I'm all broke over you, Bernina.But first, on local news: Arnis is now officially the national sport of the Philippines! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah! This is a glorious, glorious day for Philippine martial artists and sportsmen everywhere. :)
A-hem. Now then.
I think I'm going to buy a new sewing machine come next week.
To be honest, I'm not particularly happy about it.
Let me explain.
Ondoy's waters revealed my sewing machine, muddied inside out, laying flat on its side like a fish gulping for air. I could only do so much cleaning it and hauling it up to safer ground, wishing rather fearfully that it still stood a chance for repairs.
A week after, my aunts mentioned that they had spotted a traveling sewing machine repairman doing the rounds in our area for their neighbor seamstress, and thought perhaps it would do my Bernina some good to have her looked at. Perhaps it also works for them, since I had lent them the sewing machine they were using right now, and that piece needed some heavy cleaning too. So, pretty much, I hauled my baby to my aunts' home, entrusted a thousand pesos to them should there be anything in need of buying or paying, and turned my attentions back to other more urgent tasks at hand.
Days passed. weeks passed. A month passed. I asked my aunts about how the sewing machine was, if it was making any progress or showing any signs of life. Oh, it's actually working quite well now, they said. It does sew, but the repairman would need to check the motor. you wouldn't happen to have the transformer for this engine now, would you?
With the original transformer gone, that's where most of my P1k went to.
Two weeks ago, however, saw James and I back in my aunts' home to pick up the supposedly-now-repaired sewing machine with Mang Julio waiting for us at our gates. Quite frankly? I did not like what I saw.
The Bernina had two sewing speeds: normal, and hyper-speed. After the repairman had gone through it, Hyper-speed was now Slow, and Normal speed was now Mega-slow.
The foot pedal that had once been so sensitive now needed a lot of coaxing and foot-paddling to even convince the needle to move up. And down. At a consistent pace. Which was most of the time nonexistent.
The same thing went for my bobbin spool winder -- it now staunchly refused to wind thread, and had to be fed and watched like some spoiled child.
The pastiches? Oh gods. The stitches have now become mangled ghosts of their former selves, and what's worse, the thread tension has now gone catatonic. Its springs have come undone, and it simple refuses to show any signs of tightness recognition.
And all because, according to my aunts, the repairman refused to open her up because he said "he might ruin her".
Clearly, I had never felt more duped or cheated in my adult life.
There went the money, and there, quite heartbreakingly, went my sewing machine. It's painful to see my best soldier all huddled up under the corner of the new computer counter, huddled under her cover.
Quite honestly, I don't know what else can be done for her. I'd want to see her alive and working again, true, but I fear that if the cost of r having her repaired will outstrip the cost of a new one, then I'm afraid practicality must win over.
A part of me refuses to give up on her, though, and give up I shall not. I refuse to let go of her, at least until I've made sure she hums with life again, and will be of good use to either me again or, perhaps better yet, someone else who may be in greater need of her.
I love you, Bernina. I wish I knew how to let go of you.