After all that measuring and prepping for the extravaganza affair that was meant to relieve me of my hoard of fabric, I only sold about 100 yards. Not really discouraged, though. Us fabric hoarders are a rare breed. I will be doing it again next Saturday and the next until I exhaust all possibilities.
Word of mouth will be my best friend now. My variety will bring those other sewers not so interested in quilting. Pictures were taken and texted and I expect some out of town sewers to show up. In the meantime I keep uncovering other stashes I managed to hide from myself and I did sell my cutting table and have a lot more room to maneuver around in.
In case you are unaware, fabric is heavy. Forty years ago, I could balance a formidable stack of bolts on one shoulder and climb a ladder to change out seasons in the 7 stores I was in charge of. I would be tired after a 12 hour day, but at least I didn't feel like a truck ran over me!
No bolts this time, but I did transfer most of the fabric onto outdoor tables yesterday morning. Not to mention the 6, yes 6, rubbermaid bins of remnants. I sold a good many of those at 10 cents and 25 cents each. Only one lady in her eighties unrolled them before she would consider buying them. At the end of the day I had to haul it all back in. HeWho offered to help, but I was trying to keep it in stacks of types and colors and denied him the priviledge of helping me.
I am sore and I am tired. The phone already had calls on it when I woke at 8 am. I longed to stay in bed and go back to sleep, but I remembered that I close early today.
While on our big adventure south, I had the store phone and the reservation book in my possession and took some barely legible requests while bouncing down the poorly maintained interstate. I have a litany of facts that I repeat with EVERY reservation. I confirm the date of arrival and date of departure, then say, 'I don't run your card today. The only reason I would do so would be if you don't call to cancel and simply don't show up and I could have rented and didn't. Should your plans change, you need only to let me know, there is no cancellation fee. You can pay anyway you like (NO American Express) when you arrive. Check-in is any time after noon. In the event that you arrive after hours , you will find an envelope on the door with your name on it and inside will be a map with the route to your site high lighted and you can come up to the office in the morning." EVERY SINGLE TIME these same words leave my lips to the potential camper's ear. Some will tell me just to use the card and I can text or email a reciept.
While most women making a reservation listen to me, most men don't. I don't know why that is, maybe too much information to grapple with, or simply a short attention span. They will wait until I stop speaking then proceed to shoot questions at me. "How early can we get there?" "How much are putting on credit card today?" If I cancel, how much will you charge me?"
It comes as no surprise that they will fail to follow my directions to get to my campground or to the assigned site. Google will have you pass my exit and put you in the rest area for trucks right across the frontage road from my park. You can see me, but a locked gate will prevent you from just driving the short distance across the road. You will then have to travel 9 miles west to the next exit and circle back. Some of them will call me and yell at me about Google's misdirection and demand that I go unlock the gate. You can use your imagination about my reply.
This morning, as I am still dosing my body with caffiene and moving slowly, the bell at the window rings. This is not a welcome sound for me and I make my way to the window where a dour faced woman stands glaring at me. I don't know this woman, so I can't fathom why she dislikes me. I open the window and using my false chipper voice greet her and ask how I can help her. "We are here."
My coffee is reaching the sarcastic side of my brain and so many responses come to mind, far too many to mention. Trying to be nice and stifle my true self, I ask if she has a reservation. Her husband cowered behind her (much like HeWho does when I take over the conversation that he appears to be losing). She gives me the name and I give her the clipboard and tell her she needs to fill out the registration while I find her on my chart. This seems to add to her dislike of me and she proclaims that they will be going to site 35.
I tell her that I had to do some rearranging and that they will be in site 32. Both are 50 amp full hook-up long sites that can accommodate large rigs, but now she is really mad. Still trying to do my job, I offer her a weekly rate, since they will be here that long and it will save her almost $80, much more than the 10% her Good Sam discount would be. I try to explain this to her and she sighs deeply and says that she doesn't really have a choice, does she?
"What?" yells my brain. I can't stop myself and tell her that, of course she has a choice. This is when I see the look of panic on my husband's face. He thinks I am going to give her the option of going elsewhere, in more colorful tones. I tell her I will be happy to charge her full price and give her a less than $30 discount. She ignores me and looks even more angry.
I complete the transcation and hand her credit card and multiple receipts. Then I show her how to get to her site. Done. I go back to the chore I was doing before I was so rudely interrupted. I don't know how, but I am still finding more fabric. Fully caffeinated now I am on a roll. Packing and moving packed boxes into a tidy stack thinking that I am getting a lot done this fine day. The bell beside the window calls out for my attention.
I see the woman from 32 and with a sense of dread I open it. Looks like she comandeered a seasonal camper to transport her to me in his golf cart. "The people on 35 left and we can't reach the hook-ups on 32! We want 35, I don't see why it is such a problem."
"Well, let me enlighten you," says my brain. Deep breath. "Ma'am, the problem was that you came in too early. Check-out is not until noon, therefore check-in is AFTER noon. 35 was occupied when you arrived, 32 wasn't. I can't put two campers on one site." "Well you told me 35 when I made the reservation!" she replies. "Yes, I did," I say, "and I also told you that check-in was AFTER NOON. Move if you must and I can rearrange everything once again!"
She will be here an entire week. Oh goody! She seems attached to the number 35.