I have very few memories of life before six years old when this picture was taken. I remember being arranged and ready for my close up when I thought I should do something interesting for this picture, so I contorted my fingers...why? Only a six-year-old could answer that one. I cleaned up real well but did not look that good on a daily basis sometimes I resembled a ragamuffin because I took care of myself after all. My mother could not sew; she could make glorious quilts, but she could not sew garments. Once she made a red coat for my sister, who was eleven years older than I, and when she wore it to school kids made fun of her. She came home madder than a wet hen, took off the coat and threw it into the fireplace and burned it to a crisp. I am sure that hurt mother's feelings, but at that time neither my sister nor I paid any attention to parent's feelings. Mother had a friend who sewed beautifully. She could have worked in a fashion house but was stuck in Roseville as were many talented people. Mother had her sew for me whenever she had some extra change and the clothes were glorious. In seventh grade, I was asked to model a pink corduroy dress for a fashion show. (That made my nemesis Leanna really mad. I paid for that one.) I remember a sky blue silk dress with pearl buttons, and a beautiful white blouse with puff sleeves and a long black skirt for a play in sixth grade. She also made the dress in this picture. Once when peek-a-boo skirts were popular she made one for me with a pink peasant blouse. It was such a cute outfit. I wish I had pictures of these beautifully made clothes and a way to thank that long-gone woman.
Every year before school started we would go to Zanesville to one of the elegant department stores to buy some dresses for school. I looked forward to that. I would get three or four but that was it for the entire year. The total cost was probably three dollars. It was a loooong time ago.
I never had a bike and still do not know how to ride one. Dad thought it was too dangerous. I was admonished to never get on a bike, so naturally, I did, with two other people. I was in the back of this threesome rolling down a hill going, of course, very fast and I tried to stop it with my shoes tearing the back out of one having caught it in the spokes. Yowl. How would I lie myself out of this one? "How did you tear your shoe," dad asked. "I caught it on a nail," was my reply. And that was it. Nothing more was said...ever. Of course, dad knew it was not true because his friend saw the entire thing and ratted on me, but Dad never brought it up again. I am sorry about that lapse in judgment but there were so many of them.
