Then and Now series

Fated

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It’s funny how simple things can start. How easily we walk through time, how simple it can be to enjoy something, how hard to endure, how upsetting to grieve. When I picked up the phone to call the number in the ad, I didn’t anticipate how it would change me. “Needed! Craft store clerk. Must be at least 18, capable of learning, handling cash register and dependable. $13 an hour. Call Margaret, —.” That’s what the ad said.

I was in my second year of college, attending the state’s best in writing and literature. Working in a craft store sounded like a fun, low-stress job—exactly what I needed.

The first time I met Margaret, I was dumb-struck and instantly sympathetic of the older woman. She was in her late fifties, widowed eight years ago with a grown son out and about with the FBI. And she had cancer.

The craft store had been her dream since she’d been a little girl, she told me during the interview. She’d given up a lot to make the dream come true, and to keep it going. She said she needed someone who could share her passion for the art forms the store boasted. There was almost everything from making pottery and candles or bookbinding and beadwork to glass working and simple paper crafts. A section of the downtown store was a sitting area where free products were offered for patrons to try, another area was like a mini book store, and there were three back rooms for after hour how-to classes. It was an exciting place for me to be, and the prospect of working there thrilled me to my very core.

I smiled giddily at Margaret, and assured her that I had a strong passion for arts and crafts, that I would make her proud if she hired me.

She’s smiled wanly, the cancer’s toll showing in her sad eyes as she nodded. I started the very next day.

In retrospect, that was a defining moment in my life. Not only because I would inherit that craft store and treasure it like Margaret had, but also because it grounded my life, told me where I wanted to go, and gave me Des.

But the road wasn’t always easy, as Margaret had said of hers, but in the end, it was defiantly worth it.

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I lifted the huge stack of ruined notebooks and scrap paper out of the box near the front door and took it to the counter. It had been an idea that I’d voiced as soon as it had popped into my head:

“Hey, Margaret, what if we put a box out and made a sign that said something like ‘Got old, ruined notebooks or scrap paper? Let us recycle it!’ Or ‘use’ it. I used to make scrap paper notebooks at home.”

She’d smiled at me. “That’s an excellent idea, Elsie. Why don’t you do that? There are plenty of boxes in the back, and I’m sure you can take care of the sign.”

So I did, and though I had had my doubts about how many people would have ruined notebooks lying around, it worked well. After three days the entire box was full of paper to sort through.

But it was work that I enjoyed; something I could do with my hands and help Mother Nature at the same time.

“Did you get more than you bargained for?” Margaret asked after I’d been at trimming and sorting the paper for an hour, in between tending the steady flow of patrons.

I shook my head; days like these I loved. “This is so relaxing that I almost feel ashamed that I’m getting paid.”

“But it is work.”

“Yes, I know. Remember that old adage, though: find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

“Yes, I remember. That quote drove me more days than one.”

“Margaret, thanks.” I said on impulse, not really knowing what I was saying thank you for.

She smiled, like she knew what I didn’t. “You’re welcome.”

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I suppose I should tell you what the store looks like, hmm? It’s near the edge of the downtown area, but not close enough to be labeled a city store. Creative Crafts is its own free standing building, made of three stories, standing right along Side Street. On the outside, it’s an ordinary enough building, with a small but well maintained lawn, a sidewalk that leads right to the front door and a side lot of gravel with room for six cars. I swear the place must have been a house or an apartment complex at some point in its past, but Margaret always told me it was designed to be a patron-friendly place.

Once you walk through the front door, you smell the scented candles burning. The scent changes every week, about the time the matching candles have burned down from constant use. To the left along the wall is the front counter, a long wide counter top looking thing, it holds the cash register and several jars of assorted candies. Behind the counter is a computer, complete with monitor, keyboard, speakers and mouse. It’s a wonderful place to sit and type during the slow times.

Continuing along that wall, right past the door that leads into the back storage is where the “book store” begins, and warps all the way around the corner. There are three medium size free standing shelves in that area, all of them made of bright shining wood. I’d say on any given day there are a thousand books there, give or take a hundred or so.

Along the wall and on the eight shelves that line the floor space are the majority of the store’s good, all organized by craft, in alphabetic order. So if you’re looking for crochet materials, you look in C and if you’re in need of clay, you’d look under P (for pottery). I’ve always loved just walking through the rows of crafts and materials because it gives me a buzz.

In the far right hand corner from the door is the sitting area. There’s a beautiful hand woven rug that graces the whole of that corner, and atop that three rocking chairs sit. Beside one chair is a basket of yarn and a jar of crochet hooks and knitting needles; in front of another chair is a standing, home made weaving loom, half finished with good parts and bad from different weavers trying their hands at it; the last chair has a stack of books beside it. All some of the less messy arts that the shop offers.

Intermittent throughout the store are three doors, in addition to the one that leads into the back and the entrance. These lead into separate rooms, where the craft lessons are held in the afternoon. They’re each stocked with various items, each prepared for one specific craft or another, each packed with their own unique type of joy and relaxation.

In a word, that is what Creative Crafts was, relaxation. Children come to have a good time, yes, but the adults, those at whom the store is directed, come to relax from their jobs, their lives, to just be and watch something be crafted from their own two hands.

Entering the store and partaking of its goods is a unique experience, valuable and trustworthy, calming and fulfilling. I hope I’ve truly kept it that way.

Copyrighted © 2008 Arden Ashart