I can be a jerk sometimes.

Four years ago when my Bernina was misbehaving I took her to the repair store forty minutes away. When we lived in California I routinely drove as far: to the beach, to visit friends, to go camping. But my Pennsylvania life is more local, as in most of the week I stay inside a one mile radius. This abnormal convenience has made me less tolerant of reasonable distances. Like to the Bernina store.  

The woman who took my machine was helpful enough, and I reluctantly said goodbye to the trusty companion that I expect a lot from. Ten days later, there was no word. I waited five more. Finally I called. 

"Oh my! It is right here! I think it has been overlooked. I will leave a note for the repairman." I was not amused. 

When they eventually called to say it was fixed the chip on my shoulder had doubled in size from the elongated delay. It probably showed on my face. No one was particularly chatty. When I took Bernie home to plunge into quilting projects, there was a problem. The computer was apparently programmed improperly. I huffed all the way back to the store. 

The poor woman treated me gingerly, taking my information and trying to squeeze my complaints into the two inch space allotted on the form. Bernie was fixed in a few days, and I trekked back a fifth time. No one smiled. I took my machine and left. 

Last month my machine deserved a spa day, or rather a good cleaning, and I took an afternoon to drive her back to the store. In a week they called to say I could pick her up. Although the standard cost for servicing always makes me wince, I do, as I mentioned, work her pretty hard. So it comes out to about fifty cents a project. But I consciously chose not to blame anyone for the seventeen miles between their door and mine.

When I got home, the problem of a few years ago seemed to have repeated itself. I would need to go back. I decided to leave my attitude behind, and walked into the store with both a smile and respect. The woman took my number and apologized for the trouble. I thanked her and drove home. 

The next day she invited me to pick Bernie up, and I focused on the blessing of having a working machine. As I drove the now very familiar route I enjoyed the clouds, and thought about the Harry Potter quilt that was next in line to be completed. 

Even before I reached the counter, the woman addressed me by name. She hurried back to the work station to get Bernie. While she promptly checked me out, I made conversation.

"Did you make any of the samples on the walls?"

She took off her glasses and turned around. 

"Yes, the doll clothes, and the honeybee wall hanging."

"They are beautiful. Do you have any lucky grandchildren who get doll clothes?" 

"I have two grandsons!" she laughed. "If there are any problems let us know. No charge. Happy sewing!"

I took Bernie's handle and the woman in line behind me complimented me on my bag, which I bought from an enterprising young girl at a craft sale. Then a man offered to carry my machine for me. 

How about that. In the space of two minutes three people were kind. I didn't recall that happening four years ago. 

As I drove home I wondered. Was there a note on my customer history warning them about my attitude? 

If there was, I hoped that she would update it.