Jessie: In NH where a Baltimore Oriole is perched on the flowering quince in the back yard.

For Mother’s Day yesterday my beloved husband gifted me with a new sewing machine. I am absolutely thrilled. I received my first machine for my nineteenth birthday and have been able to keep it in trim until the last few years when the tension simply refuses to behave itself. Last spring I wrestled with it mightily to construct a pair of velvet draperies for a guest room redecorating project and we have not been on speaking terms since. I spent at least as much time ripping out tangles of bobbin thread from the project as I did stitching and have not had the courage to try anything since.

I am a decent seamstress and have missed being able to whip up a project on the spur of the moment. Every now and again I have a hankering to create an apron or a drawstring bag to hold a knitting project or a pair of kooky pajama pants for our place at the beach. You can never have too many pairs of loose fitting pajama pants at a summer place in case people who planned to stay for only the day can be coaxed to stay overnight.

But without a functioning machine that outlet for creativity has been closed off. It has surprised me how much I missed it. I think of myself as someone who is steeped in creative endeavors. I write and knit almost daily, I garden and I cook. I throw themed parties. I make up recipes. I would not have thought the bit of sewing I do from time to time would leave the hole that it did.

When I unwrapped that gift, however, I felt a little leap in my heart, a sort of surge of enthusiasm. The new machine has 100 stitches and several fancy attachments to make it all work. It came with a cover and a packet of needles and a half dozen bobbins all set to be wound with thread. I felt like a child on Christmas morning.