Ladies and Gentlemen, Everything is going to be okay

Today I magically stumbled upon something that made me so happy that I could cry. I seriously could cry right now. I can't even begin to describe to you the sense of relief and hope I am experiencing at this very moment. Maybe we're all going to be ok. But before I tell you what it is I would like to describe for you yesterdays fabric shopping experience. I pull into the brand new Giant Mega Super Jo-Ann Fabric store on 82nd that has systematically shut down every dirty unorganized fabulous little fabric store within the city limits. I walk in the automatic doors and behold a colossal display of neon pink and green and purple plastic picnic ware. A deep hatred begins to well up in my soul. But my need for black polk-a-dotted fabric surpasses my hatred. I pass endless sterile shelves of ready-made craft kits. Everything around me has the glow of plastic wrapping and the white tiled floor reflects the flourescent lighting miles above my head. Then I pass endless rows of acrylic fleece with the Oregon Ducks logo or Strawberry Shortcake. This is what fiber has come to. I grab what I need and head to the cutting counter. There is no line so I lay down the roll and asked for two yards please. A woman in a white shirt and green apron asks me to take a number. Ok. I take a number. It says 43. She then proceeds to pick up the phone and announce over the loud speaker "now serving customer number 43". Helplessly at the mercy of the the red blinking 43 above my head, I stand there feeling severely less than human as she cuts my fabric. My mom has pointed out to me many times over the years the "hate" is a very strong word, but I straight-up HATE that place. Its creepy.

For no particular reason I decided to go to bi-partisan cafe via Glisan instead of Burnside this morning. Somewhere around 70th I see this sign that says "Knittin' Kitten-Thrift Store-fabric, yarn, vintage". I naturally make an illegal u-turn in the middle of block and screech to the side of the road. I push open a big heavy door and am warmly greeted by an elderly woman behind a counter ironing fabric. My eyes grow large. Its like a grandma's sewing room. Random cuts of fabric are folded and layed out neatly on staggard tables. Most everything is priced from 50 cents to two dollars. There is a book shelf littered with old rick-rack and binding. In one corner is a pile of old quilts and boxes filled with yarn. I almost trip on a loop of ratty gray office carpet while reaching for a box of discount faded fabrics. I want to lay down on the floor and weep uncontrolably with pure glee. I begin to accumulate a pile of magical calico scraps that feel like home, like I've seen them before every day of my life- navy blue with sprigs of orange and red and green and red with tiny little floral swirls and mint green velvet upholstry fabric and brown rick-rack held together with a pin. There are boxes full of buttons and ribbon and various odds and ends from someones old sewing basket. I love digging. I bring my stuff to the counter. I'm not a big "talk to the cashier" kind of person but I want to hug this woman. I want to lean on the counter and chat the day away. I want to make sure that this place won't evaporate after I walk away. I think maybe everything is going to be ok.