Quilts, Tacos & Tattoos

Stitch N' Greet

                  

It was a Saturday two weeks earlier, when he first came in and I was "working the floor."

I directed customers with broken machines to Luanne, who checked the machine in and wrote the ticket. Master quilters coming into the shop knew what they wanted and didn't need much assistance.

When a newer quilter asked about fabric, I generally started the conversation with a question about the project they were working on; was it a quilt, a table topper, runner, or something else? I found out more about how far they were into the project. Did they need a pattern, quilt batting, a backing, or embellishing detail items like rickrack? I liked talking to new quilters because they took up a lot of time, which kept me away from Mom and her epic list.

Mom managed the quilt shop from her seasonal apron. The right pocket held a never-ending to do list. Throughout the day, Mom ripped pages from the list and gave them to the staff like little written marching orders: move the new line fabric to the front or to the back, rearrange the quilts in the project room, restock patterns, clean up the thread display, sort fat quarters, cut fat quarters, assemble quilt kits, take apart quilt kits and on and on.

Luanne, her right hand assistant, spent the day going up and down ladders arranging the walls with the newest quilts and patterns or sorting and stocking old quilts.

The women in the store made all the quilts on display. Each quilt lives at the store for two to three years, sometimes longer.

"Here's your list. Don't roll your eyes. Go help Mrs. Farmer."

I tucked my list in the small apron tied around my waist. "Hi, Mrs. Farmer. How can I help you today?"

"I am looking for some fat quarters." She began walking toward the back corner of the store.

"Who is this quilt for?" I tried to ask with enthusiasm.

"My newest grandbaby," she beamed.

"Do you have a pattern in mind?" I asked, just as I heard the cowbell chime.

Mom wanted every customer personally greeted so I excused myself immediately after Mrs. Farmer answered that she was looking for ideas.

I crossed to the front of the store but stopped half way there. Standing on the handmade welcome rug was a man in dirty blue jeans with a set of keys latched to his front belt loop and blue snakeskin boots with rounded tips. He was wiping his boots all over the rug and everyone in the quilt store was staring at the marks left by the dirt. He was uncomfortably holding an old sewing machine in his arms.

"Hello. How I can I help you today?"

In a thick, southern velvet accent he asked, "Y'all fix sewing machines?"

"Yes we do?" I gestured toward Luanne and the table of machines to his right.

"How long does it take?" he asked impatiently

I started the machine repair speech. "We have a two-month waiting list. We put your name down and the week that we are ready for your machine, you bring it in on Monday and we will turn it around by Friday. Lots of women just set up an appointment in advance, normally twice a year like when they are going on vacation or during the holidays when they are not using their machines. You know how hard it is to be away from your machine for longer than a week."

"Are you saying I gotta wait over two months for you to get this thing to work?"

I looked toward Luanne to get some help. "Let's ask Luanne to look at your machine and talk with you some more."

"Fine."

Luanne stood up and waved him to the empty space at the end of the table. He marched over and awkwardly slammed the machine on to the table. I stood near her while she asked him some questions.

"Do you have the power cord?" she asked looking for a carrying case or parts bag.

"The what?" he questioned as he sat in the chair at the table.

"What about the bobbin cover? It's missing?"

"The bobbin what? Just tell me if you can fix this machine this week or not? And tell me how much and what parts it needs to work."

His voice sounded angry, and it was obvious this guy was going to need more assistance. I decided to fetch Mom.

Mom had an amazing way of hearing every conversation in the room. She would answer questions from across the room like she was a part of the conversation. Before I could turn around, she began walking toward the man and I heard her say, "Sounds like you are in a hurry today? We will see if Poncho can fit it in the schedule for this week. We just need you to fill out a repair ticket and leave a twenty-five dollar deposit, and we will be able to tell you what it will take to get this machine working again. We always give estimates before we do any repairs on a machine. This is an old machine. Does it belong to a family member?" Mom was trying to make the transaction more personal. She knew that always made for a better relationship with a customer who was going to have a machine repaired.

"Honey, I just need to know how much will it cost?"

"Well, we won't know how much it will cost until Poncho looks at the machine to see what is going on." Mom took an ink pen from the table drawer, put her glasses on and began to fill out the repair ticket. "Can I have your first name?"

"Mitchell." He huffed.

"Last name?"

"Goose. As in Duck, Duck," he chuckled to himself. Mom smiled.

"Do you have the foot control?"

"Nope. All I got is this machine."

"What about the presser feet?"

"Listen, if you don't see it. I don't got it."

Trying to remain calm, Mom asked, "Will you need replacements for those items?"

"Just tell me what it will take to make this machine work again."

Mom always addressed a customer by their first name. "Mitchell, I will be happy to let you know that when we have assessed the machine. Will you be paying your deposit with cash or check? "

"I'm not paying for nothing up front. Just have that machine ready in a week!" He stomped to the door, never looking back.

So entered and exited Mitchell Goose.