When it’s raining, Suzanne and I don’t say, “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.” We usually declare it to be raining “bow ties and fabric.” Those worldly possessions are our True North directions. Even when we’re on vacation, if I get separated from Suzanne, I know to seek out the nearest fabric store. She will surely be there. When she sees me come through the fabric store door, she asks me what I think about each and every piece of fabric she’s dragging around the place. My answer is always the same, if not in the same words, “As long as it’s not hideous, it’s fine with me.” And when Suzanne loses me, she locates the nearest rack o’ bow ties—and there I am. She’ll ask if I found any bow ties for her to buy me. She is no fool. She knows better than to try to pick out a bow tie for me on her own. She might live in the same house as the Tie Room, but she can’t keep track of the neckwear inventory I already have. She generously buys and gives me neckwear on occasion, but only after I have picked it out.
