We replaced our back porch carpeting a couple weeks back. ( “We” is a very generous use of “we.”) There’s a couple of stories in our carpets.
Some six or seven years ago I was puffing on a cigar, lost in some deep thought, when some ash fell and burned right through our old carpet. Well, I thought I’d fix it before Kris, the Ever-Observing One, got home. Which I did: I just snipped a piece from an obscure corner (which wasn’t a good idea) and cut out the right size around the burnt hole, and then glued down the new piece. Within a week or two, of course, Kris noted the oddity of this little patch. Asking me if I had burnt a hole through it, I simply used the husbandly “I don’t really remember, but I just might have.” ‘nuf said. Well, when we (same as above) pulled up the old carpet, the only thing that stuck to the floor was my patch. I had to whack it a time or two, but it popped off and then we were ready for the new carpet. We laughed about its doggedness.

It is our custom to eat on the porch whenever we can, so Sunday evening we were having dinner when Kris spilled her 1/3 glass of Merlot on the carpet. Before the glass had emptied itself she said, “Oh no, we’ll (as above) have to replace this carpet.” So, I hopped up, got some towels and daubed and then sprayed some Oxi-Clean and before long, no kidding, no stain whatsoever. Now a carpet that doesn’t hold (the biblical) fruit (of the vine) stains is a miracle indeed. Of a sort.