Mother Memories - another indication the world of the grownup and the child are so very, very different

Memories I cherish most are those from early childhood, before my sisters were born, before my mother became ill.

By mid 1950s, women still wore seamed stockings and a hat with a small veil over the face. I loved to go to Sears to try on dresses. One morning, I asked my mother if we could go to Sears. She did not have any housework to do that day and she agreed.

She wore a black dress, nylons with a black seam up the back, a small black hat with a short veil in front. She applied brown eyebrow pencil to shape her brows, powder and red lipstick. She was ready.

I have no idea what I was wearing; likely, it was a play dress.

My dad had the family car that day,  so we took the bus. We lived in a residential neighborhood in a central location in Salt Lake, so there was a bus stop in front of our house.

I boarded the bus first. My mom then tried to board immediately after me, but I stopped her.

 "Watch out, Mommy, you have to let Bluey on, first." Bluey was my imaginary friend, a blue elephant of my height, who went everywhere with me. Apparently, my mom couldn't see him. This was news that Bluey did not exist for others as he did for me.

 "Oh, Kathy, I'm sorry. Bluey can get on first. You tell me when he's on the bus."

 "OK, Mommy. Bluey's on the bus now. You can get on."

The bus driver smiled, in a way that only adults who've had children (and likely children who also had imaginary friends) can smile - a knowing smile full of wisdom.

 I sat down on the bench to the left in the front of the bus. My mom began to sit down. "Watch out, Mommy. You're sitting on Bluey."

This was not  my mom's day as much as it was Bluey's day. I was miffed my mother kept missing the cues that seemed so obvious to me,  just an ordinarym five year-old girl.

 "Here, Mommy. You sit on the next bench. Bluey's here next to me."

The indignity of forcing my mother to sit on the bench in front of me, (while my imaginary friend sat next to me) shocks me now, but my mother took it in stride. She was a wise mom, who clearly understood little girls.

The ride to Sears was probably no more than three or four miles. Salt Lake had only 125,000 people in the metropolitan area at the time.

My mother was always in a good mood, and this day was no exception. She went through the racks with me and, together, we picked out dresses. I stood in front of the three-way mirror outside of the dressing room, with each dress we had selected. 

I smiled and twirled around in front of the mirror, making sure I fluffed the skirts of the dresses as I twirled. I wanted to look pretty as a princess.  

After more than 30 minutes of trying on dresses, my mother asked me:

"So Kathy, which dress do you want to buy?"

"I don't want to buy any of them, I just want to try them on,"

My mother smiled again, that same knowing smile she'd smiled earlier on the bus.

Apparently, the concept of buying a dress had not occurred to me. It was not important to continue the fantasy beyond the trying-on stage. I was five and money beyond a nickel-a-week allowance for penny candy was not important to me.

Ownership was not important to me. I only wanted to see how I looked in the dresses, to be a princess for a moment,  not a princess for the outside world, showing off what I had purchased.