It was my 10th or 11th birthday. Typically, my parents bought me a pair of flannel pajamas from the Dry Goods Man, who owned the store adjacent to my father’s. Mom baked me a sponge cake in the tin pot that magically baked on top of the stove. And my brother Seymour promised me that he was buying me a ring, but ended up presenting me with a metal contraption that gave electric shocks when you pressed it against someone’s hand. It was only my big sister Bernice who knew better. My cool, beautiful, newly- married, devoted sister. She was the one who understood how to make my birthday special. She went to Silver’s.
Silver’s was a children’s clothing store on Grand Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It was just a few blocks from our apartment on Ridge Street, but worlds away from where we could afford to shop. Its ornately decorated windows were filled with stylish, impractical clothes that enchanted me as a child. Every day on the way to and from school I would stare at the extravagantly clothed mannequins displayed there and wish that I looked like them. I had enough things to wear, of course, but nothing as lavish as the clothes in that gorgeous window. Honestly, I knew of no one who shopped there.
Yet that birthday, my sister, as she often could, must have read my mind. She understood how to give me the birthday gift of my dreams! When I came home from school that day it was waiting for me on the living room couch. A huge beribboned box that shouted Silver’s on its front label in bold silver script. Under layers of hot pink tissue paper, there is was, the most stunning outfit I had ever seen, much less owned. And now it was mine. For my birthday, my wonderful sister Bernice had bought me a beautiful, flared pink, polished cotton skirt trimmed with rows of white fringe. And if that wasn’t enough, the skirt came with a matching, oh so glamorous, shawl edged with the same fringe. I can personally guarantee that no one in my neighborhood or in my class at school ever had an outfit as exquisite and unique as that one. And it never even crossed either of our minds as to where I could possibly wear it.
When I think of my sister, I keep remembering that outfit. There was nothing practical about that skirt and shawl but it was so Bernice. Stylish, unique: a statement piece. And who cared if it wasn’t practical, or what anyone would say, she just knew that I would adore it. It comes as no surprise that she probably spent money she couldn’t afford in order to make me feel special and loved. This typified our relationship.
Because Bernice was eight years older than I was, she was in the position of being able to introduce me to situations and adventures my parents never thought to talk to me about. You see, she had already been there, so she could teach me things. Bernice was always my adviser: as to how to dress, do my hair, pick the right guy, furnish my home, raise my kids, even adjust to their leaving home. When Lenny and I met and got stuck after hitchhiking to West Point on a day off from camp, who do you think we called to rescue us? Bernice and Stanley soon showed up in Bullville to take us back to camp, bearing tuna fish sandwiches and the promise that my parents (read my mom) would never find out about our misadventure. When I proudly bought black and white sheets for my trousseau and my mother freaked out, Bernice defended me to her, explaining that “schvartz” sheets (my mom’s words) were the height of fashion! As Lenny and I were contemplating buying our first home, Bernice and Stanley came to Verona Ave to check the house out. Bernice (not Stanley) also told us not to worry, that we didn’t need much money to be homeowners. When I was on bed rest with a difficult pregnancy, Bernice showed up and yelled at me to stop kvetching, “Just put on makeup, comb your hair and suck it up,” and I did. I could go on and on. There wasn’t any subject that I wasn’t able to discuss with my big sister and there were things that only she and I were able to share, both good and bad: about our families, our feelings and our lives. For sure, I didn’t always agree with her advice or she with mine. We sometimes argued but we were always each other’s sounding board, until the end of her life.
Shloshim, the 30 days of mourning, will be officially over tomorrow. I was forbidden to listen to music, go to a movie or socialize in any way. Not one of these restrictions bothered me at all. I certainly was in no mood for distractions. What I did, and will forever, miss terribly was the ability to pick up the phone and call my sister. It is painful to imagine a world where I can’t just dial her number and talk to her about anything and everything. And yes, even listen. You see, there is no longer anyone left in this world who knows me so long or so well. No one who could just figure out that, for sure, I would absolutely love to own a pink flared skirt with a matching shawl. I will miss her every day.
By Estelle Glass
