JOY ALONG THE WAY: CELEBRATING A GOOD DAY OF MENDING

Occasionally as I ramble around in the house, my gaze will rest for a while on the cross-stitched sampler. There are seven little sun-bonneted ladies demonstrating what is to be the main thing to accomplish on each day of the week. Monday, wash. Tuesday, iron. Wednesday, mend. Etc.

The embroidery threads are faded with age and the weekly agenda to abide by has long been, what shall I say, unrigided, unstrictured, homogenized, done-away-with, faded into history along with the once colorful threads? About the only thing left in its appointed slot is Church on Sunday.

I've tried to run down the origin of who made, and why, the appointment of these exact days to do exact things. It must have been done by gradual consensus and common sense. One can see the reasonableness of washing on Monday and ironing on Tuesday, especially if one had a big family, rippled washboard, and irons heated on a hot stove. It would be too tiring to accomplish the work all in one day. And baking on Saturday, as the sampler admonishes, made sense in order to prepare for the big meal on Sunday. This big home-cooked meal on Sunday has fallen by the wayside, too. Now, it is bake only when the notion strikes, if ever.

This all came about by the invention of new appliances and new fabrics, not the feminist movement.

Nevertheless, as indicated above, I sometimes let my gaze linger on the sampler and smile fondly in remembrance. It was a simpler time.

Recently, on a Wednesday, I glanced at the sampler in passing, Endust and dust cloth in hand, and noted once again that the little embroidered lady was sewing, needle and thread poised, and underneath was the instruction to "Mend."

Yes, after washing and ironing on Monday and Tuesday, one mended the rips, tears, holes and snags. All the way through the Depression we mended, on up to the Sixties. Then, Stop! Knee holes in the jeans? Cool. Hems ripped? Excellent. Let the fringe begin.

I don't mend anymore either unless a button comes off or somehow the chain stitch in a hem goes wild. You know the kind -- the thread which comes loose like a zipper, all the way around in the bat of an eye unless you stop it somewhere along its hasty journey.

Still, the old sampler has a bit of influence on me, especially as regards mending. However, instead of the cross-stitched Wednesday mending with stitches, it would be more meaningful to me now if the little lady had a hammer in hand. Most of my mending, circa 1990s mending, is done with a hammer. It satisfies a certain sense of neatness in me to hammer back in place a loosened tack or nail holding something up or together.

So, lightly sweatered, wind in my hair, I go a'hammering. First, some loosened pickets on the fence. This sets the dogs to barking. The barking sets the blue jays off. Doors slam, people coming out to see what's going on. This prompts me to make a few more hammer blows where there are no loose nails. I consider all the ruckus, applause, applause!

Slats on the latticed garden seat, slouching from winter weariness, affords a few more tentative blows. One has to handle slats with care. The flag holder is slumping. The mailbox post appears to be in good shape, but I give it a few blows for good measure. Some staples which, in former years, anchored strings for morning glories to climb on, were tapped in tighter for I plan to have Heavenly Blue morning glories again this year.

When I couldn't think of anything else to tighten up outside, I came back inside, washed my hands, put on some lady-like lotion on my unlady-like hands, winked at the cross-stitched Wednesday mender, sat down with needle and thread to tighten up a button that was about to pride-bust from my shirt.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and long time resident of Cape Girardeau.