My parents, Herb and Roberta, had a small wedding
in late February. The forsythia was in bloom, and the yellow flowers graced the
reception. Roberta wore a red wool dress. It was bought at Hattie Carnegie.
My grandmother Clara loved to tell the
story of the interaction that her daughter Roberta had had with the sales lady.
But I can’t remember the exact details. The gist was that the woman was
condescending and assuming, bringing out only the cheapest merchandise for my
mother to see; Roberta was insistent and demanding. Finally the uppity woman
brought out the finest dress and my mother was satisfied.
After having children, my mother grew too
large for the dress, but then, ravaged by disease and chemotherapy, her body
shrank. She had the dress altered and began to wear it again.
It’s hanging in my closet
now, and I can just zip it up; my
shoulders must be a bit wider. The dress is horrid to have on for more than
five minutes, it’s like a hair shirt.
