The Linen Shop
Christy Doherty
50plus Magazine
“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
- Maya Angelou
LOOKING THROUGH MY CLOSET recently, I paused at Mom’s handmade double-knit slacks. I caressed the fabric, remembering. There was a matching jacket, the ensemble as much her daily “uniform” as jeans are for me. A fabric sale would soon bring another set in a new color. The oft-pinned pattern in the tired, torn envelope was used again and again.
Mom always gave — of her time, talent, and resources — rarely taking for herself. She created beauty with her vintage Singer, sewing for herself and friends, for Dad and me, even my Barbie.
She loved beautiful linens. Money, always tight, limited her to garage sale finds. Our home had many doilies and runners that, while often imperfect, were always impeccably starched and ironed.
Some 40 years ago, the window of a NW Portland boutique stopped me in my tracks. Displayed were fabulous linens — cutwork, embroidery, everything imaginable.
Mom would LOVE this place! I began planning a day for us, this shop at the epicenter. It would be expensive, so I would have to save, but spoiling her extravagantly would be SO worth it. I didn’t even step inside, waiting to share the magic with her.
I can still hear the bell tinkling as we entered the shop. Mom’s eyes and smile sparkled — at the beauty as well as the exquisite craftsmanship.
As a woman approached to greet us, I was slammed with a feeling like the stunning moment when a bird flies hard into a window.
She cooly assessed us, her disdain of Mom’s humble double-knit ensemble apparent. As I’m a quirky writer who doesn’t even dress up for book signings, I was unmoved. I said hello, ushering Mom away from the woman’s chilly scrutiny. The woman stuck close though, fueling our discomfort.
The Disneyland of beautiful linens was losing its sparkle.
With a sweet, knowing smile, Mom said, “Christy Ann, let’s go ahead and grab lunch. The bell tinkled as the door closed behind us.
Once beyond the windows, Mom looked “what on earth” at me. We shook our heads and tried to laugh.
She said, “Dressing humbly isn’t shameful. We wore patches on top of patches during the Depression, but our clothes were always clean — fortunately, soap was cheap and plentiful.”
Her next comment confused me.
“That woman should’ve washed the back of her neck before looking down her nose that hard.”
How did Mom spot the woman’s untidy neck?
I didn’t ask.
Decades later, I discovered her statement was an old British expression. Neck washing suggests the need to rein in one’s behavior. Wow — could that be more perfect?
Mom and I enjoyed lunch and shopping in other boutiques that day, but still I felt heartsick.
My goal was to buy her several treasures at the linen shop, likely their big sale of the day — or week.
Sadly, such gifts would be stained by the shopkeeper’s disdain. It crushed me to think her chilly judgment might’ve made my mom feel small — there was NOTHING small about her.
A Scottish proverb says, “Do not judge by appearances; a rich heart may be under a poor coat.”
Mom, who had once rescued two babies from a burning house, had the social grace to step away from an unpleasant encounter. I was right behind her, with several hundred dollars in my jeans pocket.
The linen shop didn’t last long; soon a “for rent” sign replaced the lovely merchandise.
I doubt the shopkeeper ever imagined I’d recall her decades later; but Maya Angelou was right — people remember how you make them feel.
We each have the power, every day, to bring good to people’s lives, or to bring pain.
As the wise Clare Pooley said, “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”