I try to remind myself to be grateful for modern conveniences. While I have been known to romanticize the past on occasion, there is something undeniably miraculous about watching the trail of stitches emanate from under the foot of a 110-year-old treadle driven sewing machine.
I happily concede that electric motors, in their various applications, have spared humans an immeasurable quantity of proverbial elbow grease. In industrial settings, electric sewing machines increased production capacity many fold. On the other hand, for the casual home seamstress (or seamster), the addition of electricity traded some of the one-ness with their machine for a margin of efficiency. Only a few minutes might be shaved off for someone making one-of-a-kind garments compared to the hours saved by a factory worker sewing piles of identical seams assembly-line style. Anyone who has turned yardage of fabric into a unique finished wearable garment understands that much of the time spent “sewing” is actually dedicated to pressing, cutting, pinning, seam-ripping, and hand-finishing. Stitching under the foot of a sewing machine is but one part of the larger list of tasks.
My First Experience with Sewing Machines
I learned the basics of sewing as an adolescent, and my earliest projects were sewn on a mid-twentieth century electric machine which previously belonged to my maternal grandmother. As my mom unfolded the top of the machine’s blond, skinny-legged table, the matte black machine would emerged gracefully. Thankfully, my mother was also able to show me the basics of its use. She had herself used the machine to craft a few items of clothing and later made several items for me and my siblings. Her knowledge provided enough guidance to get me started, and I used books and pattern instructions to fill in the gaps. I mastered the basics and managed to make a few things, sometimes spending significant amounts of time with my seam ripper, as with some projects, I learned more what not to do than what to do.
Adopting the Minnesota A Treadle Machine
On the other side of my family, my paternal grandparents amassed an impressive collection of early 20th century sewing machines, but they did not acquire them for their capacity to stitch.
Instead, they were attracted to the beautiful look of the “parlor” style cabinets and used them mostly as end tables holding living room lamps. The machines blended in seamlessly with the other old-fashioned wares which filled their home. As a child, I placed drinks carefully on coasters atop sewing machine cabinets, completely unaware of the iron machine heads and treadles which lay slumbering inside.
Of the 8 machines in my grandparent’s rural Victorian-era home, the one which seemed to be most intact and worthy of an attempted resurrection was a Minnesota Model A. She retained her shiny bullet-shaped shuttle (which still contained a long bobbin loaded with thread), a mostly-intact manual, a slew of presser foot attachments, and a time-brittled leather belt. Under the grime, the parts seemed to be in decent shape, without much rust or other obvious damage. Although, when I first met this machine the treadle moved smoothly and the hand wheel still possessed the ability to move the needle up and down, works were too gummed up by ancient grease to move freely.
As my parents were still working diligently and thoughtfully to re-home the plethora of antiques my grandparents acquired and kept over their lifetimes, I added several pieces to the collection of utilitarian relics that I received from them personally. So, for the special price of “free,” the parlor cabinet Minnesota A was all mine. My mom was happy to have one less item to sell, and I got a fascinating project.
Clues to the origins of this particular machine.
Minnesota Model A Machine Head – An Exclusive Sears Catalog Product
The product description for the Minnesota Model “A” Machine Head reads:
The Minnesota Model “A” is a strictly high grade up to date sewing machine from every viewpoint. It will pay you to read this description very carefully, because particular attention should be given to the sewing machine head when making your selection, and after you have decided upon the head, the other parts, such as the woodwork and stand, are of minor consideration. It is the head that does the work. This fact must not be overlooked. If the sewing machine head itself is not properly constructed, if the material used in its construction is not properly made and treated, if the parts are not made to gauge, then no mater how large the head of the sewing machine, no matter how high its praises are sung, you have an inferior article, one which may give satisfaction for a time, but in the end will not stand the test.
Sears Roebuck and Co Catalog, 1912
How much did it cost new?
This digitized edition of the Sears Catalog shows the same machine head as mine, but does not offer the fancy “desk cabinet” with the Minnesota machines. An alternative, newer machine head, the “Franklin,” is shown with a parlor cabinet option similar to my own machine (called a Desk Cabinet here) and is selling for $25.95, plus shipping. The least expensive sewing machine, excluding hand cranked machines, in the catalog is a Homan machine, which costs $8.45.
For comparison, violin outfits (instrument plus accessories) are listed on the next pages in the catalog. They range in price from $2.95 to $34.
The Story of My Minnesota A
Though I do not know precisely how my grandparents came to possess it, the 1910’s treadle sewing machine which now sits in my house was likely not originally purchased from the manufacturer by an ancestor of mine. Home sewing machines were indeed ubiquitous and heavily used by most families, and the mechanics of machines at all price points were largely the same, but money could buy more ornate trappings. The cabinet of what has become my machine is simply too fancy for my great grandparents to have purchased new. My city-dwelling immigrant ancestors of the early 20th century were likewise limited in their means and owning such a machine would have been unimaginably lavish for them too.
This machine might have belonged to the family of a dentist. Why? Well, my machine’s parlor-style cabinet features a small top-hinged door on the back-side which can be opened using a clever knee-level lever mechanism. My best guess is that this door is for ventilation to make the seamstress more comfortable in the days before air-conditioning. When I first discovered and opened this ventilation door, a small, flat metal object fell out. Some online research revealed the object to be a cork pick, likely used by dentistry professionals during the World War II era to unstopper bottles. I’m not sure how such a oddly specific antique object would have come to be lodged in the cabinetry unless the sewing machine served a dental professional’s household sometime in the past. Such a vocation would justify the stylish cabinetry.
Restoring My Treadle Sewing Machine to Working Order
As best I can tell, my Minnesota Model A machine dates from around the era of the Titanic tragedy, the early 1910s. She uses “long bobbins” and is a “vibrating shuttle” type machine, which describes the action of the bullet-shape shuttle which rests in a cradle at the end of a lever underneath the base plate of the machine. The shuttle is moved back and forth through the loop created by the action of the needle punching through the underside of the fabric. This type of shuttle was a precursor to the now standard disk-shaped bobbins modern machines use (rotary bobbins).
Long story short, getting this 1910s vintage Minnesota Model A back into a state where it can be used to stitch a seam involved “penetrating oil” and elbow grease. I disassembled the parts that could easily be unscrewed and accessed. I sprayed penetrating oil on areas that didn’t want to budge and came back later to make another attempt at dislodging them. I managed to open the front and back access panels on the machine head and used wooden toothpicks and q-tips to clean decades of grease off of the metal parts that were necessary for the machine to function. The bobbin winder was the most satisfying bit to bring back to life. Connecting the bobbin winder drive wheel to the treadle belt and propelling the well-tuned mechanism is mesmerizing. It spins the long bobbin and guides the thread slowly back and forth to evenly distribute it the loaded thread.
The original user’s manual survived!
For me, one great “selling” point of this particular machine was the paper user’s manual, which survived intact and was an invaluable resource for understanding the functionality of the Model “A”. I have created a digital copy, which I used during my work on the machine to avoid getting grease on the original. I have uploaded it here for others to use as a reference, if you too are trying to resurrect a Minnesota Model A. Notably, my copy of the manual for this machine includes the back pages with instructions regarding how “to do quilting” and a price list for replacement parts. A new belt cost 8 cents, plus 3 cents for postage.
An old leather drive belt came with this machine as well, and I replaced it with a new one (which cost more than 8 cents, but was not expensive by today’s standards), purchased on eBay. And, although I lightly cleaned the body of the machine, I did not make any great attempt to restore the decals for fear of damaging them, and their beauty, irreparably.
Learning to sew with a Treadle Sewing Machine
The hardest part of getting a good seam out of my new-old sewing machine was fine tuning the tension. The tensioning mechanism is on the front of the machine above the presser foot, where you would expect it. An adjustment nut allows the seamstress to adjust the tension screw, but I had difficulty finding just the right point for the thread to flow smoothly without being loose.
There was a bit of a learning curve when it came to operating the machine. Having a sense of rhythm already (through experience with music, marching in time, etc) may have been helpful in adapting to this style of sewing. I noticed several differences (not necessarily positive or negative) in the way a treadle sewing works compared to using my inexpensive modern electric sewing machine.
Treadle allows greater control over fine adjustments to the speed of stitching. On a treadle, I needed to be more conscious of slowing down and preparing to stop or turn a corner.
No back stitching. This requires planning ahead to make sure seams are encased in other seams, or loose threads are tied off by hand.
Straight stitches only. Without access to a zigzag stitch, sewing on stretchy material is not practical.
My first major project on the machine was to make 4 “camp pillows” with matching pillow cases. I made four rectangular pillows and used French seaming to encase the raw edges of the pillow case seams. I used French seams because they can be accomplished with a straight stitch, whereas on a modern machine I might have used a zigzag stitch to prevent fraying and others who own a serger might finish seams that way.
A Parlor Treadle – A Remarkable Functional Object
Surely the efficiency, speed, and comprehensibility of the machine was a marvel to our ancestors even more so than it is from our perspective as members of the digital age looking back. This machine spared many beleaguered working-class folks from the slowness of sewing by hand and provided more wealthy women the chance to pursue a domestic craft more efficiently as well. They were all surely relieved to possess such a labor-saving device. Conversely, we are amazed at what can be done by machines built before the age of planned obsolescence manufacturing. When was the last time any of us purchased a consumer good with a “20 Year Guarantee”? I cannot fathom some great grandchild of mine reviving a machine created in my youth to do productive work in the 22nd Century.
Do you have a treadle machine in your family? Have you ever tried to use it? It might be worthwhile to dust her off and see if she still runs. Or, you could just use your parlor cabinet as a beautiful table to place a lamp and rest your coffee cup.
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