My Wardrobe

For my thirteenth birthday and also the advent of the Passover holidays, I would be purchasing a big girl suit. This would be a mother-daughter shopping event. My mother usually made all my clothing but a suit would require a lined jacket and this was beyond her tailoring skills. Of course, she didn’t make my underwear, but she even made my pajamas.

She would use her leftover scraps of fabric to make the pajamas, the front could be stripes, the back-polka dots, each sleeve a different color, and the bottom equally diverse. What difference would such a hodgepodge make, since no one would be seeing them, except the family?  Who knew I would be invited to my wealthy cousin's sleepover birthday party? My rich doctor aunt and her sister, in an admiring serious tone, commented about how interesting my pajamas were, pretending flattery. Even as a child, I read their negative sincerity. My rich cousin, clad in her soft pink flannel pajamas could only have magnified the effect of my inappropriate clownish costume. Who could foresee that in today’s fashion world, my one-of-a-kind outfit would be appreciated?  

The place to go for my holiday suit was “The Lower East Side.” In that neighborhood, we would have a choice of one ladies’ store after another. Walking into the store did not mean buying in the store. First, we are getting a sense of the “going price.” By the time we reached the fifth store, the scene took on a familiar feel. The salesperson was also the shop owner. The price of the item, in no way resembled the price on the tag hanging from the sleeve. We have at last found the item I wanted for my holiday apparel. It was a pale blue woolen suit with a short jacket and flare skirt. 

The bargaining scenario took place in Yiddish. The salesperson would start with one price, my mother would halve it, he would go up from that price, and she would go down from there. All this going on, while we are pretending to be leaving. The storekeeper is practically in tears, assuring us that we have the suit for the same price he paid and has not made a penny’s profit. My mother feels victorious. I am convinced the limited vocabulary I have in Yiddish came from these shopping trips.

Dresses were an easier deal. We would go to the fanciest ladies’ dress store on Southern Boulevard with a pencil and pad. I drew a picture of the long-sleeved maroon velvet dress with the dropped waistline and scoped neck. At a nearby store, we bought the fabric, matching thread and long zipper. No Simplicity pattern for my mother. She cut directly into the fabric and pinned it together. This would require many try-ons, often getting stuck by the pins. Tempers and cursing were part of the scene. The dress would then be basted together with large white running stitches and tried on again and again with more anger, hostility and abusive language about how skinny, flat chested and shapeless I was. Sewing or altering was never done with the garment on me because the Yiddish superstition had it that the stitching would be “sewing up my brains (seykhl).” If one ever sewed while the garment was on the person, that person had better be chewing on some thread to ward off losing one’s brains. The final step was for Momma to sew the dress together on the Singer treadle sewing machine. The finished garment was as nice as the one in the store window.

One party dress, one pale blue woolen suit, some handmade skirts and blouses and a few pairs of pajamas pretty much made up the sparse wardrobe a thirteen-year-old girl from the East Bronx needed seventy-five years ago.

Today, as an adult with my “seykhl” intact, I say, “Thank you Momma for my wardrobe and memories.”

Epilogue

Characters: My grandsons Isaac and Matthew, two young adult brothers.

Format: e-mails

Dear Isaac, i know you are hoping to become a writer. I have been enjoying a writing class with grandpa so I am sending you a piece I recently wrote called, My Wardrobe.

Love, Grandma.

Dear Grandma,

                             What a sweet story! i would like to think the base of the sewing machine in your story is the same base being built into my writing desk!

Love, Isaac

Dear Matthew,

                            We’ve moved the sewing machine base for you to pick up. It’s great that you will be using this base in the writing desk you are building Isaac.

Love, Grandma

Dear Isaac,

                     Matthew came for the base. The Singer Treadle Sewing Machine base definitely was the one my mother, your great grandmother Anna sewed on and it’s the one I refer to in My Wardrobe story. When I was in college, that machine was in my bedroom. When my mother wasn’t sewing, the machine would be closed in its wooden cabinet. That sewing machine was my writing desk where I did my homework. Now it will be yours, where you will write your Great American Novel!!

Love, Grandma

Ethyl H.

June 2020