Greetings Dear Ones!

A customer in my shop is worried about the economy and about the price of eggs and a whole host of worries about things that might threaten our dear community. She is too young to be this old and too old to be this scared. In ever-widening spirals, eventually, her worries even include me.

“As a business owner in a tough economic climate, you must be scared too,” she frets.

I look around my shop and smile.

“Well, it’s hardly mentioned by the prominent business schools, but being a seamstress is a pretty sure bet in any economy.”

“Really?” she asks. “How so?”

“Well, by no means is it akin to winning the lottery, or any sort of get-rich-quick (or even slowly for that matter) scheme whatsoever. But it is a truth universally acknowledged that people everywhere (and I mean those currently without access to red carpets and NOT married to Kanye West) do two things that are unique to any other form of mammal—the first is that they wear clothing. When they are prospering, they buy new clothing that needs to be altered. When they are poor, they mend what they have. In both cases, there is the opportunity for the enterprising seamstress to make a crumb.”

She nods, eyes like the dawn. “I wish I had paid attention when my aunt tried to teach me to sew,” she says wistfully.

“There are two sides to everything,” I say. “When you are a true Sewscialist you see it all. We ALL need to cover up our smooth or pimpled, bald or hairy hides—to protect ourselves and others from the climate…

“…and the fleshy sights that tempt one to sin—either by lust or manslaughter! Aghhh! Kill it! Kill it!” interrupts Prudence from nowhere, savagely poking at the dimpled saddlebags on my thighs. I silently kick her sideways and continue:

“Ever since Eve put apples on the menu, it has been ever thus. Even in times of war, soldiers brought their tailors into battle to maintain their uniforms. In times of peace, we need ball gowns and business casual, and…

“those shapeless, sloppy pajamas beloved by Wall-mart shoppers the world over!” says Prudence scrambling to her feet and kicking me back.

“Oh God, don’t say War…” says the customer, shuddering. “Let’s hope it does not come to that!”

“Indeed!” I sigh breezily. “I have battles enough right here on the home front. I have three ski jackets that need zippers, two dresses for an upcoming wedding to shorten, and a carpenter just brought in five pairs of bombed out Carhartts that need their crotches rebuilt by Tuesday… I can’t go getting packed into the back of a mule train with a bunch of artillery at the moment. I have far too much to do!”

I can see that this dear customer is still upset.

“Do you know what the other thing is that humans do that sets them apart from every other species?” I ask gently.

“Make fire?” she asks haltingly.

“Close. They tell stories,” I say. “We wear clothes and we tell stories. Nothing else does that—unless of course you happen to be a Pomeranian whose pet “mama” has inflicted a souvenir sweatshirt from Martha’s Vineyard on you and you had no choice.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes.

“Do you know how powerful stories are? Stories have the ability to charm and change us. Stories can delight or destroy. Stories can inspire or terrify. When we hear a particular story, we must ask ‘why is this person telling me this?’ ‘What do I need to see, or learn, or do?’ In my shop, I listen to stories all day long. I have no idea how to help anyone unless I first listen to her story and understand her motives.”

“I get it,” she nods. “Of course.”

“Every good story depends on Fear. Without a problem, there really isn’t a story; one’s plot options are slim. We need problems. We need the fear they cause to heighten the tension so that we are motivated to seek a solution quickly. But Fear is just a tool,” I remind her. “It’s the perfect tool to use against those who have real skills and might use them. Don’t fret unless you enjoy fretting. In that case, fret to your heart’s content. Sometimes a good Fret is just the thing to get you through a long, cheerless night when you want an excuse to drink malt whisky or eat trifle straight out of the bowl with both hands. But if you don’t like fretting, go on and tell yourself The Rest of the Story as you wish to live into it. Explore plot options! The True Story is not fully written yet. YOU get a hand in it. Get some skills. Practice something. Develop something. Mend something. No matter what the state of the world, we will need Menders! Menders never go out of fashion. The things you are afraid of are no threat to happy, skilled people who know they have the power to Mend. You must believe that.”

My words seem to comfort her.

“You need to believe these things yourself, my Dear,” whispers my inner angel. “Practice what you preach!”

After the customer turns to go, I survey the rack of things I must mend and sigh. It’s crammed with stories. There are new uniforms from the state and local police that need new badges and chevrons. There is summer-weight clothing from a visiting nurse going on vacation. There are four pairs of jeans, only two of which seem to have the desired measurements attached. (Are the other two to be done the same as the samples? Why the heck doesn’t ‘Past Nancy’ keep better notes?!) There are work and wedding clothes from butchers and bakers “and candle-stick makers!” shouts my inner storyteller.

She lies. We don’t have candle-stick makers. We have people who “work remotely” for insurance offices in far off cities. My inner storyteller wants them to be candle-stick makers so that they can be lumped in with the butcher and baker, who are in fact real—I will save their stories for another day. (We do take care of several local potters, so maybe they make candlesticks.) And lastly, there is a hunting garment from a person who has written me multiple emails, with specific instructions, always signing off as “One who acknowledges that I trespass on the ancient tribal lands of the Abenaki.”

“Aren’t we all trespassing on ancient tribal lands?” asks my inner Worrier, “or is this person boasting about some specific impunity?”

“Um..Yes,” says my inner ancient tribal lands real estate agent, distractedly.

“Which?” asks my inner Worrier. “And what are we supposed to do about this?”

“Perhaps just acknowledge the acknowledgement and then do nothing, like everyone else,” says my inner Lawyer. “If you want to look virtuous, perhaps you too could incorporate it into all your future correspondence.”

I start to worry. I worry about genuine virtue versus virtue “signaling.” What does each require? I worry about what people will think if I try to look Good. I worry about what people will think if I don’t try to look Good. I worry about who I am exploiting, right this very minute, without realizing it. I realize the inherent irony of this job, which is specifically to make people LOOK Good. “Does this actually include me?” I wonder.

“It should,” says Prudence peering at my outfit and sniffing, “but obviously you don’t give a damn.”

And then, there is always The News..

My inner storyteller rubs her hands and gets to work, envisioning horrible things with horrific cliff-hanging plot twists. Some of them are darkly funny. Most of them are just plain awful. Soon, I am as wound up as that customer who just left.

You See? Fear is that ubiquitous and needed story ingredient that crops up in the most unlikely corners—even in a simple tailoring shop. It’s EVERYWHERE. I pull my collar around so I can look at the tag and see where this shirt was made.

“Keep your shirt on and do your work,” says Prudence. “Tell your inner Storyteller to cork it.”

So I labor on—a mammal only half humaning (i.e. wearing pants but trying avoid stories.)

So it is for many of us Menders at the moment. I’m not saying that the stories are not Real. They are. (“ALL stories are real,” insists my inner storyteller.) I’m just saying that we need to treat them carefully. They have immense power—as dangerous as a steamer full of rusty water near a wedding gown: Brown stuff is gonna spew.

Remember who you are, you Dear, Magnificent Mender. Remember that a story in process can always get a better ending any time you want. Remember that the Best Part of any story often comes after the worst. The Problem is just the best place to start.

Hang in there, Dear One. Keep doing your Good Work.

With Sew Much Love,

Yours Aye,

Nancy

“She who acknowledges that she treads lightly and heavily on places where she probably shouldn’t go but goes anyway and has moo ca-ca on her shoes to prove it.”