I had a plan. The studio had a plan. The longarm apparently had a different plan.
My new Handi Quilter Amara arrived much faster than I expected—which was wonderful, except that my studio wasn’t quite ready for it.
My son, an electrical apprentice, had gotten about halfway through installing the new lighting before he needed to take a break to study for his electrical coursework. There were still tools and lighting supplies scattered around, and the work wasn’t finished.
Then the longarm installer called. He could come Friday—as in tomorrow—or I could wait until later in September.
Friday it was.
I cleared out the area where the longarm was going, much to the delight of Dixon and Sunshine. They immediately sprawled across the big open space, apparently convinced I had rearranged the studio especially for them.
The installer arrived at 10:00 Friday morning. Dixon met him at the door. Sunshine was considerably less enthusiastic about the intruder in her house.
Soon there were four warm bodies in my little 10 × 12 studio: me, the installer, and two nervous dogs trying to figure out what on earth was happening. Eventually, I kenneled the dogs so he could work.
The installer was a friendly, talkative, ginger-haired man who quickly put me at ease—at least for the moment. I settled into my rocker and worked on hand-finishing the binding on my newest quilt while he started unpacking.
And unpacking.
And unpacking.
There were so many parts, all carefully wrapped in plastic. He joked that half his job was just unpacking the longarm. After watching him do it for a couple of hours, I’m not entirely sure he was joking.
Eventually, the boxes and plastic began giving way to an actual frame.
A very large frame.
He positioned it farther from the wall than I expected.
“Can it go a little closer?”
No. It could not.
I had carefully allotted 55 inches for the longarm in my updated studio floor plan. I had measured. I had rearranged furniture. I thought I knew exactly how much room this thing was going to take.
Apparently, I did not.
The frame needed closer to 58 inches—almost five feet. In a room only 10 feet wide, my beautiful new longarm was literally taking up half the space.
That big open area the dogs had enjoyed that morning was rapidly disappearing.
We finally took a break for lunch, and I let them loose again. Sunshine took one look at the newly opened-up living room and happily claimed a spot on the sofa. Dixon had no interest in the extra space. Wherever I went, he went.
By then the studio was so tight that the installer had moved part of his operation into the hallway. Dixon promptly plopped himself down in the middle of his work area.
Since Dixon clearly wasn’t going to leave my side, I moved my own operation into the living room. Dixon followed, and the installer could finally work without an 80-pound Lab underfoot.
Then we got to the good part: installing the Pro-Stitcher and the actual longarm machine.
Everything went smoothly. The installer plugged it in, the lights came on, and there it was.
It works!
That’s my machine!
I had only a few moments to enjoy that feeling before the installer called me over and began explaining all the terrible things that could happen to my beautiful new longarm.
I needed to keep it covered, especially while the lighting work was being finished. Drywall dust could get inside, absorb the grease and oil, and cause the machine to seize up.
Dog hair and dander? It could seize up.
If I broke a needle, I needed to find every single piece. A chunk of needle in the gears could make it seize up.
I was beginning to see a theme.
Then he reminded me that getting him back for a service call wouldn’t be cheap. I’d be paying for four hours of travel time in addition to the service itself.
Message received: Do not let the longarm seize up.
Next came my crash course in actually using it. He showed me how to turn it on, thread the machine, and oil the bobbin hook.
I should have taken notes.
I’ve rented and quilted on an identical machine at Stitches and Such many times, so I hadn’t expected to feel quite so clueless. But standing in front of my own machine, I suddenly realized just how much I didn’t know.
I would definitely not be quilting anything that night.
Finally, at 5:00, the installer packed up and left. Seven hours after he arrived, the installation was complete.
I found a piece of fabric to cover the machine. Fortunately, a quilting studio has no shortage of possible covers.
And then the house was quiet.
It was just me and this enormous machine that now occupied half my studio.
I was excited. But I was also a little wary.
I pulled out my studio plans again.
I thought about the furniture I’ve already paid for that’s still backordered. There’s going to be about a foot between the longarm bars and my cutting table. My pullout cutting and ironing cabinet won’t be able to pull out all the way. Things aren’t going to fit quite the way I had so carefully planned them.
The room is going to be tight. Really tight.
And I have a lot to learn. Owning this machine already feels different from renting one for a few hours. Now I’m responsible for threading it, oiling it, maintaining it, learning the Pro-Stitcher—and apparently protecting it from drywall dust, dog hair, broken needles and anything else that might make it seize up.
But I can figure all of that out.
Because after all the planning, measuring, rearranging, waiting, unpacking and worrying, there’s one fact that still makes me smile every time I walk into that crowded little room:
I have a longarm machine in my studio!
Hey, hey, hey—look at this! I moved my fabric stash under the longarm, and somehow the quilting gods were smiling on me: I have exactly 18 bins and exactly 18 bins’ worth of space under the longarm.
It’s like it was meant to be. And I’m definitely not buying any more fabric. 😂