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The Clothes that Make the Girl

As told to Leah Gebber

There was a snowdrift on our dining room table. Well, more like a huge stack of shirts, still crisp and clean in their crackling plastic wrapping. “C’mon boys! Come get your Yom Tov shirts.” It always amazes me how the dining room can change so drastically from one second to the next. From a peaceful, quiet kind of room, it suddenly fills with yells and laughs as my brothers — all seven of them — bowl down the stairs to claim their Yom Tov offerings: two new shirts and two pairs of black pants.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

 That’s the way we do things in our family. Seven boys, two working parents, not too much money — we’ve figured out a system. Twice a year, Ma goes to the store, a list of sizes in her pocket, and picks up 14 shirts and 14 pairs of pants. And then everyone’s fitted for Yom Tov. Almost everyone that is.

Then there’s me. My mother runs a kindergarten in our basement; she puts a smile on ten little faces, face paints, bakes, sings, and has a great time (so do the kids).  Every morning, she gets up, dresses, dabs on a little powder and blush, and then reaches for a housecoat. She wears it all morning while she teaches, and I have to remind her to take it off when we go out to a store.

She’s great, really great. But there are some things she’s never gonna understand.

Like clothing.

 

 

 

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