Your opinion, please:
I was standing in the cutting line at Joann Fabric, watching the lady in front of me have her fabrics cut from the bolts. The first was a gorgeously colored pansy print–possibly this Keepsake Calico? Then came a silky fabric in a brilliantly coordinating purple shade. The purchaser was elderly and extremely stooped over a walker. I mentally admired her choice and loved that she put those two items together for the stunning effect they produced. I noticed there wasn’t much left on the bolt of the pansy fabric (“remnant project” neon light started pulsing on and off in my brain), and the clerk shoved it under the cutting table when she was finished, unlike the bolt of purple, which she placed in a wire bin. When I got up next, I asked to see the remainder of the bolt of pansy fabric. The clerk told me, haltingly, “Actually, I wanted that.”
“Oh,” I said.
I completely understand that people who work at a fabric store probably have a great love of fabric, themselves.
And it’s not like someone was stealing from me, something that was not at all even in my cart yet. But I know if I’d been the clerk, I would have offered it to the customer. I am not saying I am better; I’m not better. I am just old-school enough to know that the customer should prevail in a contest such as that. Do you agree?
But I didn’t challenge her. I have run into many little scenes at various Joann stores, where clerks think they have a special power over the discounts (or maybe just an inability to ring up sale items correctly) and can wield it at their own, in my opinion, flawed, discretion. And, sigh, of material, I have plenty plenty, so I shouldn’t even be writing this–except that it seemed so unique, that a fabric store clerk, someone who is paid to enable people to trade their food, gas, and electricity money for fabric, would put the kabosh on another attempt, however small, for the fabric addict to score.
And so I hereby fling away to the four winds, any feelings of having been slighted, any residual emotion of regret that the Great American Novel was not written nor the Great Remnant Project of the Ages produced, and acknowledge that the Heavenly Father of all of us is the great source of all love, compassion, beauty and spiritual experience, and say, “I have enough fabric! I am free!” And to the clerk at the cutting table with the beady, darting, rodent-like eyes, I give you, along with your prize pansy-motif end-of-bolt fabric stashed under the counter, a dozen virtual roses and my wish to be prosperous and happy in your creative pursuits!