Mr. Rockwell
by Molly-Ann Leikin

When I moved a few months ago, I asked several of my new neighbors where to take my clothes to be cleaned. Everybody said "Rockwells".

Many of my garments had spots on them, because I can't seem to eat so much as a mushroom or an M & M without sharing the meal with my clothing. That doesn't mean I'm not a nice person or a good writer - it means I'm a slob.

Okay - so here I go to Rockwell's with a Lexus-full of dirty clothes, ready to tell the tale of how the Via Vai pizza defied my apron, y'see, went around and underneath it to deliberately and maliciously plop mozarella cheese and olive oil onto my new, beige leggings. Jim Rockwell, who is Mr. Rockwell's son, thought he might be able to remove the spots - he'd give this task to his father, who worked in the back - and could get most stains out. He couldn't promise anything, but he'd do his best.

Fine. Meanwhile, just to have a plan B, I was wondering where I could get another pair of beige leggings, if the prognosis on pick-up-the-dry-cleaning day wasn't good.

How many times have you taken an expensive garment to the cleaners, showing them where the spot is? They circle it in red tape, say they'll try their best to remove the spot, but when the garment is returned, all nicely pressed, in a pretty plastic bag, the arms puffed up with tissue - you find a note from "Santoro, spotter number 17" saying "Sorry, we would have damaged the fabric if we'd dug any deeper on that spot, so we're returning it to you as is."

Swell.

Meanwhile, you still have to pay $15. for the cleaning, even if it isn't clean, and you can't ever wear the garment again.

I don't know about this. I just don't know.

So the dry cleaning experience has often been anxiety-ridden for me. I could stop eating real food altogether and get an IV, but then ink from my pen would inevitably take up where the olive oil left off, or the cartridge from my printer would explode all over my pink bathrobe, so there was no winning anywhere in sight where my wardrobe maintenance was concerned.

But okay, I say to myself, maybe this can change. I'm in a new phase of my life, I'm at Rockwells now, maybe things will be different. Well, darned if Mr. Rockwell-in-the-back, whom I never saw, got the spot out of my beige leggings, and everything else I ever brought in. He did it with pride in his work and at ninety years of age, he did it with love.

Mr. Rockwell died last week - the same day Joe DiMaggio did. As far as I'm concerned, both men were American legends. Both were heroes. Both did something nobody else had done. They did it well - better than anybody else. They left their fingerprints on the world and in our hearts. They could have been Georgia O'Keefe or Willy Nelson - one of a kind - always pushing the envelope to use their gifts and be unique, not just Xeroxing what someone else had already done.

And as I remember Mr. Rockwell and Joe DiMaggio, I say to myself:

I'm sad they died. But I'm glad they lived.

I guess that's the nicest thing any of us can hope to have said about ourselves when it's time to go to Rock 'n Roll Heaven.

Mr. Rockwell, Mr. DiMaggio we were honored by your presence - we will miss you both. Rest in Peace.

On a lighter note, I am a collector of Beanie Baby bears. Three are missing from my collection:
l. Maple - I am a Canadian and can't buy her here.
2. Jerry Garcia - I am a musician - and wish he were here.
3. Britannia - I grew up in Canada when that country was a member of the
British Empire - so Britannia belongs here.

If you can find all or any of them for me, please send me an e mail. I promised the Ty people I would not buy from resellers, and I will honor that promise. But if you have any of these bears, and want to trade them for a consultation, or any of my books and tapes, I'm sure we can work something out. Maybe I could simply take your clothes to Rockwells, where, it seems, the no spot policy has been handed down to the next generation.

© 1999 Molly-Ann Leikin

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