. Back and forth. Over and over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet the machine do the work,\u201d I told her. \u201cYou just guide it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth when she concentrated. Exactly like Grandma did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second Saturday, she sewed straight lines on fabric. Scraps of muslin. Then curves. Then corners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The third Saturday, she learned to thread the machine. It took her forty minutes. She threaded it wrong six times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the seventh try, she got it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat back in her chair and grinned. The first real grin I\u2019d seen on her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We made pillowcases in November.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She picked out the fabric herself at the Jo-Ann\u2019s in Alexandria. Purple with little white ballet slippers. One for her and one for her mom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her seams were crooked. Her hems wandered. One pillowcase came out two inches shorter than the other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was so proud she carried them out to Megan\u2019s car in both arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We made pot holders for Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twelve of them. Quilted. Red and green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One for her mom. One for her grandma Connie. One for her dance teacher, Miss Rachel. One for her best friend at school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And one more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She asked me to drive her to Herman. On a Saturday in December, right before Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drove out County Road 7. Snow on the fields. The shelterbelts black against the white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle Haugen answered the door in his flannel shirt and slippers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me. Then he looked down at Kaylee, standing on his porch in her pink puffy coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held out a pot holder. Red and green. Quilted. A little crooked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI made this,\u201d Kaylee said. \u201cOn Great-Grandma Edna\u2019s machine. Abby said you fixed the cord.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle took the pot holder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it in his big rough hands for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he went inside and hung it on a nail by his stove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right next to an old one. Faded blue gingham. The one Lorraine made on her mother\u2019s 15-91 in 1975.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Fifteen: The Recital Letter
In January, Kaylee brought me the recital letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pulled it out of her backpack on a Saturday morning. Folded in half. Wrinkled. She set it on the table next to the Singer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiss Rachel sent it home,\u201d she said. \u201cFor the spring recital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lakes Area Dance Academy Spring Recital. Saturday, April 19. Alexandria Area High School Auditorium.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Costume fee for Level 3 Lyrical: $85.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Costumes must be paid for by February 1.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee was looking at the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma Connie already paid for January lessons,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cAnd February. And new shoes. My old ones got too small.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMom says we can\u2019t do the costume,\u201d she said. \u201cShe says maybe I can sit out the recital this year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a picture printed at the bottom. Black and white. A girl in the costume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A simple leotard. Pale lavender. Long sleeves. And a skirt. Flowing chiffon, cut on the bias, three layers, ending just above the knee. A little satin sash at the waist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKaylee,\u201d I said. \u201cCan I call your dance teacher?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I called Miss Rachel that afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was young. Twenty-eight, maybe. She\u2019d danced with a ballet company in Minneapolis before coming home to Alexandria to open her own studio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I told her who I was. I told her about Kaylee. About the Singer. About Saturdays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCould Kaylee make her own costume?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a pause on the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHer own costume?\u201d Miss Rachel said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf it matched,\u201d I said. \u201cExactly. Same color. Same cut. Same fabric.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Rachel was quiet for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she laughed. A warm, surprised laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHonestly?\u201d she said. \u201cIf it matches the other girls, I don\u2019t care who sews it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Sixteen: Nine Saturdays
Kaylee pinned and ripped and sewed that skirt for nine Saturdays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drove to the Jo-Ann\u2019s in Alexandria and found the chiffon. Pale lavender. Almost the exact shade on the recital letter. We found matching satin for the sash. Eleven dollars and forty cents, total. I paid. She insisted on paying me back out of her allowance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I made her a paper pattern. Three layers. Cut on the bias, so the chiffon would flow when she moved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pinned it to the fabric herself. Every single pin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chiffon is the hardest fabric there is to sew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s slippery. It shifts. It puckers. It frays the second you look at it. Professional seamstresses dread it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee was eleven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She cut the first layer crooked. She had to start over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She cut the second layer right. Then she sewed the side seam and it puckered so badly it looked like a crumpled tissue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She ripped it out with Grandma\u2019s seam ripper. She sewed it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It puckered again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She ripped it out again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I taught her French seams. The way Grandma taught me. Sew the seam with the wrong sides together. Trim it close. Turn it. Sew it again with the right sides together. So the raw edge is trapped inside and never frays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doubles the work. Triples it, for a beginner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee did every seam twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She cried once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over the zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The leotard was store-bought, but the skirt needed an invisible zipper in the back. Seven inches. Invisible zippers are fussy. They have to be exactly right, or they show.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She put it in wrong. Then wrong again. Then she broke the needle on the metal pull.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She put her head down on the Singer\u2019s cabinet and sobbed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t do it,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m not good enough. I should just sit out the recital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat down next to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything for a while. I just put my hand on her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I opened the attachment box. I took out a new needle. I handed it to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour great-grandma broke more needles than you\u2019ve ever seen,\u201d I said. \u201cHundreds. In seventy years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee lifted her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour grandma Connie broke two,\u201d I said. \u201cWhen she was your age. On this exact machine. Then she sewed right through her finger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee\u2019s eyes went wide.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma Connie sewed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe tried,\u201d I said. \u201cOnce. She got scared. She never tried again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee looked at the broken needle in her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShow me again,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She did not quit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Seventeen: The Last Saturday in March
The last Saturday in March, the costume was done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three layers of pale lavender chiffon. Cut on the bias. French seams on every edge. An invisible zipper in the back that was, in fact, invisible. A satin sash at the waist with a bow she\u2019d tied and retied eleven times until it was perfect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She tried it on with her leotard in my spare room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stood in front of the mirror on the closet door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She spun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The skirt flew out around her. All three layers. Floating. Settling. Like lavender smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She spun again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI made this,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou made this,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She changed back into her sweatshirt and jeans. She hung the costume carefully on a padded hanger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was standing in the doorway of the spare room, holding it with both hands, when the doorbell rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went to the front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I expected Megan. In her Ford Focus. Waving through the windshield.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Connie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was standing on my front porch. In her purple fleece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The same purple fleece. The one she wore at the estate sale. By the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had not set foot in my house in years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not since my wedding, eight years ago. Not since Grandma\u2019s first stroke. Not since the fighting got bad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d driven Kaylee to dance every Tuesday for six years. She\u2019d driven past my house on Highway 27 a hundred times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d never stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMegan\u2019s car won\u2019t start,\u201d she said. \u201cBattery. I came to get Kaylee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t look at me. She looked past me, into the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs she ready?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Eighteen: The Hem
Kaylee came out of the sewing room before I could answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was holding the costume on its hanger with both hands. Out in front of her. Like it was made of glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She saw her grandmother on the porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she walked to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held up the hanger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma,\u201d she said. \u201cI made this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice was shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll of it,\u201d she said. \u201cOn Great-Grandma Edna\u2019s machine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked at the costume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She reached out with one hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She touched the hem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She ran her fingers along the bottom edge of the chiffon. The narrow rolled hem. The one Kaylee had sewn three times until it was even all the way around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she took the skirt in both hands, gently, still on the hanger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She turned it over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the seams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at them for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The French seams. Every one sewn twice. Raw edges trapped inside, clean and narrow, a quarter inch wide. Exactly the way Grandma Edna sewed every seam on every dress for seventy-three years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Exactly the way she\u2019d tried to teach Connie, sixty years ago, before the needle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie\u2019s hand was trembling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Nineteen: What Connie Said
She didn\u2019t say anything for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her eyes were wet. Her chin was trembling. The stubborn chin. The one Kaylee has.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrench seams,\u201d she said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice was barely a whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMom\u2019s French seams,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe taught Kaylee,\u201d I said. \u201cThrough me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked down at the skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the seams. At the hem. At the invisible zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe tried to teach me,\u201d Connie said. \u201cThese. When I was ten. On that machine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI sewed my finger,\u201d she said. \u201cI had to get four stitches at the clinic in Glenwood. I never sat down at it again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She let go of the skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour mother sewed,\u201d Connie said. \u201cLorna. Like you. She could sew anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice cracked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd then she died,\u201d Connie said. \u201cAnd Mom had you. Every Saturday. At that machine. Teaching you the French seams. The same way she taught Lorna.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wiped her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I was the one who didn\u2019t sew,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI sold it, Abby,\u201d Connie said. \u201cAt the sale. I want you to know I knew exactly what I was doing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took a breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI read that card,\u201d she said. \u201cShe\u2019s the one who sews. And I thought, Mom left Abby the thing she loved most. And she left me the dishes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFour years,\u201d she said. \u201cI drove out there every day for four years. I held her hand when she died. And she left you the Singer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo I sold it,\u201d Connie said. \u201cFor Kaylee. That part\u2019s true. But not only for Kaylee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI sold it because I was angry,\u201d she said. \u201cAt Mom. At Lorna. At you. At a sewing machine I couldn\u2019t use.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee was standing very still between us. Holding her costume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cAbby says you broke two needles. When you were my age.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked down at her granddaughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI did,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI broke one,\u201d Kaylee said. \u201cOn the zipper. I cried.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held up the costume a little higher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I didn\u2019t quit,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twenty: The Other Card
I went back into the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Into the spare room. To the Singer by the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the attachment box. I lifted the cardboard insert.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took out the second card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I came back to the front door. Connie was still standing on the porch. Kaylee was beside her, holding the costume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held out the card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the shaky handwriting. Slanted. Going over the lines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abby \u2014 Teach Connie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She always wanted to learn. She was too proud to ask after the needle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t let her be too proud forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014 G.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She read it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then my aunt Connie, sixty-four years old, retired school secretary, a woman who could stop a hallway full of seventh graders without raising her voice, stood on my front porch in her purple fleece and cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not quietly. Not politely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She cried like a little girl. Like a ten-year-old with four stitches in her finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee put the costume on the porch railing. She put her arms around her grandmother\u2019s waist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stood in the doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere did you find this?\u201d Connie said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn the attachment box,\u201d I said. \u201cUnder the presser feet. The first Saturday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn November,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019ve had this since November.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you give it to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I didn\u2019t want you to come because of a note,\u201d I said. \u201cI wanted you to come because of Kaylee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked at the card for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe knew,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cShe knew I always wanted to learn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe knew,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe never said anything,\u201d Connie said. \u201cNot once. In sixty years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was waiting,\u201d I said. \u201cFor you to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie laughed through her tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sixty-four,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m too old to learn to sew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee looked up at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandma,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s not that hard. You just let the machine do the work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took Connie\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou just guide it,\u201d Kaylee said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twenty-One: Saturday Mornings
Connie came the next Saturday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nine o\u2019clock. She drove Kaylee herself. She parked in my driveway, got out of her car, and walked up to the front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was still wearing the purple fleece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was holding a box of scotcheroos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI brought bars,\u201d she said. \u201cFor coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how it\u2019s been ever since.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Saturday. Nine to noon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee at the Singer. Connie at my Bernina. Me in between, going back and forth with a pincushion on my wrist and Grandma\u2019s seam ripper in my pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie was terrible at first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Worse than Kaylee. She held the fabric too tight. She pressed the pedal too hard. She panicked every time the needle came near her fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She broke a needle the second Saturday. She went white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee handed her a new one from the attachment box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreat-Grandma Edna broke hundreds,\u201d Kaylee said. \u201cAbby said.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the fifth Saturday, Connie could sew a straight seam.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the tenth, she made a pillowcase. Purple, with little yellow daisies. For her own bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the fifteenth, she made a French seam.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her first one. On a scrap of muslin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat back from my Bernina and stared at it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she turned it over and looked at the inside. The raw edge trapped clean and narrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook at that,\u201d she whispered. \u201cLook at that, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twenty-Two: The Recital
The recital was on April 19th.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alexandria Area High School Auditorium. Seven o\u2019clock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie drove. Megan sat beside her. I sat behind them with Nate. He\u2019d taken the night off from planting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle Haugen came too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He drove forty minutes from Herman. He wore a pressed shirt and his good seed cap. He brought his granddaughter from Fargo. A twelve-year-old named Ella, with braces and a new Brother sewing machine she\u2019d been learning on for three months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwo-fifty,\u201d Merle whispered to me as he sat down. \u201cBest money I ever spent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee danced fourth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Level 3 Lyrical. Eight girls in pale lavender. A slow, sweeping piece to a piano song I didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seven of the girls wore store-bought costumes. Eighty-five dollars each.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One of them wore a costume she made herself. On her great-grandmother\u2019s 1951 Singer. With French seams and an invisible zipper and a satin bow tied eleven times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nobody could tell the difference.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I could tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Kaylee spun, her skirt flew out around her like lavender smoke. All three layers. Floating. Settling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bias cut made it move like water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The French seams held.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie was crying in the seat in front of me. Megan was holding her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle Haugen was sitting very still, watching the girl in the lavender skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLorraine would\u2019ve loved that,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cThe way it moves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Kaylee came out for her bow at the end, she was looking for us in the audience. Searching the rows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She found her grandmother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held up her right hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On her middle finger, too big, sliding down past her first knuckle, was Grandma Edna\u2019s silver thimble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d danced with it on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whole time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twenty-Three: What the Machine Is For
After the recital, in the high school parking lot, Connie found me by my car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other families were taking pictures. Kaylee was surrounded by girls from her class. Megan was hugging Miss Rachel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie stood beside me in her purple fleece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t say anything for a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbby,\u201d she said finally. \u201cI want to give you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She reached into her purse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took out a check. Made out to me. In her neat school-secretary handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

$150.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor the Singer,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat it sold for. It wasn\u2019t mine to sell. Not really.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cConnie,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t want your money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I want you to have it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I handed it back to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPut it toward next year\u2019s costume,\u201d I said. \u201cKaylee\u2019s going to want to make it herself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked at the check. Then at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re impossible,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI learned it from Grandma,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She laughed. Then she did something she hadn\u2019t done since my wedding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hugged me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was right, you know,\u201d Connie said into my shoulder. \u201cMom. On that card.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhich card?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe first one,\u201d Connie said. \u201cShe\u2019s the one who sews.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pulled back. She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re the one who sews,\u201d she said. \u201cYou always were. Like Lorna.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked over at Kaylee, laughing with her friends in the parking lot. Still in her lavender skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd now there\u2019s another one,\u201d Connie said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at Kaylee too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwo more,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou,\u201d I said. \u201cYou made a French seam last Saturday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she did both, standing in the parking lot of Alexandria Area High School in her purple fleece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Part Twenty-Four: Now
It\u2019s October again now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A year since the estate sale. The corn is half out. The soybeans are done. The sky is bright and cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The farm sold in June. A young couple from Wadena. They have three kids and two dogs. They\u2019re turning the sewing room into a nursery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer is in my spare room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the window. In its wooden cabinet. The black enamel gleaming. The gold decals worn thin where Grandma\u2019s hands rested for seventy years. Where my hands rest now. And Kaylee\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And, on Saturdays, Connie\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are four kitchen chairs in my spare room now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kaylee. Connie. Merle\u2019s granddaughter, Ella, who drives down from Fargo with her mother once a month. And Megan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Megan started coming in August.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat in my driveway in her Ford Focus for twenty minutes the first time. Then she came inside. She\u2019s making a quilt. For Kaylee\u2019s bed. Lavender and white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Merle comes too, sometimes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He doesn\u2019t sew. He sits at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He says he just likes the sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The two index cards are framed now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Side by side. On the wall above the Singer. In a simple wooden frame Nate made in the machine shed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Singer goes to Abby. She\u2019s the one who sews.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abby \u2014 Teach Connie. Don\u2019t let her be too proud forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Last Saturday, Kaylee was working on next year\u2019s recital costume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019s twelve now. She moved up to Level 4. Contemporary. The costume is a deep blue jumpsuit with a sheer overskirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019s making it herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019s using French seams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At eleven o\u2019clock, she stopped sewing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pulled Grandma\u2019s thimble off her middle finger. She held it up to the light from the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she put it back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t wobble anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t slide down past her knuckle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbby,\u201d she said. \u201cLook.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held up her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt fits,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie looked up from my Bernina. She was working on a dress. Her first one. Navy blue, for church.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the thimble on her granddaughter\u2019s finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at the two cards framed on the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grandma Edna wrote that the Singer went to me because I\u2019m the one who sews.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I think she knew something else, too. Something she never wrote on any card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A sewing machine sitting in a spare room doesn\u2019t help anybody.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Connie said that by the coffee pot at the estate sale. She was right too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A sewing machine is only worth what it teaches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The hands it guides. The seams it holds. The girl it gets through a zipper without quitting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman it finally lets sit down, sixty years later, and ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Let the machine do the work, Grandma used to say. You just guide it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I used to think she was talking about the fabric.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The One Who SewsPart One: The Folding TableIt went across a folding table in Grandma\u2019s farm yard for a hundred and fifty dollars. The sale was on a Saturday in … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":27482,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-27481","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family-story","category-lastest-story"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t