The following was written by my wife.
When I was young, I’d watch in fascination as my mother used her treadle sewing machine (a late 1800’s Singer that belonged to my great-grandmother) to fashion all sorts of clothing, blankets, couch covers and schoolbags. I’d sit on the floor and watch as her feet deftly pedaled fast on the straightaway and then slowed as she rounded a curve or reached an end.
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Built before electricity, the heavy Singer emitted a peaceful clicking sound, interrupted only when the worn leather belt came apart. She’d stop pedaling, rejoin the leather ends with a bent nail and tape, and resume sewing. Without realizing it, I was learning much about mechanical advantage just by watching my mother sew.
Finally, at age 11, I was allowed to use the machine myself. What a thrill to pick out a Raggedy Ann pattern at the Ben Franklin store in town for my first project. The fabric, buttons and stuffing came from my mother’s scrap box – what she called “glad rags.” They may only have been faded remnants of former garments, but she was “glad to have them” when she needed them.
To make the ruffles, I used the Singer gathering attachment. Embroidering the facial features called for screwing on another ingenious gadget. I followed the directions in the yellowed manual, eventually trying out each attachment as I completed Raggedy Ann.
As a teen, I made clothes for myself or modified straight-legged jeans by adding triangles of colorful fabric to transform them into bellbottoms. It was the 70’s. What can I say?
After a car, my next big investment as a young adult was a New Home sewing machine that could form buttonholes and even had some extra fancy stitches (that I never used). I just plugged the machine in and away I went, consuming a million miles of thread over the years as I crafted curtains, quilts, clothes and even a boat cover or two.
Nothing compared, though, with the satisfaction of sewing with that antique treadle machine. I learned the whir of an electric motor is impersonal and challenging to control. But, I grew up being told technology is better. My mother, too, gave away her treadle in favor of a modern plastic and tin sewing machine. At least her treadle did not end up in the city dump with so many others.
On our journey to self-reliance, we’ve been gathering human-powered tools when we can find them. It’s surprising how quickly hand- and foot-powered tools were abandoned when electricity became available. From 1850 to 1890, more than 100 apple-pealing devices were patented. Then none, except those running on electric power. And so it goes with thousands of other nifty human-powered appliances.
I drove by a fix-it shop recently and couldn’t believe my lucky find – an antique stainless steel hand-powered washing machine sitting out front. I quickly swung in the parking lot and ran over to the washer, only to discover that petunias were blooming in the rusted out basin.
Our search for old-fashioned tools intensified this summer as Darren worked on his latest invention – a pedal-powered PTO. The original intent was to develop a device that could pump volumes of water from our well, not the measly 2 cups per stroke our hand pump yields.
Once that was accomplished (pumping an amazing 5-3/4 gallons per stroke), Darren decided the PTO had so much more potential than just pumping water. So, he set it up to operate our grain grinder and a low-RPM alternator for charging batteries. Now, we’re continually thinking of other tools around here that can be adapted to the PTO (the drill press, metal grinder, band saw). Basically, anything with a pulley or shaft can be operated with the PTO.
Our search for non-electric tools brought back memories of that faithful old treadle sewing machine.
Within a few days of putting my brother-in-law on the lookout, he found an abused White Rotary treadle machine at a Springfield thrift store for $60. Even though I was somewhat discouraged by its neglected condition (I didn’t even want to take a picture of it), I was eager to get it home and start refurbishing. I wasn’t interested in beauty; I just wanted a working treadle machine.
![Image]()
The machine appeared (and smelled) as if it was stored in a chicken coop. The cabinet was severely battered and broken in places, and the hand wheel was stiff to turn, but we rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Darren replaced or repaired the broken boards while I disassembled, oiled and cleaned the machine. I took a few photos only so I would not forget how to put it back together.
As we worked, we marveled at the quality craftsmanship. Online copies of advertisements reveal that this machine was built to be affordable for the average household, costing about $55 new in 1913. Yet, the cabinet has in inlaid ruler, handsome curved drawers and detailed wrought iron stand. The machine is adorned on every side with golden decals.
Darren was especially intrigued with the precise machine work. After cleaning and oiling the treadle in the shop, he gave it a few pumps to get it spinning and then came in the house to fetch me. We went out and saw the flywheel still silently turning, perfectly balanced and smooth.
Between the two of us, we had the cabinet and machine looking and running like new in no time. I’m still waiting for my belt to arrive from an online Amazon order, but have tried out the machine by turning the hand crank. The stitches are even, and everything works as it should.
I haven’t decided yet what my first sewing project will be on my 100-year-old treadle machine. It should be something significant. Perhaps a Raggedy Ann doll.
When I was young, I’d watch in fascination as my mother used her treadle sewing machine (a late 1800’s Singer that belonged to my great-grandmother) to fashion all sorts of clothing, blankets, couch covers and schoolbags. I’d sit on the floor and watch as her feet deftly pedaled fast on the straightaway and then slowed as she rounded a curve or reached an end.
Built before electricity, the heavy Singer emitted a peaceful clicking sound, interrupted only when the worn leather belt came apart. She’d stop pedaling, rejoin the leather ends with a bent nail and tape, and resume sewing. Without realizing it, I was learning much about mechanical advantage just by watching my mother sew.
Finally, at age 11, I was allowed to use the machine myself. What a thrill to pick out a Raggedy Ann pattern at the Ben Franklin store in town for my first project. The fabric, buttons and stuffing came from my mother’s scrap box – what she called “glad rags.” They may only have been faded remnants of former garments, but she was “glad to have them” when she needed them.
To make the ruffles, I used the Singer gathering attachment. Embroidering the facial features called for screwing on another ingenious gadget. I followed the directions in the yellowed manual, eventually trying out each attachment as I completed Raggedy Ann.
As a teen, I made clothes for myself or modified straight-legged jeans by adding triangles of colorful fabric to transform them into bellbottoms. It was the 70’s. What can I say?
After a car, my next big investment as a young adult was a New Home sewing machine that could form buttonholes and even had some extra fancy stitches (that I never used). I just plugged the machine in and away I went, consuming a million miles of thread over the years as I crafted curtains, quilts, clothes and even a boat cover or two.
Nothing compared, though, with the satisfaction of sewing with that antique treadle machine. I learned the whir of an electric motor is impersonal and challenging to control. But, I grew up being told technology is better. My mother, too, gave away her treadle in favor of a modern plastic and tin sewing machine. At least her treadle did not end up in the city dump with so many others.
On our journey to self-reliance, we’ve been gathering human-powered tools when we can find them. It’s surprising how quickly hand- and foot-powered tools were abandoned when electricity became available. From 1850 to 1890, more than 100 apple-pealing devices were patented. Then none, except those running on electric power. And so it goes with thousands of other nifty human-powered appliances.
I drove by a fix-it shop recently and couldn’t believe my lucky find – an antique stainless steel hand-powered washing machine sitting out front. I quickly swung in the parking lot and ran over to the washer, only to discover that petunias were blooming in the rusted out basin.
Our search for old-fashioned tools intensified this summer as Darren worked on his latest invention – a pedal-powered PTO. The original intent was to develop a device that could pump volumes of water from our well, not the measly 2 cups per stroke our hand pump yields.
Once that was accomplished (pumping an amazing 5-3/4 gallons per stroke), Darren decided the PTO had so much more potential than just pumping water. So, he set it up to operate our grain grinder and a low-RPM alternator for charging batteries. Now, we’re continually thinking of other tools around here that can be adapted to the PTO (the drill press, metal grinder, band saw). Basically, anything with a pulley or shaft can be operated with the PTO.
Our search for non-electric tools brought back memories of that faithful old treadle sewing machine.
Within a few days of putting my brother-in-law on the lookout, he found an abused White Rotary treadle machine at a Springfield thrift store for $60. Even though I was somewhat discouraged by its neglected condition (I didn’t even want to take a picture of it), I was eager to get it home and start refurbishing. I wasn’t interested in beauty; I just wanted a working treadle machine.
The machine appeared (and smelled) as if it was stored in a chicken coop. The cabinet was severely battered and broken in places, and the hand wheel was stiff to turn, but we rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Darren replaced or repaired the broken boards while I disassembled, oiled and cleaned the machine. I took a few photos only so I would not forget how to put it back together.
As we worked, we marveled at the quality craftsmanship. Online copies of advertisements reveal that this machine was built to be affordable for the average household, costing about $55 new in 1913. Yet, the cabinet has in inlaid ruler, handsome curved drawers and detailed wrought iron stand. The machine is adorned on every side with golden decals.
Darren was especially intrigued with the precise machine work. After cleaning and oiling the treadle in the shop, he gave it a few pumps to get it spinning and then came in the house to fetch me. We went out and saw the flywheel still silently turning, perfectly balanced and smooth.
Between the two of us, we had the cabinet and machine looking and running like new in no time. I’m still waiting for my belt to arrive from an online Amazon order, but have tried out the machine by turning the hand crank. The stitches are even, and everything works as it should.
I haven’t decided yet what my first sewing project will be on my 100-year-old treadle machine. It should be something significant. Perhaps a Raggedy Ann doll.
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