Here’s another story from my mother, Dorothy Howard Adler.
Sixteen. A busy time. No time for a long, lazy summer. Farm life is always busy, summer probably the busiest season. A time to grow. So many things to do, not enough hours in the day.
A time for a new piano. Not just any new piano. The best. (Mother wasn’t so sure, but Dad was.) Little One would need it, too, in a few years. Summer school. 4-H. Yes, time to grow.
Not physically. She was already the same size as her mother. Except those lovely, long legs. Well, perhaps a bit wider in the shoulders, but she was fond of wearing Mother’s dresses. If sewing was done at home, one pattern with minor alterations would fit both.
This was the summer of The Dress. A 4-H requirement. Mother found it easier to make a dress for herself, making necessary adjustments, then proceed with Daughter’s clothes, adding a few youthful touches.
A satisfactory pattern was chosen. Simple, sleeveless, A-line skirt. A summer pastel in white, pink, blue, and silver stripes was soon transformed into a summer frock for Mother.
Now for Daughter’s turn. She chose well: a rosie-pink sheer suitable for dress-up wear. In between all the other activities The Dress was completed.
The day for judging arrived. We had planned for that, but that morning Daughter announced she must take her drivers’ test. Not too bad; Mother could fit an extra trip into her already crowded schedule.
Then the shocker. Daughter was giving The Dress a last-minute pressing when she remembered she had not made the belt or covered the buckle. A belt was a sine qua non. Time is running out. What to do? “Mom, would you…?” The voice was filled with pathos and pleading. Who could resist?
Mom did. The answer was no. Mother had a friend Gertrude who had a daughter. Daughter could not stand to lose. When she made a less-than-perfect garment, Gertrude would rip and resew. Then Daughter would “win” a blue ribbon. How unfair.
After a few moments of moaning and wailing someone suggested a ribbon belt. A-ha! The perfect solution. Mother called the largest department store. Niblicks were sorry, no ribbons the right color. A call to the store that had replaced the old Boston Store across from Niblicks had similar results.
Bob’s Sewing Center was the only other possibility. Did you ever meet Bob? “Yes, yes, of course. Several shades. Yes, lots of ribbon, lots of shades. Come right in.”
Daughter had yet to pass her drivers’ test. Surely it would not be cheating for Mother to make the trip while Daughter made some other preparations.
As Mother looked at Bob’s ribbon supply her spirits deflated like a punctured balloon. He had grosgrain but the wrong shade of pink. The velvet was too narrow. A decision was impossible. Mother bought both. Daughter could decide. Mother probably aged a year that day.
Daughter could and did make a wise decision. Use both ribbons. Together they would look alright. In a few minutes she had tacked the narrow rosie-pink velvet to the center of the wider paler pink grosgrain.
Judging went well. The color, style, poise – all perfect. Accessories complementary. White gloves – yes, they were a necessity – and white shoes all spanking white. And the belt, a sash really, took the judges’ eye. She made a number of complementary remarks. Visions of a purple rosette danced under those well-groomed looks.
4-H work is judged on looks but also on construction. The judge went to the next step. She looked at the wrong side of the belt and was aghast.
How could one who made such a lovely dress use such HUGE stitches on the underside?! Visions of purple slid through a kaleidoscope of colors and came out zilch.
But all is not lost. Daughter did win a ribbon and had HUGE satisfaction in wearing her dress.
Oh, yes, she passed her drivers’ test. A breeze, no sweat. Mother survived. Mothers have to.
Where was Dad? Well, if you ever lived on a farm, you wouldn’t need to ask. Up with the sun, he did half a day’s work before breakfast. His day did not stop at sunset, either. If he ever found a minute to sit and rest, he fell asleep almost instantly.
During all that, he was proud of his healthy, growing family. Thankful he could supply the fabrics, the car, whatever. Thankful bills could be paid in cash. Thankful Daughter could have those spanking white shoes. Too often we saw the neighbors’ bevy of girls. Sometime they must have had new shoes, but usually they were wearing runovers with their heels hanging out the back.
Or the neighbor boy. He was so happy to get Son’s outgrown shoes, although they were at least two sizes too big.
A time to be thankful. A time to stretch. To grow. To mature. Sixteen – when a pimple is a tragedy. The right phone call – cloud nine. A teeter-totter of emotions. Sun and rain. Sweet sixteen.