It had already sewn a daughter's trousseau, the school uniforms of three grandchildren, and the hems of an entire neighbourhood by the time we brought it back to the workbench. It didn't need repairing. It needed oil.
A machine like this doesn't survive by accident. It survives because it was built with parts that can be opened, cleaned, and put back — because someone, in 1962, assumed it would outlast whoever bought it.
That's the standard we use. Before we approve a cloth, we ask how it will hold up after two hundred washes. Before we choose a button, we ask what happens when it hits a stone floor.