Today I mended a hole in my new $10 flannel shirt. I'd just got it. It’s perfect for the bit of early morning chill in our too-early East Tennessee spring. I cut a tag out and cut a hole. I repaired the hole; that’s what mending is, repairing, often on an article of clothing. Very few people in American Culture mend any more.
I think most menders were women; my guess even fewer were men; unless your on a tall ship. My Grandma was an inveterate mender. She’d gather family clothes in her sewing basket, sit down, and mend each and all in a sitting. I remember; I’d watch her. She was skilled and efficient. I still have Grandma’s wooden mending egg. Later on I taught myself to mend to keep clothing I really liked. I don't like holes in my clothing; they're ugly. The stitching in my clothing is ugly. I don’t care `bout ugly clothing stitches.
Today I also cut my thumb. It was not a paper cut. It was a deep glass cut, and it bled freely. I carry a first-aid kit. I cleaned my cut, a wedge slice crater, and field dressed it. I knew another should attend to it. I went back to work for 3 hours.
Later at the urgent care clinic Cynthia doctored my cut thumb. She numbed it; sweet. She did a nifty 4-stitch mend; snipping the threads seemed loud to me; I didn't watch, I just chilled; anyway, now it’s my Frankenthumb. I’m thankful for Cynthia, a physicians’ assistant, those who work with her supporting her, and those those who employ all of them. They’re mostly women (why is this?). I’m thankful she’s carrying on with mending and used my cut thumb for practice. Cynthia's stitching is not ugly. And, darn, if I didn't fall flat out in love with her; I'm so easy and cheap. If I could locate a wooden sock egg I’d give it to her.