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My hand-me-down wardrobe was threadbare
by the time it got to me, the fourth girl in a family
of five. How I envied Ken, my only brother: He always
managed to get new clothes. There were no faded undershirts
or pants with torn knees for him. He got brand new clothing,
and I began to realize how unfair it was to be one of
four girls.
The only good clothes I ever got were those that were
deemed "ugly." These were the ones my sisters
had received as gifts and were too "gaggy" to
wear.
They were stuffed into a drawer until
they no longer fitted, and Mom wondered why she'd never
seen Cathy wear that lovely yellow sweater from Aunt Martha
- the one with the ducks on it. There were also wide-legged
pants when the style was slim. These became my new clothes.
Until I was 10, I had the fashion sense of a wart hog:
So as long as it fitted, I wore it.
But one day, something changed.
My friend Rena lived next door. She was
older, pretty, and fun, and she came from a Ukrainian
family. I loved the clothes that she wore - full of color
and tradition. One day when I was at her house learning
to make pirogies, her mother brought out a bag of clothes
bound for Goodwill.
"Would you like to go through these
first?" asked Mrs. B. I eagerly dropped my dough
and went for the bag. At the top of the pile was the most
beautiful shirt I had ever seen. It was red - bright red
- and silky.
There were no tears, no stains, and no
runs in the shirt. It had seven gold buttons on the front
and one on each silky sleeve. I was in love. I crushed
it to my stained T-shirt, said "thank you,"
and quickly ran home to show my mom.
The new shirt had a magic to it. For
the first time, I began to look in the mirror before I
left for school. I combed my hair more than once a day,
and I brushed my teeth more than twice. I put my dirty
clothes in the laundry pile. I started to notice what
other people wore and even sneaked looks at my sister's
fashion magazine. I showed an interest in sewing, and
soon I was making my own clothes out of castoffs.
They were not always successes, and some
my mother wouldn't let me wear out of the house, but I
eventually learned to create a passable wardrobe.
I wore the beautiful red shirt at least
three times a week. I wore it for special occasions and
to school on the days we had assembly. I polished the
gold buttons, and I hung it up after every washing.
At 12, I had blossomed into a young lady
with style, all because of that wonderful red shirt.
One day my mother watched as I struggled
to get the buttons done up. I had grown, and unfortunately
my shirt had not. I cried and tried to figure out a way
to make it bigger without hurting it, but I could not
bring myself to change it. It was perfect and could not
be altered to fit the person I was becoming.
Mother had just prepared a basket of
things to take over to a new family. They were Portuguese
and had recently moved into our small town. There was
not much money to go around, especially after their move.
The father had just begun a new job and the mother did
not know much English, so she could not find work in any
of the shops.
I remembered seeing their youngest girl
in school with her threadbare clothes and worn shoes,
her hair mussed up and dirt on her face. It hurt me to
see how much she looked the way I had two years ago.
I placed the red shirt on the top of
the basket, and my mom nodded and said, "Now you
have grown in more ways than one."
I smiled and took one last look at my
favorite shirt. It had changed my life, and I hoped it
would do the same for her, too.
The next week in school, I saw the little
girl, whose name was Marta. She was busy making friends
and playing games. Her smile seemed a little brighter,
her hair was combed and tied with a scarlet ribbon to
match her new red shirt with the shiny gold buttons that
someone had handed down.
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