A Hand-Me-Down

This story was told to me by my mother on one of our walks through Schenley Park in Pittsburgh, PA.  It is a true story.  It was inspired by my beloved, deceased, stepfather, Charles F.C. Arensberg, who encouraged me as a writer.  Thank you, Charlie.

My mother was a young girl at the time, already very pretty and resolute. She was the oldest child of three, living with her mother Dora (my Granny), her father, brother and sister.  They lived in a tenement building on Valentine Avenue in the Bronx, in a small apartment facing brick walls.   A poor Austro-Hungarian immigrant family. 

Granny’s Uncle Albin lived not far away with his family, Tante Helena, and a daughter, just one year older than my mother. Uncle Albin was in real estate.  They lived in a better neighborhood.  Helena regarded the Graubarts as “poor relations.”  She sent bundles of hand-me-down clothing to them from time to time. 

One day when Dora was shopping, a bundle of such clothing arrived.  My mother opened it and found a beautiful blue party dress which just fit her.  She loved it.  It was made of “challis,” a silk and wool blend popular in those days. Just then her mother came home.  She said, “Is that a “hand-me-down” from Tante Helena?”  My mother said, “Yes, but I love it!  It just fits me!  I look so nice in it!”  Dora said, “Put it on the dumbwaiter!”  (The dumbwaiter was a small freight elevator, intended to carry food and other things.)  My mother burst into tears.  Dora said, “Put it on the dumbwaiter!”  My mother did as she was told, but never forgot the incident.  I would have let her keep it.

It is hard for me to imagine Dora, my frail, exhausted, disenchanted grandmother acting like that.  Her body was weak, but her Hungarian pride was strong.  Because of this incident told to me by my mother, I have never accepted hand-me-downs.