One thing about Portland. You no sooner fall in love with a new brewpub or art gallery than it disappears. Something else takes its place that you might also fall in love with. This is a place of commerce, caffeinated. There you are, walking down a familiar street, when suddenly you have no idea where you are, and you have to stop and check yourself for signs of stroke. What has happened, of course, is that in the two months since you were at this corner, where a mom-and-pop grocery snugged up against a coffee shop across from a parking lot filled with food carts, someone has dropped in a set of four-story buildings as quickly as plucking out a green house for a red hotel. Our old Mediterranean Avenue has gone upscale.

We were heartbroken when the restaurant on our corner was evicted. This had also been the site of the Homestead Tavern, Johnny’s Jar Room, Chez What? restaurant, and finally Bernie’s Southern Bistro, serving fried green tomatoes in a dilapidated building. The new owners were compelled to stouten up the place but ultimately could not save its weathered exterior, and the new, sterile replacement has had For Lease signs on it for more than a year. It wasn’t promising. Then a boxing gym appeared in the back corner, and the lease signs disappeared from the former restaurant site in front. We peered in the glass. Didn’t look like it was set up for another restaurant. They’d need a kitchen, for one thing.

So Dave and I walk by this place nearly every day. Imagine our surprise when a new store appeared, apparently overnight. What could it be? What sad merchant could possibly replace our hush puppies and blackened catfish?

HOLY SAINTED SON OF A CHICKADEE! IT’S A FABRIC STORE!

Oh my heart. I don’t like to shop except at fabric stores and hardware stores, and for the same reason. They are full of people who (1) can help you and (2) want to help you. I can walk into a hardware store and ask for a grommet flanger and one of the employees will walk me over to the exact spot and ask me what I was planning to do with the grommet flanger, so she could get me the correct size. And I will explain that my diphthong has sprung a leak at the conjunction where the gerund screws into the participle, and she will put a hand on my hand and say Oh! Is the modifier alliterated or is it the conjugated kind? and helpfully hold up one of each for clarification, and then she will sell me the correct item and give me a tutorial on how to fix it. I freaking love hardware stores, which probably goes a way to explain why every project requires at least three trips to one, usually in the same day.

And fabric stores! You stroll through hauling out bolts of fabric and stacking them on your arm, periodically replacing one of them with a new one you like a little better, and somebody asks you what you’re making. And you explain that you’re going for a star quilt with all these colors in it but can’t decide on a border, and three or four other people lean over your choices and weigh in. “This violet would really make the green bits pop,” one says, and another suggests a complementary solid for the sashing with an echo of it in the corner blocks, and a third stares for a while and then goes away and comes back with another bolt of fabric you hadn’t even considered and it is absolutely perfect.

Someone mentions paper piecing and you admit you don’t know how to do that, and she heads you over to a wide table and demonstrates the technique, and you don’t even know if it’s a store employee or fellow shopper.

Fabric stores and hardware stores sell fabric, hardware, community love, and social joy, and they do it every time. Bolt Fabric! One-half block from my house! I did not think things could get any better.

And then I saw the salamander material.