Dear Reader,

Decoration Day

I stopped by the little country cemetery today. It is located off the main highway in a spot surrounded by the rolling wooded hills of central Indiana. It was a beautiful spring day, and the only sounds were bird songs and the gentlest whisper of a breeze.

I remembered coming here many times as a child. It seems strange now, but it was always a rather festive occasion. My mother would pack a picnic lunch and put in a jar of fresh lemonade. My dad would pack his garden tools in the trunk of the old ford, and we would set off for the long drive to the country. We would stop along the way, and Dad would get some marigolds and petunias, and some bright red geraniums.

As we arrived, there were others driving in, too, with their array of colorful flowers. Decoration Day was a big event. On our family plot, there was a large white concrete urn, and Dad would dump out the old, dry dirt, getting it ready for this year's display. He worked quietly and patiently, filling the urn with new fresh soil, and then arranging the tender plants with care. He wanted it to be perfect, and when he was finished, it was perfect or at least I thought it was. We stepped back and admired our little garden and then drew water from the well nearby to refresh the plants.

With our work complete, we walked around the little cemetery. Sometimes, Dad would meet some old friends from his childhood, and they would visit a while, sharing memories from long ago. Then, we would walk around, and he would tell me stories of some of the dear departed whose names appeared on the stone markers. We would read the inscriptions: "Beloved Husband," "Beloved Wife," "Died for his Country," "Rest in Peace."

When we came back to the family plot, Dad would stand quietly for a few minutes near the graves of his parents. Then he would walk a few steps away to a small stone, one that read "Infant Daughter". He was always very quiet when he left that tiny grave. I walked with him, sometimes holding his hand, loving him, but not really understanding his sadness.

Today, as I stood in the little cemetery, I remembered those Decoration Days as a time of family sharing. We didn't go out to dinner or to parties very often. No one had ever heard of paid vacation days or days off. My dad worked hard, and so we made a holiday out of going to the cemetery.

Today, like my dad so many years ago, I stood quietly at the graves of my parents, and I missed them. We had stopped along the way and bought some of their favorite bright red geraniums. I looked around the cemetery, and there were flowers of every color, pink, blue, yellow and all artificial. Hard, ugly, fading plastic flowers. I knew I could not put those plastic flowers on the graves of my parents. The old urn was gone, so we dug a hole in the hard ground and planted the flowers. I knew that they probably would not last, but they would be there for a while.

As I started to leave this spot of memories, I finally understood, at least in part, the sadness my dad used to feel. I stopped for a moment at the tiny grave and read "Infant Daughter." My dad's first born. It was a pain that had never gone away.

I stood a moment longer, my mind filling with loving memories of my parents: I read "Beloved Mother," "Beloved Father," "Rest in Peace."

"Rest in Peace."

– Dorothy Shortridge Radeke

Dear Reader,

The Drive-In Movie Theater

My husband, a city kid, tells a story about how he and his older brother rode their bikes from Bayside to Fresh Meadows, along service roads and across the Long Island Expressway to get to the Century Movie Palace for Saturday matinees.

I was sixteen years old before I saw a movie in a place with plush seats and Surround Sound. We didn’t go to movie theaters, my parents had eight kids and it was just too expensive. But on humid summer evenings, Dad piled the whole family into our Oldsmobile Fiesta 88 station wagon and drove to the Aero Drive-In Theatre, where kids under twelve were free. (We were 'all' under twelve, even when I was thirteen.)

Dad timed our arrival to get the best possible vantage point of the mammoth screen. As cars pulled in, men with flashlights waved them into spots in one of the fifteen concentric parking arcs. Get there too late and we would either be too far away or so close you had to crane your neck to see the movie. Dad jockeyed for a center spot to avoid a partial view. Mom insisted we park somewhere near the cement bunker housing the toilets so a Big Kid could escort a Little Kid to the bathroom. When we finally landed, Dad hooked up the speaker, a bulky steel contraption with a tinny sound, and turned up the volume as high as it would go so the kids in the rear seat could hear.

I loved going to the drive-in. It was a rare night out with Dad and it was easy for Mom–-no one to dress up or keep clean. We got to wear our pajamas so we could be deposited in bed as soon as we got home. The show began while it was still dusk; the cartoons barely visible shadows on the screen. We usually saw Westerns, my dad’s favorite. John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Glenn Ford–the tough guys rode horses across rocky terrains with impossibly blue skies and mountains I didn’t believe were real. We never saw a kids’ movie.

At Intermission, the screen darkened and the overhead arc lights switched on. Parents talked and smoked in their cars, kids raced to the dilapidated play area as if it were Christmas morning. My hands turned rust brown from the swing set, and my brothers ejected like ball bearings from the lethal, self-propelled merry-go-round. Kids jumped from wobbly monkey bars twelve feet high onto hardened mud. We were galloping wild animals challenging strangers in long shadows cast by the glare of 600 headlights. Too soon the arc lights switched off and we made our way back to our cars before the next feature began.

We dozed off as we watched, necks crimped against the windows, the Little Kids sprawled in a loose pile. The movie ended and we followed other cars as they single-filed to the road and home. Moths fluttered in the front stoop light Mom had left on. Dad cut the motor and rolled silently into our driveway, the only sound the rumble of the trucks from the nearby Thruway. Mom cradled the baby, Dad hefted a sleeping kid over his shoulder, climbed the steps and unlocked the back door. Blankets draped around our shoulders, we followed, staggering to our beds and a dream-charged sleep.

– Susan Lee Miller

Dear Reader,

A Needle in a Haystack

Mrs. Zaharou, my mentor, was the best seamstress in the village. She made her living from sewing and renting the next-door apartment. Her sewing workshop was also her bedroom and living room, a cozy space filled with the hum of creativity. She lived a simple life, yet her brain was rich in the knowledge of fabrics and stitches that she generously shared with me for three unforgettable summers.

Holding needle and thread in her talented hands, she dressed the local ladies for years, crafting and altering clothes that were as much a tribute to her skill as they were to her love for her craft. Her only sewing equipment was a Singer straight stitch treadle machine, a relic that she treated with the utmost care. A measure tape always hung around her neck, ready for the next project. An ironing board stood against a wall; its surface worn from multiple uses. A few Burda magazines and fashion catalogs were stacked on top of her table. Customers flipped through the pages to look at the models, dreaming of the dresses Mrs. Zaharou would bring to life for them.

A customer would point to a page in a catalog, saying, '"I like this dress."' She would hand us her luxurious silk fabric, trusting us to bring her vision to life. I would take her measurements with precision, noting every detail. On Monday, we would spread the fabric out on the kitchen table, ready to transform it into something beautiful. No pattern was needed; we would draft our own, guided by the customer's measurements and Mrs. Zaharou's expert eye.

'"Measure ten times, cut once,"' she would advise me, her voice calm and steady. This mantra became my guiding principle, a reminder of the importance of precision and care. We would baste the pieces together, the first step in turning the fabric into a dress. The customer would meet us for three fittings, each one bringing the dress closer to perfection. With each adjustment, the dress would fit the customer like a glove, caressing all her curves. It was one of a kind, so unique. I would marvel at how beautiful she looked in it, like an Indian princess.

On Saturday, I would deliver the dress to the customer. Her eyes would be filled with joy as she saw the finished product. She would tip me generously, a gesture of her appreciation for the care and craftsmanship that Mrs. Zaharou and I had dedicated to her dress. These moments were the highlights of my apprenticeship, each one a lesson in patience, precision, and the satisfaction of making something beautiful with my own hands.

Sewing a dress is not difficult. But making the woman who will wear it feel beautiful--that is an art mastered only by the most capable seamstresses, like Mrs. Zaharou. To sew such a dress, one must first understand that clothes are not merely for covering the body, keeping warm in cold weather, or hiding one's nakedness. A dress has the power to change the mood of the woman who will wear it. It dresses the soul first, taking her on a voyage, transforming her. It makes her feel beautiful and unique, and then, she becomes beautiful and unique in the eyes of others too. It's not enough that the seamstress knows how to sew well, but also to understand what story, what fairytale the woman, who entrusted her with the fabric, wants to live. The seamstress knows how to make the fabric one with the woman's skin.

Mrs. Zaharou taught me that sewing a dress is about understanding and fulfilling the emotional needs of the person who wears it. It's more than just sewing it, but also creating art that resonates with the soul. She really was a needle in a haystack.

– Harikleia Sirmans