The tool I learned to use from an older relative is a hand-powered sewing machine, the old black kind with a wheel on the side. My grandmother taught me how to use it when I was about twelve, in her house in a village outside Hue, in central Vietnam.
My grandmother was a seamstress for most of her life. She made clothes for half the village, and that machine was older than my mother. I used to spend my summer holidays with her, and I'd sit beside her while she worked, watching the needle go up and down.
At first she only let me turn the wheel slowly while she guided the fabric. Then she gave me scraps of cloth and made me sew straight lines, again and again, until they were perfectly straight. She was quite strict. If a line was crooked, she'd unpick it and make me start again. Later, she taught me to repair torn clothes, sew on buttons, and by the end of my third summer I'd made a simple shirt for my little brother.
I'm really glad I learned it. Now I'm twenty-nine and work as a marketing assistant in Hanoi, and those skills are still incredibly useful. I fix my own clothes, take up trousers and make curtains, which saves me a lot of money. During the pandemic, when everyone was stuck at home, I made cloth masks for my whole office. But the main reason is emotional. My grandmother passed away four years ago, and I inherited her machine. Every time I use it, I feel connected to her, and I can almost hear her telling me to keep my lines straight.