malarkey!

May 15, 2021 in woodworking , objects

A few weeks back I was browsing the reuse center when I spotted— gasp! Lumber! I’ve seen a lot of odd building supplies there but actually never just stacked wood. I kinda chuckled to myself as I made a beeline for the pile, wood has become such a meme since prices have like tripled over the course of the pandemic. But my amusement quickly cleared when I recognized what kind of wood this was…

I picked up a couple boards off the top and found them a little light for 3/4”, as if too weathered, or maybe dry rotted? Only a couple boards down I found a stamp: M&M Malarkey redwood siding, from about the 1940s or 50s when the Oregon and California logging industries were in their heydey.

I was suddenly a lot more hopeful. Redwood has a great reputation for its preservative resins and I felt even the most severe weathering would only intrude 1/4” or so into the core on the painted side. At the edges the tongue and groove fittings were damaged when the siding was removed by crowbar. This kind of wood will need a planing to be usable anyways, and will probably become 5/8” or 1/2” thick before new boards are cut from it.

I went through practically every piece and tried to pick the straightest, least weathered candidates with the prettiest grain. There were some with blonde streaks scattered in the piles. It took a while to get through it, but when I did I had about 20 long boards and 5 short which I got for $45! Over the next week, I would find myself daydreaming of what I might use the boards for, and sometimes I’d think “but did I get enough for that?”. By the end of the week the thought was accompanied by a vague sense of dread— I should have gotten more!

I felt good about not just clearing out the cache though. In the meantime, I thought, if someone got the rest that would be fine. I hadn’t done so intentionally but I stood by my grace period— when I got back to the pile a couple days ago I’d say about 1/4 more had been taken, probably in portions of one or two boards. I felt okay about giving the remains the same treatment as I had earlier, picking through methodically and selecting only the best. The second time I got 15 long and 15 short and paid about $45 again.

I planed a few down on both sides, to a half inch thickness, to see what the grain really looked like and was stunned! It’s hard to get the pictures to do it justice, but it’s such a sparkly, iridescent wood. I *cannot wait* to see what it looks like oiled and sealed!

I wasn’t aware of the Malarkey brand before finding this siding but the stamp sparked its own little interest. I did a little googling but couldn’t turn up much information on the stuff. Some ads from after the company went public and eventually an obituary of the founder were all I managed to find.

James A. Malarkey’s M&M mill opened in 1918 when he bought a shipyard millwork company in Portland, Oregon, which made deck plugs, belaying pins, pulleys and mast hoops— details of the wooden age of sail. Following World War 1 the industry declined, and M&M began producing folding ironing boards just as electric irons became commonplace. They became one of their biggest manufacturers and quickly grew in size.

The automobile industry was taking off at the same time and brought a new demand for garages. The cars bodies of that era were made of wood panels that could not withstand much weathering. Malarkey began to manufacture garage doors, and then doors of all kinds. During this time The company began experimenting with laminated wood, which led to them building a plywood mill in Longview Washington.

Over the course of the 1930s the company bought and updated a series of mills in the PNW dedicated to plywood manufacture. The M&M production volume was then nearly 70 million board feet, about 10% of the total fir plywood industry when they began taking government contracts for marine and aviation plywood during World War 2.

In the postwar boom M&M bought one billion acres of standing timber (forest) in the redwood country of Northern California and continued consolidating area mills. Just two days after the company went public in 1948, James Malarkey died age 76. The company was sold in 1955 for a little over $50 million (roughly half a billion dollars adjusted for inflation). I think this final decade of the Malarkey brand is when my boards originated.

It’s hard to come across much information on what happened to the Malarkey timber lands after the company was sold. Rare bits turned up around the “last Malarkey giant”- the World’s Largest Hollow Log since 1987, which was apparently felled on land once owned by Malarkey a few miles north of Crescent City, California. The sheer scale of the trees that Malarkey redwood was cut from becomes apparent under the title “worlds largest”. In fact that superlative pertains just to the hollow part, and these Sequoia Sempervirens grew even larger. They can live over 2000 years and reach heights of 300-350 feet, and are only found along a 450-mile strip of the Pacific Coast of North America. I try to keep this in mind as I refinish my planks, which were part of someones house or shed too. They were likely milled from trees that predate much of my ancestry, before being worn by the weather of my region for half a century. Wood is so fascinating.

sources

worldforestry.org

archive.org

malarkeygiant.com

mechanatrix pt.2

April 16, 2021 in sewing, objects, mechanical

I had been tinkering with my first sewing machine through the fall, all the while sourcing bits and pieces through ebay, and I had begun to wander the marketplace. Anything can be sent in a big enough package but sewing machines are some of the only industrial machinery sized just right to be sent through the mail in genuine parcels.

I came across good things about the Pfaff 130 on a few vintage sewing forums— I think I read that they were popular on working ships because of their small size and ability to sew through multiple layers of sailcloth… They’re usually brought up when someone wants to make jeans. I had also read that when they were first introduced they were sold on a kick treadle, so in theory one could be mounted in a table with an industrial motor.

There were a lot made, so they aren’t very rare or expensive. They were introduced in Germany in the 1930s, 25 years before being imported to America virtually unchanged and avoided my prejudice against modern consumptive rot. In a lot of ways the 130 is like a miniature of the truly industrial Pfaff 138 which is itself an interesting industrial hybrid; producing both straight and zig zag stitches in a so-called ‘artisan’ format.

I got a smaller 130-6 for a pretty good price at auction hoping to adapt it to a light-industrial/mini-artisan arrangement. It showed up right when I was in the middle of making some silly mistakes on the table that I had intended to have ready in time for its arrival. It was ready to use though, in a wooden tray with a small portable motor attached, stock as it would have been sold in the 50s.

In this ‘electrified’ state the controls are a little jumpy from the tiny low-torque motor pulley, but more noticeable is the artificial limit on its power. You feel the difference in a lot of different ways when the motor power is more proportionate to the abilities of the mechanism— that famed denim & sailcloth muscle. I replaced the plastic portable-style hand wheel with a heavier cast iron piece I sourced using the standard axle bore for this kind of machine. I also had to replace a few specific parts of the thread tension assembly that had rusted and were snagging.

With the larger motor & heavier inertia the needle just glides through everything effortlessly! The higher torque of the industrial motor actually makes it easier to go slow. All I could ask for is a walking-style foot (as on the 138) to help translate all that power into traction, as the mere ability to puncture many layers of canvas, denim, or sailcloth doesn’t necessarily translate to very graceful feeding of the material. There are times when you have to help the material along through a curve but the action of the machine never struggles. Its a steady machine nevertheless, capable of zig-zag & straight stitch (there’s also a sorta rare embroidery stitch module that attaches to the back of the machine).

I started humbly, with a single layer of canvas and some bias binding, practicing reinforcing the edges of the canvas that were prone to fraying. I picked up the technique quickly enough but learned that the actual shape of the cut piece is a consideration too. Certain angles left both the long and cross grain frayed and weak, meaning the stitches and binding kept pulling apart. I solved this by using thicker bias tape and stitching as close to the inside edge as possible— it worked, and I used that approach on the rest of the tool roll that I ended up making.

It turned out to be a really good little study of a lot of the different stitch conditions I would need to learn— lots of parallel lines with a variety of spacing, all the way down to double line topstitching, curves throughout and extensive practice with binding... Its a super messy piece but its still finished well enough that I’ve used it to store my wrench set for a couple months without so much as a loose thread.

The tool roll helped me get started on a more complex project, this sling bag design. I had some yellow and natural duck canvas from a long time ago when I had stretched some of it for paintings. Another quick voyage around the various thrift stores around here and I found some tan piping!

As simple as it may sound just making a basic tool roll, flaws and all, maybe helped me more than all of my meticulous study of the different methods. After handling and arranging the fabric and getting to know how seams can be used in different ways, I could just see the steps in my mind much more plainly when I approached the cut pieces of the pattern. Any amount of time you spend warming up on a machine & getting to know its quirks on a particular kind of material pays off immediately, as well.

I managed to get pretty clean seams throughout the sling bag, with a few sloppy (yet sound) portions on the interior bindings. Those parts were stitched through 5-6 layers, without too much trouble, but sometimes I had to advance the work piece myself... I could get a cleaner result on multiples, given more practice with each of the conditions.

I had to sew the topstitching connecting the front pocket a couple times, taking care to equally place each of the corners to be level and to avoid an overlap at the end. I was just practicing and didn’t take a lot of time sourcing notions but I do wish I had just gotten my zippers before starting! I began with the smaller pocket since I already had a 7” zip but I couldn’t find a match for it for the longer 14” when I got back to the store— not a major regret.

I use the bag a lot, the placement of the sling is really nice and I find myself reassured by the way it hugs my side :)

mechanatrix pt.1

April 09, 2021 in objects, sewing, mechanical

At some point during my time gardening, I made a visit to the Reuse Center and spontaneously found this semi- functional vintage sewing machine. A Necchi Supernova (automatica) from about 1955. I didn’t really need any convincing, faced with the khaki, vespa styling of this machine. I made sure the chrome wheel operated smoothly and I hoisted the heavy tray onto my hip. I didn’t have any idea about sewing in my mind when I walked in, but I pretty much immediately grasped a sense of purpose in this beautiful durable machine. I have only ever been so gripped by the near agency of an object before in the form of a book— a particular sense that some possibility, or ability, or path is embedded in the specific tool, and a sudden onset of the feeling, as in a library or bookstore, or now reuse center, that I have to get this artifact home. It belongs in a museum!

Inspiration aside, when I got the machine home it did run but erratically, in a very sudden cycle. I could only get decent stitches in the straight stitch mode. I now know that this can be evidence of resistance in the machine which is only overcome at high motor speed, thus the 0-60 effect. To no surprise, it needed a cleaning and oiling. In the months since first learning to operate these mostly metal machines Ive gotten better at naming what charms me so in their oiling- they really are scale implementations of the same kind of mechanics of the age of steam! Lubrication is their original sin, part of virtually all machine operation…

Beneath the top panel I removed the automatic mechanism, which translates the regular radial motion of the drive axle into a ratchet-advancing drive for pattern cassettes. A system of 3 levers are pressed against the surface of an interchangeable star shaped disc (‘supernova’). The profile of each disk moves a lever, which carries that motion to the controls for the stitch length, width or advance/reverse speed controls, causing them to move “automatically”. The mechanism works vaguely like a music box cylinder, with one element “reading” the surface of a rotating disc. potentially Infinite embroidered stitches can be created by mixing and matching the discs.

With that assembly out of the way I could get some light solvents in and clear some sticky sections of the drive train. The next day I oiled and replaced all the parts and tried again…

With everything cleaned up and lubricated I was able to control the speed a lot more precisely, tested by making a pin cushion which has since (following careful de-pinning ) been given to our cats.

Something still wasn’t quite right though, and as I investigated I soon found the final source of the friction. The bobbin winder which is located on the inside of a flip-out door near the hand wheel was still engaged even when stowed away— it was acting as a little rubber brake! And when I took apart the assembly and tried to replace just the door, I found it needed the whole unit in order to stay closed at all. So i took it off altogether and suffered a gaping hole on the face of my machine while I took to a new hobby altogether: sourcing vintage stuff on ebay…

There, it’s common to find machines that have been disassembled, sold by the individual part. I found what I needed pretty quickly but my interest was piqued: a set of original attachments, including embroidery discs, and a pair of original owners manuals were soon mine.

Using the battered tray that my machine came with as reference, I designed an integrated storage container for the supernova, its attachments, and an array of sewing notions, though it was more of a modelling flex and not really something I knew how to build ... At some point I will probably build a system of crates sharing some standard dimensions for all my different machines.

I’ve had issues with the impulse rate of the embroidery mechanism, and haven’t gotten it to make reliable decorative stitches, but produces great straight and zigzag stitches. I made a small quilt with a lot of repetitive seams to get a feel for its quirks, how it likes its thread tension, how it feeds, etc.

My first impression of this machine was about what a communist feel it had to it— which in hindsight I think was just my modern puzzlement at a stylish piece of tech that is designed to be durable! It is so dissonant with the way technology is valued in our late capitalist sense of reality as to almost suggest a delirious political agency in simply its longevity. Add to that its drab chicness and khaki styling, and the fact that it is of the moment just after the second world war, before global trade had become the new world hegemony. I had a little hope that it could have been somehow influenced by world leftism, thinking of the history of cooperative manufacturing in the Mediterranean.

Unfortunately, I only credited this darling from the perspective of what our modern market for sewing machines, or technology more broadly, lacks. You just cant find many consumer oriented (and styled), full metal sewing machines anymore. The same goes for any appliance, really. Usually, as in refrigerators, and cars, there’s a very plain reason for the constant advancement, but this machine comes close to equal with its modern equivalents for features and could outlive their proper function by a power of ten.

Necchi itself began producing sewing machines in Italy based on patents owned by singer, the arch monopoly in sewing machine history. So, nothing so politically ground breaking or paradigm shifting in the roots of the organization. The Supernova was a hit at the time of its introduction because of its sleek design and its novel automatic embroidery stitch system but was also very heavily built, almost entirely of cast iron and machined alloys. Under the body lines the supernova is a lot like an improved machine of the 1920s.

There was a boom in patents for sewing machine improvements around the turn of the century, which coalesced around the time of their expiration into the modern integrated sewing machine capable of a variety stitches, many of which had been proprietary. Before, even the channel for thread tails on heavy duty needles was originally a feature unique to Pfaff needles! I’m left wondering if the supernovas unique combination of stylish and overbuilt is a result of desire and marketing having only just overtaken usefulness and longevity; whether its overbuilt qualities are vestigial and its styling natal. The Supernova’s successor, the Mirella, is featured in Moma’s permanent collection. Obviously 70 years later, consumer devices of all kinds are understood for their materiality in about as much of a way as we can understand the materiality of a jpeg; its pretty much image all the way down.

Whatever lingering hopes I had reserved for the political materiality, and the industrial-consumer end user of this machine were effectively over upon finding the original marketing materials. However as if to drive home my materialist confusion, the product delivered on even its most fantastic claim: my supernova has entered the 21st century!