Dear Momma, I owe you. I owe you appreciation, admiration and devotion. It’s taken me into my old age to finally begin writing in praise of you. There were always reasons to praise you, but I needed to put it into the written words. I needed to honor you in my stories.
Growing up in the South Bronx, we were not very poor, nor would I say we were rich either. I always knew we needed to be thrifty, to make our purchases with serious care. We always bought what we needed, not what we wanted. I recognized money could not be spent frivolously so it made sense when you took me window shopping on the Sabbath. Of course we couldn’t carry money; we couldn’t even carry a purse to hold money, leaving us little temptation to buy. Window shopping was free.
Saturdays, after our large Sabbath lunch, I looked forward to our traditional walk from our apartment on Simpson Street to the shopping neighborhood on Southern Boulevard. Joy of joys, as a twelve-year-old, I had the pleasure of my favorite pastime, window shopping. Gladly, I had your company all to myself, since my older sister and brother preferred not to join us. Goldsteins Dress Shop was my cherished store, and I think yours too, Momma. Your eyes were glued to the half of the display that featured manikins dressed in women’s clothing. I was entranced with the blonde-haired blue-eyed manikins clad in girl’s dresses.
It was love at first sight, Momma. I fell in love with the maroon velvet dress with the square neckline and dropped gathered waistline. How I wished that dress was mine. You must have heard my silent prayer. Your camera eyes and sewing wisdom enabled you to snap a mental picture of that dress. Your suggestion that I try on the dress was a good idea to enable you to check how the dress was sewn. We both knew good things would come out of this window-shopping adventure.
The trip to the fabric store a few days later to buy the maroon fabric, the zipper and a spool of maroon thread was another great adventure. Momma, it never ceases to amaze me how you could cut out the dress without a Simplicity of Vogue pattern. After you basted the pieces together, I held my breath knowing pins would be needed to adjust the fitting. OUCH!! Sometimes I got stabbed by a pin. My beautiful maroon velvet dress became a reality with the clanging of your Singer Treadle Sewing Machine. That dress was my Jewish Holiday dress and the dress I wore to my rich cousin’s party. Momma, you were special, and you made me feel and look special. I owed you more appreciation, adulation and admiration and affection. Momma, I should have told you, "I love you.”
Your caring daughter,
Ethyl
(Momma died November 1977. I am a nonagenarian)
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