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Small town living

Last year Kaddi bought me a beautiful black winter overcoat for Christmas. I've been wearing it to church and even to the college on occasion. It makes me happy.

So I was very concerned as first one, then a second button came loose and fell off. I still wore the coat, but could no longer button it. Even then, the sight of dangling threads ruined the experience for me.

I knew it must be repaired. But how?

Our fair town has limited services. Even if I made a special trip to Norfolk, I didn't know of a place that could mend my coat. We drive to Sioux City once every other month. Was my beautiful overcoat forever doomed to a state of disrepair?

One day while driving down Main Street, I thought I'd found the answer. I passed a residential home that had been transformed into a business. The sign in the parking lot said, "Just Sew." This was the answer to my problem.

I went home, retrieved my black beauty, and drove back to the store. It was dark and musty inside, and smelled like my grandma's basement. There was no one around, but I could hear someone talking upstairs. It wasn't a business conversation. As I waited I looked around. There were radio parts on the floor, dust-covered crafts on the shelves, and bolts of fabric stacked everywhere.

I turned around to see an elderly man coming down stairs. He wore a trucker's hat and a white sweatshirt that said, 'Chicken Days' on it and was tucked into his jeans. I held my coat a little tighter and walked to the counter.

ME: I was hoping you could mend my coat for me. It just needs two buttons...

Chicken Days: No, no...we don't do that here.

ME: You don't do sewing here?

Chicken Days: Nope.

I turned around and looked through the window at the sign in the parking lot. Next to the 'Just Sew', there was a picture of a needle next to a spool of thread.

ME: (turning back) Then what do you do?

Chicken Days: (pointing around the store) Fabric.

ME: You just sell fabric?

Chicken Days: Yep.

ME: (long pause) Then why don't you change the name to, "Just Fabric"?

At this point he gave me that wry smile that says, 'You must not be from around here.' I get that smile a lot. Like when I asked for Smoked Salmon cream cheese at the grocery store, or when I mentioned that I played volleyball in high school.

I decided not to press the issue. After all, this guy probably had the entire northeast Nebraska fabric market cornered. I might need fabric one day, then where would I be?

Instead, I asked if there was another business in town that did tailoring or mending. There wasn't. But, he did recommend the name of woman who repaired clothes out of her home. No business card, no phone number, no address. Just a name.

I went home and used the internet to find this lady's phone number and placed a call. After conducting a brief interview, she agreed to take on my clothing project.

"Do you know where I live?" she asked.

I read the address from the computer screen.

"Please park on the street across from park and come to the door inside the chimney," she instructed and said good-bye.

As I drove across town I imagined that the 'door in the chimney' was one of those giant metal doors with the narrow slot that opened after you give the secret knock. I would have to give a secret password like, "The human torch was denied a bank loan," and the door would open into an elevator that descended down into a secret lair where dozens of Chinese immigrants worked at sewing machines.

So amused was I with my fictitious scenario that I forgot her instructions and parked opposite her house. After opening the door she looked at my van and said, "You should know you're parked illegally."

I looked out at the street. This was not exactly downtown Manhattan. There wasn't another car anywhere in sight and probably wouldn't be for another four hours when people began coming home from work.

"Oh yeah," I said smiling, "I forgot."

She remained in the doorway, not smiling.

"Would you like me to move it?" I asked.

"That would be wise," she said.

I moved the car over by the park. As I walked back towards her house I reflected on how I could probably have saved time if I just driven to Sioux City.

Content that she had now single-handedly saved the neighborhood from a traffic snarl, she began inquiring about the coat. I gave her the buttons. She asked me how I got her name, and I recounted my experience at 'Just Sew'. I even mentioned my 'Just fabric' remark in an attempt to relieve the awkward tension through humor.

Instead of a laugh I got a concerned stare, the kind of look that says, 'Are you on drugs? I'll bet you smoke that crystal meth, don't you?' I thought she might ask me to walk a straight line or repeat the alphabet. But she turned back to her notepad.

"What number would you like me to call when this is finished? she asked.

"You can call me at my office," I said. "I teach in the history department over at the college."

While I realized this information would not impress, I thought it might at least convince her that I was not some kind of drifter that goes across the Midwest asking people to mend overcoats and then skips town without paying.

"Oh," she said. "The history department? Do you know Don Hickey."

There are only four history professor at the college. The only way I could not know Don was if I taught class between 10 PM and 2 AM.

"Yes," I responded, hoping we had finally made a connection. "Don's office is right across from mine."

"Well," she said, "I've been friends with Don for years."

Normally, that statement would express growing trust and familiarity. But in this case I understood quite clearly that it meant, "...and the minute you leave I'm calling Don up. So your story better check out...."

I left her house feeling like I'd just spent the past ten minutes in the principal's office trying to explain why I'd been throwing snowballs at my teacher's window.

After all of that, I'm happy to report that she did a wonderful job mending my coat, which I now frequently wear in spit of the unseasonable warm spring temperatures.

A week later I lost a button off my suit coat.

I just threw it away.