ProetryPlace Blog 56, A Memoir for Father’s Day
DAD’S CONFIRMATION GIFT
“Here it is!” Mom found the old pinstriped suit, hanging limp and dingy on a wire hanger at the back of the closet. “It was your dad’s years ago, and it’s still in wonderful condition,“she said with honest pride. Maybe memories more than the condition of the suit prompted her enthusiasm. It was an enthusiasm I did not share nor understand. “Stand up straight and let me check the fit,” she ordered.
I had grown like a summer weed the past year and passed through time’s one-way portal that made me a teenager. I was rod-thin: six feet of knees, ribs and elbows, not an ounce of fat, inches taller than my father.
I had taken the required religious instructions, and it was time for our pastor to quiz me and the eleven others seeking confirmation of our religious faith, the affirmation of adult status in the Lutheran Church. The special ceremony that would establish that we were ready to support the ideology of our faith would take place before all members of the Resurrection Lutheran Church congregation in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in just ten days. Mom and Dad sought to assure I would be properly attired for the occasion. My usual jeans and Tee would not do.
My class of twelve young aspirants would be shorn, shined and dressed to look our very best for the event. Custom said I would wear a suit. But suits cost money. With four young children to clothe and feed, our family budget was always stretched thin, so Mom and Dad were hopeful when they remembered the suit, saved, as all things were, but not worn for years.
I stood for the fitting, doubtfully inspecting the heavy, wool material, hoping they would see, as I did, that the garment was totally unsuitable. My mother held the suit jacket across my back and lifted the sleeve to check the length against my outstretched arm. “Okay,” she mused.
She instructed me to put the garment on and stood in front of me to check the style and fit. She cocked her head, raised a brow, nodded. My shoulders and chest had not broadened to a grown man’s proportions. The dark blue wool jacket hung on my gangly frame not quite as well as it had on the hanger.
The sharpness of naphtha mixed with the musty aromas of past years filled my nostrils. I felt sick. Mom, a talented seamstress, said positively, “Uh-huh!”, but I detected the hint of skepticism that crossed her face.
Maybe I had a chance. Maybe she would realize that besides not remotely being a fit, the suit was old and ugly. Maybe, maybe the suit would go away. I felt a flash of hope when the suit was hung away again, but out-of-sight might not be out of mind.
The next day when Dad came home from work, the family gathered in the kitchen for supper. The subject of the suit was not discussed as my older sister provided stimulating and sophisticated dinner-time conversation as only older sisters can. Maybe the suit is a dead issue, I hoped, but later, in bed, I heard snippets of parental debate.
“It was a good, expensive suit.” . . .
“It needs an awful lot of adjusting, I don‘t think I can do it.” . . .
“What about a new one?”
“We don’t have the money!” . . .
“I wonder what old Saul, the tailor, would charge to fix it.”
I drifted into sleep, free of sartorial responsibility, knowing fate and my parents would resolve the problem, somehow, and I would live with that decision.
Late the next afternoon, before supper, Dad asked me about the dreaded dark blue pin stripe. I lied. “It’s fine,” I said, and added the obvious, “but it doesn’t fit.”
“Okay, then, come with me,” he said, and we started our trek of fourteen or so city blocks to find Saul. This was about the same distance Dad walked to work every day and we children walked to school. The family car, a 1932 Buick, the same age as I, ran fine but was reserved for longer trips through town, an occasional weekend excursion, or the one-week per year family vacation.
We found the small shop. The single word, Tailor, was lettered in gold on the glass of the dirty front door. A man‘s suit hung on a headless mannequin behind the small, single front window that advertised alterations, new and used clothing, and suits made to order for men and women.
Inside, the small shop was dimly lighted and seemed to be unoccupied. I looked with amazement upon the disarray of cloth and clothing strewn about on a variety of tables and wondered how my father knew of this unwholesome place. Had I known the word, appalled, that’s what I would have been.
Momentarily, Saul pulled aside the curtain that separated the cutting tables and machines in his back work area from the equally disorganized front counter and display area where we waited. He shuffled forward and leaned with his stubby fingers on the worn counter while my father explained our mission and showed Saul the dark blue suit. Finally, the tailor said, in a thick, wet accent unfamiliar to my ears, “No problem, no problem.” He waved a finger at me and held out the jacket for me to put on. “Come here boy, behind the counter.”
I glanced toward my father who nodded. I stepped reluctantly toward the hunched little man in a stained suit. Pins were stuck like bandoliers up and down each of his lapels. I could see that he had eaten eggs recently, sometime that day probably. Spots of yolk on his jacket retained a hint of their color and a faint, repulsive sheen. Numerous other stains, spots and streaks were older and unidentifiable, blending with the uncertain color of his worn and aged clothing. Tailor, clothe thyself!
He sat on a stool to measure and assess the magnitude of his tailoring task, while I faced him, feeling as uncertain and uneasy as a guilty schoolboy facing the principal. Saul draped a measuring tape over this shoulder, then the other. I grimaced and glanced around at Dad. Did he not see the condition of this shop and this man? Was he serious? How could he expect anything but disaster from any service he sought at this place?
Head down, grunting like a rooting hog, Saul pulled the pants and coat this way and that on my body. My shoulders were hunched, and my eyes fixed on my feet while he chalked a mark here and pinned a crease there. Finally he assured Dad that there was a lot of work, but the suit would fit—maybe not perfect, but Okay. The price was agreed. It would be ready in less than a week.
Still wearing the marked and measured clothing, I saw myself in the suit for the first time in a large, cloudy oval mirror, with Saul, proudly, off to one side and my father standing silently in the background. I could not disappoint my Dad, and besides, there were no other options. I knew how important it was for our family to conserve and save money. I nodded my head in reluctant agreement, trying to look pleased, eager to leave this place, knowing it would be necessary to return in a week to face the disgusting tailor and retrieve the altered suit.
We spoke little, if at all, on the walk home. I did not want to face the grotesque tailor again. How could I stand tall in front of church wearing that old, dreary, reshaped suit? Dad seemed to have something on his mind too.
At dinner, I was not hungry. No one raised the subjects of the tailor and the suit at the table. My sister and brothers always had plenty of newfound knowledge of the day to share. No one seemed to noticed my silence
My preoccupation with the suit faded as days passed with the endless variations of day-to-day life of a large family. Then, a day before our appointed re-visitation to Saul, the tailor, my father said to me “Get in the car, we’re going shopping.”
He drove a few miles to a small, family clothing store, the kind that seemed always to have just about what you wanted at a price you could afford to pay—until the malls and department stores put them out of business. “Let’s see if you can find a nice sport coat and some slacks here. Take a look around.”
I didn’t bother to ask, but, what about the suit? I followed Dad’s directions immediately. From the racks I picked a powder-blue coat and tried it on. It fit—no chalk or pins were necessary. The price was reasonable and seemed acceptable to Dad, but I worried where the money would come from.
As we drove home with the new coat and slacks in a large, flat box, I shared all the latest news with Dad about school, my friends, and their parents. Dad just nodded and smiled. I jumped from the car to open the garage doors, and Dad parked the well-preserved Buick. We walked together to the house, both proud and eager to share our news, to show Mom the contents of the box I carried so proudly. I paused at the door to face my father and said, “Thanks, Dad.”
“That’s okay, Son,” he replied.
No comments:
Post a Comment