Category Archives: Vintage Singer sewing machines

It’s not over till it’s over . . . .

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Fargosmom here – making a brief introduction.  I was dismayed, as many of you may have been, to think that this great blog might disappear into the ether.  I am new to the world of antique sewing machines, and I came to this blog in search of some basic technical information.  What I found was much more – an archive of useful information, not only packaged in a clean format, but accompanied by some absolutely lovely writing, and a wry and witty personality to back it up.  I’ve never met Sid or Elsie, but I wish they were my next door neighbors.

So I’m here to do my feeble best to keep this resource available while S & E ride off into the sunset.  I wish them health, happiness, and a long future with no tangled bobbins in sight.

To the rest of us, here’s to keeping those old iron ladies stitching.

Last post … or at least my last post

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OK … quite a few people seem to have been dismayed by the thought of this blog vanishing, so the good news now is that it’s not going to.  I am, but the blog isn’t.

It’s now staying at this URL, although Mission Control will henceforth be in southern California rather than southern England, thanks to fargosmom who’s kindly volunteered to take it over.

I’ll be keeping my Elna Grasshopper blog going, but Elsie and I are out of here now, and we leave you in the tender care of fargosmom.

Cheers folks :)

The End is Nigh

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Just so that it doesn’t come as a surprise and you think the aliens have abducted this blog, you need to know that its days are now numbered.  Quite what that number is I’m not sure, but it’s probably around 80.  And when its number’s up, I guess it will just do whatever it is that obsolete blogs do.

In other words the domain registration for this URL comes up for renewal again in June (or maybe July – I can’t find the email from WordPress right now), and I won’t be renewing it.  Why not?  In a word, I have neither the time now nor the inclination to continue with it – even though it’s still averaging 200 visitors and 400 page views per day.  Heck, I can’t even keep my Grasshopper blog up to speed, which needs nothing like the same amount of work!

So there you go.

When I find out the exact date of its demise, I’ll let you know …

Need a spool pin for your vintage Singer?

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vintage Singer spool pins

And with that deadly dull picture, so begins this, my 150th post here.  One thing’s for sure – when I started the very first post on July 14th 2011, I had no idea at all we’d end up with 794 page views on our busiest day so far, have 624 comments, 318 email followers, and visitors from all over the planet.  Literally.  Today’s so far have come from the US, the UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, France, Germany, Ireland, Philippines, Sweden, Guatemala, Japan, Viet Nam, Greece, South Korea, Netherlands, Tunisia, India, Spain, Iceland and Pakistan.

Anyhow.

With this being the 150th post, I hoped to write something terribly profound or incredibly interesting, maybe even both, but alas we’ve been somewhat overtaken by events here of late and I’ve been up past my ears in chores since before Christmas.  What with a major re-vamp of my office and the sorting-out of the Elnas cluttering it up, Elsie’s major shake-up of The Sewing Room, and all manner of other lesser things accomplished, I was quite looking forward to spending some time on the puter yesterday or today by way of a little light relief.  But then the weather changed.

It finally stopped raining.  The fog cleared.  The sky brightened.  Heck, the sun almost came out!  So yesterday we made a start on the two big stacks of round timber which we scrounged during the course of last year, and by the time the chickens were thinking of going to bed yesterday, we were halfway through it.  And we’d axed up what we cut.

Today it was even more like Spring.  13°C this afternoon, to be precise.  On January 3rd.!  We even had a solitary honey bee buzzing around, presumably in a state of confusion.  Jolly nice it was too to be chainsawing and stacking logs without our jackets on, but I’m getting really worried about the rhubarb.  If we don’t get a proper hard frost for a few weeks before much longer, it’s not going to have any proper flavour, which bodes ill indeed for my favourite jam (after damson).  But whatever, two days work and we’ve saved about £140 on this winter’s heating bill.  And been entertained by Boris the resident blackbird’s attempts to woo the very pretty young lady blackbird from over the fence at the back, who seems to be playing hard to get.

Ah yes.  Spool pins.

Whilst scratting about the other day, I found a couple of packs of brand new modern copy spool pins which are now surplus to requirements, so if you have need of one, whether threaded or tapered fit, you’ll now find them listed in Elsie’s Bargain Basement.

Finally for now, two cautions about spool pins and vintage Singers.  One is that the taper-fit type do indeed just tap into place with a judicious whack from a hammer, but if you’re not used to doing stuff like that and you’re fitting one in the bed position on a 201 (i.e. for the spool you wind your bobbin off), be sure to stand a magazine or a bit of card up against the column so that your hammer can’t possibly clout the paintwork on the way down.

And do make sure that you’re going to fit that nice shiny new spool pin in the right place.  If you’re not sure whether that hole’s for a spool pin or for oiling, check out your book of words.  If you don’t have a book of words, hit the interweb, look at lots of pictures of your particular model … and hope that they haven’t all got the spool pins in the wrong place!

Another vintage Singer brochure!

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OK, this is the last of the brochures which Syd was kind enough to leave with me for scanning, and once again it’s impossible to date it accurately.  My money’s on sometime between 1935 and 1940, but whatever …

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What a delight it is to imagine that anybody might really say, by way of everyday conversation, that something “is a real enjoyment”!  Be that as it may, that front cover illustration immediately reminded me of Mrs De Vries, the nosey old biddy who lived next door for much of my early childhood.   She it was whose first words upon being invited into the house for her weekly gossip would invariably be “I won’t take my coat off, I’m not stopping”, and who would still be wearing it (and her hat) an hour or more later after the usual two cups of tea and the slice of stale shop cake that Grandmother always provided for visitors.

She it was too who recklessly walked out of her front garden gate one fine summer morning long ago without checking whether four-year-old me was hurtling towards her downhill at great speed upon his tricycle.  I still blame her for my first broken arm, and have never really got over the fact that the scant sympathy I was getting from Grandmother immediately turned into a major bollocking when I explained how it was all Mrs De Vries’ fault.  But I digress.

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I reckon it’s stretching it a bit to describe the D-shaped swing-out thingy on the inside of the left-hand door of a 51 Cabinet as a “commodious drawer”, but it’s certainly handy and we’re big fans of this cabinet here.  The veneer on the front of some of them is really lovely, the treadle mechanism works a treat, it’s a doddle to raise and lower the head, and it’s easy to fit castors to one so you can move it about the place, should you wish.

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I’m still not sure when they changed over from cast iron to wooden sides on the domestic tables, but in this brochure we see the cabinet table described as a “new stand with wooden sides”.  And it’s never occurred to me before, but  I wonder why Elsie’s is the only 201 we’ve ever seen in a Cabinet Table.  And why have we never seen a 15 in a 51?

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Apparently “Singer Machines on this type of cabinet work form a prominent feature in thousands of homes”.  So I wonder why they’re decidedly uncommon in England now.  Neither of us is certain that we’ve ever seen one!

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I’ve never seen a fireplace that close to a wall either, but never mind.  This No.40 Table’s a bit of a rare bird nowadays too, which may well be down to its design being something of an acquired taste to 21st century housewives ( if it’s still permissible to use the term).

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And here we have the 201K2 and 201K3 Portable Electrics.  Portable in the sense that it’s not built into in a cabinet maybe, but it might surprise folks used to modern machines to learn that the 201K3 Portable in its bentwood case on the floor behind me now weighs in at 19.1Kg.  That’s why one of the very first things you learn with a 201 portable is to move the thing about as little as possible!

Incidentally, the difference between a 201K2 and a 201K3 is that the former has the direct-drive (so-called “potted”) motor while the latter has the usual bolt-on motor with the pulley and the belt.  And for what it’s worth, I do appreciate just how wonderful the all-gear drive is, but I wouldn’t buy a K2 on the grounds that if the motor packs up, you have a problem.  Replacement motors of the usual bolt-on type for a K3 are all over the place whether used, reconditioned or new equivalent, but good 240 volt replacement “potted” motors are like the proverbial.

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“This, the lightest of the Lock-Stitch Hand Machines …” still weighs 14.5Kg in its natty fake snake/crocodile skin suitcase, but of course Singer didn’t tell you that in the brochure!  Interesting that at this period the portables were available in your choice of suitcase-type or bentwood case.

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Oh dear, that mirror over the fireplace is way off-centre!  But who cares when by simply fitting a Singer Motor to the machine, one can do “more and better work without fatigue”?  And the friendly chap from the local Singer shop will be delighted to pop round and demonstrate at your convenience too.  I’m sure he won’t say anything about the mirror.

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And here’s another rare bird in the UK – the one-drawer drop-leaf table with the bentwood cover and the bigger-diameter treadle wheel for faster sewing.  Again, this is one we’ve never actually encountered in the wild.

scan051And finally, the usual page explaining why you should not be discouraged by the trimming and finishing required to finish your new frock, when you can buy a box of tricks like this and instead “be thrilled with the dainty sewing you can do” with their help.  Quite.

Now, we may not know when this brochure was picked up, but we do know from where …

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Yep, from the local Singer shop at 60 High Street, Tunbridge Wells, which just happens to be less than 10 miles away from where I’m sitting.   60 High Street is the right-hand half of what is now a double-fronted furniture shop …

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We’re also familiar with The Singer Building in City Road, London, as illustrated on that page above.  And even though most of it’s now a Travelodge (of all things!) it still looks much  the same as when it was built …

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If you’re ever in that neck of the woods, it’s on City Road almost opposite the Honorable Artillery Company’s barracks, and you can find it on Google Maps by using the UK postcode EC1Y 1AG.

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It looks like the Singer Building did well to survive the last unpleasantness intact – it’s smack bang in the middle of the blue circle I’ve drawn on this map of a small part of London town, and according to a rather remarkable new website called Bomb Sight, those red dots are the bombs which were recorded as having been dropped on that area during the London Blitz of 7th October 1940 to 6th June 1941.

And that’s it for this week, folks, except to send greetings from Elsie and me to anyone else who will be celebrating Yule later today.

Have a good weekend!

A vintage Singer 201K leaflet

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This is another of Syd’s leaflets which he kindly let me scan a week or two ago, and it’s another one which we hadn’t seen before.  I’ve no idea of its exact date, but a pound to a penny says it’s the second half of the 1930’s.

201_bAt top right of the centre pages we see the stitch length regulating lever in its vertical slot, and to its left the thumbscrew which invariably baffles folk who are new to the 201 and haven’t read the book of words.  The text below that picture explains the mystery …

Perfect stitches of a desired length are made either forward or backward, by movement of the lever “B”.  The figures alongside the slot indicate the number of stitches per inch that the machine will make.  When the top of the lever is moved level with any one of the  figures shown, and the screw “A” is raised an tightened, the machine makes the length of stitch wished for in a forward.  By moving the lever up, as far as it will go, the same size stitch is made backward.

Or, translated for the benefit of readers not used to Singer’s idiosyncratic way of explaining things …

Lever “B” sets the stitch length.  As shown it’s set for the longest stitch, and for normal forward stitching.  As you move the lever upwards in the slot, the stitch length gets shorter and shorter until the lever’s level with that line over the numbers.  At that point, the stitch length is zero, so the work doesn’t get fed under the presser foot.  Keep moving the lever up and you’re in reverse, with the stitch length gradually getting longer.  When the lever’s at the top of the slot, the stitch length is the same as it was when the lever was at the bottom of the slot, but you’re sewing backwards.

The thumbscrew and that curved slot is the clever bit.  Let’s say we want to sew roughly 12 stitches per inch.  We move lever “B” upwards until the top of it’s level with the “12” marking, and off we go.  If we’re happy with that length of stitch, we can then slacken the thumbscrew “A”, move it up that curved slot as far as it’ll go, which won’t be very far, and then tighten it.

Having done that, if we then move lever “B” upwards, we find that it won’t go all the way up to the top of the slot.  It now stops at “12”.  That’s because by moving the thumbscrew like we did, we’ve set the stitch length the same in both forward and reverse.

And that’s all there is to it – the thumbscrew is the means whereby you can set it so that when you want to back-tack or whatever, you just pull lever “B” up as far as it’ll go, and continue sewing with the same length stitch but in reverse!

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Top picture on the back page explains feed dog drop, but it’s the wording immediately below the bottom picture that I think is lovely and so very much of its time …

View of the Machine head illustrating its particularly chaste ornamentation

Next week we’ll probably be looking at the third and final one of Syd’s brochures, plus what may or may not be some fascinating facts about the Singer building in London town and what used to be the Singer shop in downtown Tunbridge Wells, whence came this very leaflet we’ve just been looking at.

 

How a sewing machine works – another video!

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I’m indebted to Chris for reminding me of this video, about which I’d completely forgotten.  It’s getting to be a little dated now, but it’s still a goodie …

Right … last night we had the first hard frost of the winter, today is November the last, and it won’t be long now before some shops start annoying their customers by playing that awful 40-year-old Christmas record by Slade every half hour.  So I’m off to the charity shop in a bit to ask the woman behind the counter who wore the Santa hat with “Bah humbug!” on it last Christmas where she got it from.

Have a good weekend, folks.

Another vintage Singer for sale – and musing on modern life …

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As regular readers will know, we very rarely have machines for sale nowadays.  However, there’s one of Elsie’s on the “Machines” page now because (a) she’s finally had to thin out her collection to gain some space in The Sewing Room and (b) the lady who took the other two which have just gone was convinced that her husband would divorce her if she went home with three more sewing machines.

This one’s a very nice and very late (1954) Singer 128K and it comes in an equally nice bentwood (“domed”) case, complete with what we think are its original attachments.  But there is, alas, a downside.  Some muppet has vandalised it a bit whilst taking the lid off without a key, as you can see in the above picture.  Now … I’ve replaced the lock and found a key for it and I could touch up that paintwork on the end of the bed, but although the repair to the woodwork’s a DIY job, frankly it needs better eyesight than I have.  And as Elsie says, there’s also the fact that some folk won’t be bothered about the damage, so all things considered, we’re selling it “as is”.

Anyhow.  Seeing as how Elsie was busy playing in the mud with her new raspberry canes this morning, I was persuaded to take a couple of cheques to the bank and pay them in, which is something I’ve been loathe to do ever since the counter staff decided to funk up their spiel and start greeting customers as if we’re even younger than they are and we’re all in America.

Gosh.  The place has long since ceased to be a proper bank branch, at least to my way of thinking.  I mean, I don’t still expect cheque books to have a couple of leaves of blotting paper in them for the convenience of those who still write their cheques with a fountain pen.  And I don’t still expect to be asked if I would mind accepting used notes if they happen to be short of new ones when I want to cash a cheque, as was once the norm.

But honestly, what am I supposed to say when the young woman behind the counter enquires whilst hitting our cheques with her stamp thingy “Got much planned for the rest of the day?” I do realise that “How about you mind your own business?” might perhaps seem a bit churlish and that maybe “Well, I was thinking of calling at the timber yard to get some prices, then I have a prescription to collect from the pharmacy, and then it’ll be time for lunch and it’s my turn to do the washing up.  I might go up to the allotment after I’ve done that, but a lot depends on what my wife fancies doing this afternoon” might be overkill, so I fall back on “No”, with a rising inflection intended to convey my surprise at the question.

And while I’m at it, why do they ask “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”  Why the “today”?  Why on earth do they say that?  I always want to ask but never do …

I did though ask in the supermarket yesterday what the difference was between “pre-order” and “order”, my question being prompted by the A-board outside inviting shoppers to “Pre-order your Christmas food now”.  The woman who sorts out the self-service checkouts when they go wrong confessed that she too was puzzled by that, so she asked her supervisor, who didn’t know either.  Before long, the question was exercising five employees, and in the end the best that one of them could do was suggest that “pre-order is what you do when you order stuff before you need it”, which I thought showed initiative if nothing else.

It’s been one of those days, though.  I just walked back the mile or so from the timber yard with a 4.2 metre (14ft, give or take) length of timber handrail on my shoulder, and I wouldn’t mind a crisp tenner for every strange look I got on the way.  Elsie says that they stare because people just don’t do things like that any more.  Normals don’t walk along the lane carrying timber.  Either they get it delivered or they poke it out of the tailgate or the roof of their car, which of course is fine by me.

But I can’t help feeling smug.  I got myself a bit of exercise in the sunshine, and on the walk home with my 4.2 metres of timber, I saw two robins and heard a third one, saw two wrens and a blackbird, and I heard a green woodpecker do that really loud laughing call that they do.  Whether he was laughing at me or at modern life, I have no idea …

 

Singer 1933 Catalogue and Price List (UK)

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Thanks to Syd McDonald who kindly allowed me to scan his copies of them, I can now present for your delight both the Singer Illustrated Catalogue for 1933 and its accompanying Price List.  There’s links to PDFs of the scans at the bottom of this post, but while you’re here, let’s just take a quick look at some of the contents.

Before we do though, here’s a few comparisons between then and now to help put prices into perspective.  In 1933, the UK average wage was £3 12s 0d (£3.60) a week and a pint of beer cost 6d (2.5p).  Today, the corresponding figures are £504 a week and around £2.90, so wages have risen faster over the last 79 years than the price of beer has. What I find quite remarkable though is that in 1933, a typical 3-bedroom house sold for £360, which was just less than two years’ average earnings.  Now the average 3-bedroom house costs £243,000, which is over nine years’ average earnings.  How come?

Whatever, it seems that life expectancy for women in this country has gone up from 60 in 1933 to 81 now and for men from 53 to 78, so it’s not all bad …

We start with the New Enclosed Cabinet No.46, which should be of particular interest to those who can never remember which cabinet is the 46 and which is the 51.  As you can see here, the 46 is the one with the one-piece door with the rectangular drawer on the back of it.  The later cabinet which is the same size and shape but has the two doors and the D-shaped swing-out drawer thingies on the back of the left-hand one is the 51, which Elsie and I much prefer.  In our opinion, a nice 51 cabinet with modern castors under it and a properly set-up treadle mechanism driving a 201 on top of is a very fine thing to have in the house.

In 1933 you couldn’t yet buy a 201, but a shiny new 66K in a No.46 cabinet could be delivered to your door for a list price of £23 10s 0d (£23.50), which was more than 6 weeks’ average wages before tax.

On page 4, we see that by now the old cast-iron legs of the Cabinet Tables have given way to the new wooden sides.  A 66K in a 5-drawer base like the one on page 4 was £18 5s 9d (£18.29) if paid for at the rate of 10/- (50p) per month, but could be had for just £15 8s 0d (£15.40) cash if you’d come into money.

Those Cabinet Tables are still quite common in England, but the One-Drawer Drop-Leaf Table on page 5 certainly isn’t.  Does anybody know for sure if that’s the one in which the machine sat in the table in the wooden base which has the slot between the two belt holes so you could just lift the whole thing out and use it as a portable?

There’s no mention of either of these Cabinet Tables (or indeed of the 46 Cabinet) being convertible for use with an electric machine by means of the motor controller 194386 on its associated bracket, so I’m still no wiser as to when that was introduced in the UK.

I do love these illustrations of the portables.  It seems that Singer could never come up with a convincing way of including the lid in a picture, so here we have it on a footstool of just the right size and shape on page 6, and on what I’m convinced is a pair of wheelbarrow tyres on page 7.

A nice hand-cranked 128 portable would have set you back £9 17s 6d (£9.87) in 1933, although for just thirty bob (£1.50) more you could have had its full-size sister the 127.  A knee-lever 99K electric, on the other hand, was £14 if paying cash.  That price included a Singerlight, but not a footstool or the tyres to put the lid on.

And now we have a knee-lever 66K electric in The New Model 40 Table which, it says here, is an “elegant article of furniture”.  Be that as it may, have you noticed how the word “article” in this sense seems to be obsolescent nowadays in much the same way that “apparatus” does?  It’s a shame.  They’re both fine words.

Model 40 tables are decidedly uncommon nowadays, and I have to admit that as far as I’m concerned that’s not a bad thing.  £31 12s 6d (£31.62) on Easy Terms, or £25 6s 0d (£25.30) cash to you, Madam.  That was getting on for two months’ average wages …

The all-steel foot controller shown here on page 10 is a rare bird now too, which if you ask me is just as well because they’re a bit on the primitive side – and they do tend to stink when they start getting warm.  Note how the mains lead is supplied with a bayonet connector on the end so that when you’d fitted the motor to your machine, you could plug it into any convenient light fitting once you’d taken the bulb out of it.

Any reader raising an eyebrow at that last observation might care to note that plugging a sewing machine (or a hairdryer come to that) into a table lamp or other light fitting was common practice at one time.  When many rooms had only one mains socket in them (or at best a pair of them side-by-side on the skirting board), table and standard lamps often served as extension leads, and most households were possessed of an assortment of plug adaptors by means of which many light and power problems could be solved.

On page 11 we note that in 1933 the 15K was the “Dressmaker’s Machine”, and that the base shown is the “artisan” one with the bigger-diameter treadle wheel to facilitate higher stitching speeds.

And finally a couple of industrials.  Note the cast-iron legs, which were by now obsolete as far as domestic customers were concerned.  Note also the convention whereby women sew at home on domestic machines and men sew at work on industrials.

I don’t know anything about the 31K15 apart from the fact it’s got a knee-lifter, but that back leaf of the table certainly does look handy!  The 29K53 is a fascinating machine that’s often referred to as The Patcher, and its variants always seem to sell for a decent price on Ebay nowadays.  I love the way you can sew in any direction with it, and alternate between treadle and hand drive.  It’s a very clever bit of engineering.

For scans of both publications as PDFs, click on the links below.  I did them as two separate files so you can, should you wish, have the catalogue and the price list open at the same time for ease of cross-reference …

1933 Singer UK Illustrated Catalogue

1933 Singer UK pricelist

By the way, lest any of our overseas readers be confused by the bayonet connector, I should perhaps point out that not only are we on 220 volt here, but our light bulbs don’t screw into light fittings like yours probably do.  Ours have a bayonet cap, about which everything you could ever wish to know is, as usual, on Wikipedia – see here

You can’t buy those bayonet connectors nowadays, unless of course you turn to this guy on Ebay.  Those things were often used in conjunction with the Y-shaped two-way adaptor (a picture of which I couldn’t find), which plugged into a lampholder so that two bayonet connectors could be plugged into it.  I suppose the theory was that they allowed you to use two light bulbs in one lampholder, but I never saw one used like that.

While I’m on this subject, I should perhaps explain that in England nowadays, you can’t even walk into a shop and buy an ordinary 100 watt incandescent light bulb, the manufacture of which has been banned by the EU in order to save the planet.  We’re therefore hoping the 20 that I bought online last week will see us out, as we only need them for 3 lights in the house which are used intermittently and for which energy-saving fluorescents are neither use nor ornament.

And if making incandescent light bulbs obsolete as a token gesture in the direction of planet-saving seems daft to you, how about the singularly crazy legislation requiring a proportion of the light fittings in all new homes to be 3-pin bayonet lampholders into which neither traditional bulbs nor energy-saving fluorescents can be fitted?  See here

Have a good weekend, folks!

The back-clamp Singer 66 mystery …

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One of the things which often confuses folks about vintage Singers is this whole back-clamping business, so last week when Elsie was faffing about and deciding which Lotus to keep, we realised that a photo opportunity had presented itself and a blog post was called for…

In the top picture we have your usual, common-or-garden, bog-standard vintage Singer presser foot*, which is of the side-clamping type.  And below that we have the vintage Singer back-clamp presser foot, about which the only thing that might not be immediately obvious is that in the normal course of events, you don’t go messing with that slotted screw head.   The part with the serial number on it and the slanted end stays on the machine.  When you want to change the presser foot on a back-clamper, you use the thumbscrew – just like you do on a side-clamper, except it’s in a different place.

Here’s another comparison …

and one more for luck …

Now you see why none of the usual low-shank vertical needle attachments like buttonholers fit a back-clamping 66, which explains why the back-clamper has its own set of standard attachments like the ruffler, hemmers and whatnot.

Every back-clamping 66 we’ve ever seen has been graced with Lotus decals, which fact is no doubt down to us being in England.  If we were in the States, I’m guessing they’d all have had what are called the “Red Eye” decals, which we’ve never actually seen on a real live machine.  That’s because as far as I know, all the Lotus decal 66s were made in Scotland and all the Red Eye ones in New Jersey, but as with most things relating to Singer production, I’m by no means certain of that.

Be that as it may, in due course the penny dropped and Singer realised that making just one model of machine with a totally different presser foot clamping system made no sense at all, so they did the obvious and standardised.  Exactly when that happened I have no idea, but it’s a fact that all early 66s are back-clampers and all later ones are normal side-clampers.

So how then do we explain the fact that Elsie’s back-clamper 66K is dated 1910 and her side-clamper 66K with the Lotus decals is dated 1909?  Easy – her 1909 one’s had its back-clamp presser bar swapped for the side-clamp one from a later 66K!  I’ve never done that myself because I don’t see what the problem is with back-clampers, but providing you have a donor side-clamping 66 to hand, I can’t see it being a major undertaking.  There’s probably instructions for the conversion on the interweb somewhere, but before you search for those, see if you can find the adaptor which is apparently available by means of which side-clamp attachments can be fitted to a back-clamp Singer.  It’s made by somebody in the US.

* Note for those of a pedantic disposition – I do realise that that presser foot’s hinged, therefore it’s not actually your usual, common-or-garden, bog-standard vintage Singer presser foot.  But its means of attachment is, so there.