Dedicated to My Mother and Father
I published this story online about five years ago. It was called “A Dress of Gold.”
Not all stories are happy. However, this is a good example of how “functional” families work things out.
My aunt Esther was only 14 years older than me. When she was in her early 20s she met a man call Herb. He was in his early thirties. They got married in 1958 when I was 8 years old. My mother bought us all nice dresses–at Kaufmann’s of course–for this happy occasion. Mine was black velvet with flowers on it. When I saw myself in a black velvet dress for the first time I almost plotzed. I could hardly speak. It was so beautiful.
Esther got pregnant immediately. She gave birth to the baby at the same time that I was hospitalized to have an infected salivary gland removed. Quite a trauma, that was; what was worse–the baby was born with Downs Syndrome and other severe abnormalities.
Esther went into labor and delivered the baby on the same day I had my operation. My mother couldn’t leave Esther for long so my father came and sat by my hospital bed and said nice things to me as I slowly came out of the anesthesia. It was nice, having my father there as I woke up. But I was told soon after about my aunt’s baby.
Just think about this. Poor Esther, in bed in Magee Hospital (I think) and crying her eyes out with this husband of hers, screaming “Look what a monster you gave me, just look!” Fortunately my father, who had absolutely no problem “manning up” to his masculine and protective duties, ejected Herb from the hospital. He physically removed him. That’s the kind of father I had.
The baby, named Louis, was placed in some kind of special sanitarium; however, the poor little thing died after only a month. My mother remembered driving her “baby sister” and the new baby to this place where he would receive good care.
A family crisis. Esther left Herb and came to our small house. We had a tiny guest room that had a desk and a couch that pulled out into a bed. Esther went in, closed the door, and cried. I remember vividly standing in front of that closed door, listening to my beloved aunt crying. After a month or thereabouts Esther got a job in downtown Pittsburgh, found an apartment, and her best friend came to share it with her. She met her present husband soon after moving out.
Why do I say that my family was “functional?” For one thing, there was only one person who could have thrown Herb out of the hospital and my father was there to do it. Also, when I look back on that time, I’m filled with love and admiration for how my mother handled everything. I was ten years old. Yet my mother told me all the facts about Daddy getting rid of Herb, the poor baby’s death, and why Esther was crying.
How many children get pushed aside or have doors slammed in their faces, never knowing the facts when the family is undergoing a crisis?
Esther met her new husband and everything was wonderful. My aunt’s cheeks were pink and she wasn’t crying. My mother sang as she did her housework. She took all of us to Kaufmann’s to get new dresses for the wedding. I was in rapture over the dress that my mother let me have. It wasn’t yellow–it was made of gold-colored cloth and it had a scooped neckline. It represented everything that was good–joy coming after sorrow, possibly new babies coming to make us forget the tragic events, true love.
Finally, a description of the wedding. It was held in the rabbi’s study. My aunt wore a suit and a hat that was covered with flowers. Only a beautiful woman could have worn it without looking silly. Afterwards, everyone came to our small house–all the cousins and other relatives along with good friends. No catering for this wedding; my mother baked the cake and made other delicious foods, all by herself. She worked so hard on making everybody happy. It was beautiful.
A strange thing happened, though. Towards the end of the day I suddenly wanted to cry but I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to spoil this glorious day so I quickly ran upstairs, hid myself in a corner, and cried there. My aunt came up to find me. I had no idea why I could cry on such a wonderful day. Now, after more than 50 years later, I think I was just plain overcome by the events that led to a satisfying ending–and this was a period of time that lasted about a year and a half.
The next day, after the newlyweds were off to their honeymoon, I overheard my mother talking to her cousin Bryna on the phone. She said “I’m basking in the afterglow.” What young girl–I was 11 by then–could forget those words?
lgmwriting 