My Sisters,
My Mother, Myself
By Helen Martin
I remember how everyone
looked back then—like a photographic image, the way we looked is imprinted in
my mind. Dark hair always falling around our faces; sometimes, held back with
bobby pins or plastic barrettes. Mostly we wore dresses when we played; light
cotton dresses with flower designs—the fabric fluttering and moving around our knees,
tanned legs and arms always in motion…dancing, running, jumping rope in sturdy
shoes with dark socks or white sandals with straps that buckled.
Pretty clothes – dressing up –
one of the best things about growing up.
I remember my young life in sequences, separated by my next outfit.
What I was wearing interwoven through the
drama of growing up in the midst of a vibrant, noisy, complicated, Italian
family clan, an almost
surreal performance of full-tilt
three act plays every day; scenes at times resembled a Greek Tragedy marching across
our stage, in another sequence, a hilarious rollicking comedy of errors, played
out by characters so diverse that the only common thread these bigger than life
thespians shared was their ancestry.
The sweet memories dwell deep in my heart; dresses and outfits to wear
to church, to play in, to wear to school—dressing in your good play clothes to
go to the lake because later after swimming all day, there would be an out-door
movie where I would sit with my family on benches my sisters had saved, placing
blankets and towels there early in the day. I remember squirming and shifting
impatiently waiting for dusk to come as it came creeping much too slowing
across the lake, waiting till it was dark enough to start the movie.
Styles and materials from that
far-away place come cascading down through the years, causing me to smile, turn
around, and look. I remember yellow pedal pushers, halter tops, pinafores
trimmed in rick rack, eyelet fabric, smocking, colorful embroidery on white
linen dresses, lavender shorts, black patent leather shoes and too soon; ballerina
slippers for my teens.
Dancing bodies bring a remembering smile of a barefoot ballerina poised
and waiting for her entrance. The Conductor gestures: the dancer, moving to the
music of the great orchestra glides over the cool grass, to be joined by two or
three, sometimes four, similarly graceful ballerinas. Dancing for their adoring
public until the last possible moment, until it is almost dark; they will have
just enough time to collect the overturned bushel baskets, no longer needed as
make-up vanities.
The leaves that fly off and scatter are not given another glance.
Treasures, when the game started, are nothing but discarded pieces of fantom memories.
The leaf carefully chosen for lipstick is lost, check color, eye-shadow and the
large leaf used for powder have played their last show. The curtain falls and
the scene changes.
Later still, or not, I don’t remember, but I remember the dress: a black
and white check dress with a black velvet bolero. Our mysterious Uncle Phillip,
my mother’s uncle really, would appear through-out our lives coming in
unannounced all the way from the east coast, always loaded down with presents.
I don’t remember the occasion for the grand present, possibly my birthday, every
birthday was celebrated in our house with cake and ice cream, presents and
cards but not every birthday constituted a ‘party’, just the ones mom decided
should; “So American” she would admonish.
I remember the moment in the black and white check dress—standing on the
walk in the back yard of my house, that moment in that dress was so vivid: I
must have run out side, stood there entranced with my new dress, just looking
down at it. I don’t remember the rest of the day or how long I got to keep it
on before I had to change into my everyday clothes. “Mommy”, please let me wear
it a little longer. “No”, she said, with her hand on her hips, standing there
in full apron, festooned with straight pins and snatches of thread, she had
rescued from the floor and counter tops. I remember I got to wear it to school
on special days; to church, of course.
I loved the dress with the black velvet bolero—I felt so grown up. My
mother, an extraordinary beauty, charming and elegant had recently finished
sewing matching dresses with boleros for my two older sisters. Kathy and Rosie
were like movie stars to me; sashaying around so free and beautiful, flashing
smiles and laughing at most of life. Everyone wanted to be around them. Popular
and passionate, they strode through their high school years like princesses,
carrying their books and clutch purses, charm bracelets dangling on their wrists,
their polished saddle shoes shinning, leaving a trail of boys in their wake.
I was so shy, they barley acknowledged me at all; calling me ‘Honey’ and
teasing me whenever they stopped long enough to scrutinize me. I worshiped
them.
