We had recently purchased new furniture for the living room on McKay Street. The couch and chair were an ivy green raised pattern with wide arms and comfortable cushions.
My father always sat opposite the couch in his chair but for some reason on this fateful day, he chose the couch. There ended up a round cigarette burn on its nice green arm.
Nana K. took great pride in keeping her home clean, dusted, and proper.
I looked at my father and saw dread in his eyes. He was in for a sermon that would never end. Being a dutiful daughter and a teenager, I told him I would fix it. He still had a look of dread in his eyes.
Fortunately for us both Nana K. had a Sunday work schedule at the Hospital.
And furthermore, I was an artist in the making. I could do this. So I snipped a small piece from the bottom of the couch and wove it with careful stitches into the burned area. It looked almost as good as new.
There were no forever sermons for my father who was glad his teenage daughter had learned to sew.
We never told Nana K. about the couch. Although, she was the one who taught me to sew in the first place some accomplishments need no public acclaim.