O wad some Power the giftie gie us/ Tae see oursels as ithers see us!/ It would frae mony a blunder free us,/ An’ foolish notion:/ What airs and dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,/ An’ ev’n devotion! —Robert Burns

Greetings Dear Ones!

Winter has had us in its teeth, here in Vermont, but only the way a toddler who’d rather eat candy than broccoli does. The frosty bites are half-hearted and given to unwelcome melt-downs. Last week was the first particularly cold snap that made me put on some proper gloves. When I smashed the ice out of the water buckets in the barn, I thought we were on to something… Jack Frost chased us merrily through all the chores and left icicles on those with whiskers (including me!). But now the clouds can’t decide whether to rain or snow. The gloves are off. Winter isn’t putting up a fight.

Still, the setting sun at eventide makes everything glitter like salt on the rim of a Marguerita glass and the rosiness of dawn against the frozen dazzle of dew is enough to take away my breath more suddenly than a sharp slice of lime. It’s intoxicating to be outside.

When it’s clear, the night sky over the barn looks like a dark shop floor during prom season—glitter and sparkle everywhere—and the morning frost on the window panes is prettier than any lace. The way the snow sparkles in the porch light makes me want to lie down in it, make a pair of snow angel wings, and fly like a moth to the moon or the nearest streetlight miles away. I’m pretty sure this isn’t snow at all; it’s actually crumbs of star sparkle and pixie dust.

“I see you!” I say to the stars above.

“We see you too!” they glimmer back at me.

“You’re TINY,” I say.

“No, YOU are!” they reply.

I can’t stop thinking about the stars. Inside, after chores, I cook my supper in a blackened chunk of yet more stars. It turns out the iron is originally made from fusion of elements in ancient suns. The iron found here on earth (and in my skillet) came here millions of years ago in the form of meteorites after stellar explosions from a supernova. Even our blood is filled with this magic. The iron atoms in hemoglobin, give or take an ion or two, are cousins to the iron atoms in a cast iron frying pan. My skillet and I are celestial kin!

“That explains your fondness for each other,” comments Prudence dryly. “And speaking of stars,” she continues smugly, “you just got one.”

I beam. “Really?”

“I mean a one-star review on Google. Shame on you. That’s terrible.”

“What?” I ask, bewildered. “How can one star be bad? It’s still a star, isn’t it? Aren’t all stars Good?”

“No. Only five star reviews are good,” insists Prudence brusquely. “You must have done something bad. Only bad people get one star.”

“Really?” I ask, sweating just a little, wondering which one of my many crumbles, fumbles, or flops got discovered and reported. (Note: If you forgot to wear long underwear and you can’t afford to turn up the thermostat, just contemplate your recent misdemeanors. Shame is as good as two hot bars on an electric heater.)

I do my Best, honestly, I do—to remove the pins from the breast cups before I let the gowns out of the shop. “Did someone’s boobs get punctured? Did I only hem one leg of a pair of pants? Did I sew the fly closed? Did I put the zipper in backwards? Did I twist the inner lining of the coat sleeve so that a human hand cannot possibly traverse the length of it from shoulder to cuff? For the love of all that is holy, please tell me what I did to this poor soul before my internal thermostat requires me to wear a hair shirt and a bikini for the rest of the day!”

“It says here ‘have tried numerous times to enquire if she would replace jacket zipper and can’t get any answer or leave a voicemail as her voicemail is full’….” says Prudence reading aloud.

“What??? Thank Goodness, I didn’t set fire to her undergarments with a steam iron. I just had a voicemail box that was full? Really? I don’t remember that. When did I commit this heinous crime?”

“Probably in that week between Christmas and New Year’s, when you went south to visit your folks for three days,” says a kind, understanding voice from the back of my head. “That’s the only time your voicemail has been full. And it was only for a day or so.” This is a nice voice. I like this voice. She goes on to soothe, “I really wouldn’t worry about it. You never actually did any work for this woman. She was just impatient and wanted to take her frustration out on you. You did nothing wrong.”

“Don’t let her off that easily,” says Prudence, adamantly stamping her foot and pointing at me. “What kind of person in the service industry isn’t available to her clients 24/7? That’s what it takes to get a good reputation in the modern world. Anybody can say anything about you at any time.”

“A sane person,” says the sweet voice, interrupting. “Sane people need healthy boundaries. They are NOT available all the time. Besides, this woman wasn’t technically a client. She just wanted to be. People who are angry with you tend to be people who want something they think you have that you should give them.”

“Why couldn’t she be as nice as the rest of my dear customers?” My inner middle-schooler is heartbroken at getting a bad grade on a pop quiz she didn’t even know she was taking.

“Chin up, Darling,” says the kind voice. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to do your best. And, for the most part, in your slap-dash way, you do.”

“She says she called multiple times. There is no record of that on either phone line. She wanted to know if I could replace a zipper. It’s on the bloody website! I do everything that has to do with clothing mending and alterations! She can also make an appointment for herself on the website. Anyone can! There is absolutely NO need to chat to her via telephone in order to accommodate her needs and wishes. Other people book themselves appointments all the time and it seems to work just fine for them. Most of them even comment about how easy it is. People can also reach me by text, email, ox cart and pony express,” I fume, wanting to defend myself against this sting.

“You’ve already wasted too much energy on this,” says the Kind Voice. “There’s nothing to control, nothing to fix, nothing to mend. She’s not a good fit for your business model. Thank her. Bless her. Let it go.”

But I can’t.

I bring it up to people younger than myself who are more savvy about the online world and the business of ratings and visa versa. Each one inhales sharply and confirms “oof, that’s rough. She’s definitely trying to hurt you.”

“Why would someone deliberately leave a rating designed to lower a person’s overall average in the business community?” I want to know. “Aren’t we supposed to support small business owners?”

“Not small businesses that let their voicemail overflow during the holidays,” says Prudence.

“Online people can be pretty rude about things,” says an understanding friend. “Anonymity makes them bold. They drop courtesy. They drop the old fashioned norms of civility and curiosity and make their demands loudly to a world they think cannot hear them. Some Americans are behaving like expectant toddlers, leaving others to step in as their exhausted parents. Communication becomes perfunctory and primitive.”

I nod. As a person who spends more than a reasonable amount of time trolling online market places for used farm equipment, I’m used to seeing notifications such as “done [sic] even ask is this available. If it’s still up, it’s available. People who ask that will be deleted immediately.” Since I don’t want to be deleted immediately, I don’t ask. I just smile fondly and move on while Prudence corrects their grammar and spelling. (She can’t help herself.) I mentally send a shooting star of blessings to a harried person in a big hurry, just trying to sell some of his outdated shit as a side hustle, who doesn’t want to get bugged with petty details. Communication is the messiest part of our human interactions sometimes.

I feel their pain. Some people know how to navigate a system and some just don’t. Some have a lot of questions. They need a lot of reassurance. They think they are the only ones who wear a winter coat in January in New England.

Honestly, I have no idea how most of my customers manage to book themselves an appointment online, actually READ the confirmation email they receive (which details precisely which doorway to enter and which stairway to climb in order to find my enchanted workshop cleverly disguised as an enormous, abandoned nineteenth century mill building that doubles as a frat house for artists) and show up on the correct day ON TIME. (Bless them!) These people are wondrous to me. They are angels. They do everything right. (Someday, I wish to live amongst them and study their ways.) They make it look easy. More than ninety percent of my clients manage this, which delights and amazes me.

A few call from the parking lot lost, rattled, confused. They’ve tried every door. They’ve wandered the ground floor and accidentally purchased some granola or artisanal chocolate from kindly vendors there. They successfully booked an appointment but never read the follow-up email. They explain later, after I have rescued them, that they never read emails, as if this solves everything. We laugh. I have a lot of heart for these people who jump from fire to frying pan (my starry kin!) and dash through life a little scorched but basically ok. I love these people. They are patient and jolly, accustomed to the difficulties they create for themselves.

And then there is this lone star lady who got mad because she couldn’t talk to a real person when she wanted to. I feel for her too. I also prefer to talk to real people rather than recordings. I DON’T want to shuffle around in cyberspace not knowing if my needs are reasonable (“They aren’t,” says Prudence) or if they can be met (“Doubtful” says P). It IS infuriating to want help and be unable to ask for it in the way you are accustomed to asking for it. In the modern jungle of “phone trees” we need to climb “to speak to a representative,” we all want a little old fashioned customer service and a warm voice at the end of the line. I forgive her.

I’ve gotten over my hurt. I’m grateful that I have a sweeter voice in my head these days, telling me to keep doing Good Work. “Do the best you can. All you can do is all you can do,” she says while Prudence rolls her eyes and says “I can’t believe you haven’t had more bad reviews. Nothing but five stars for four years? You are damn lucky! There’s no way you deserve that.”

I feel damn lucky! I do work I love (mostly) for people I adore (mostly) and I get to live and share with those I love the life I’ve always dreamed of on a sweet homestead full of rocks and stars, trees and weeds and gardens, and beloved animals—all of whom who converse with me in their own ways. I get to use my hands and heart in all I do. One doesn’t get luckier than that. It’s as if you really can wish upon a star (or five) and have it come true!

Even when we cannot see them, stars are all around us and within us. Don’t let anything dim your sparkle for long, Dear One. Hug your skillet, reheat those neeps and taters and remember your celestial roots. Remember the starlight in us all--whether One or Five, we are family. I love the way you shine! This year is projected to bring its share of Star-Spangled challenges so keep Mending! The tiny corners of this miraculous world need your Light.

“Here’s freedom to him who would read;/ Here’s freedom to him who would write;/ None ever feared that the truth should be heard,/But them that the truth would indict.” (Robert Burns)

With Sew Much Love,

Yours Aye,

Nancy