It’s was mid-June. I should have been looking forward to spending the day lounging on my backyard deck, but no. It was pouring. The temperature would barely rise above 60 degrees today. I grumbled my way into the shower — at least the water was warm — and suddenly, I was remembering the beautiful cashmere ribbed turtleneck my parents gave me for Christmas 1972.
On that Christmas Eve, after midnight, we sat around the tree. My mother handing out boxes while my father watched. “Barbara, this is for you,” she said and picked up a good-sized rectangular box, “You’ll probably hate it.” I rolled my eyes and groaned, “Maaaa,” and tore off the Christmas giftwrap. Wow, a Macy’s logo on the box. What did I do to deserve this? My parents were always on a budget, so a gift from Macy’s was a big deal. I held my breath before lifting the lid and hoped whatever was inside wasn’t something my mother would have loved to wear when she was my age. That was what guided most of her clothes purchases for me until I was fifteen, got an after-school job and sank my $.75 an hour wages into buying my own clothes.
“Your father picked it out,” she gives a tortured giggle, assigning blame should I hate whatever was in the box before I even had the lid off. More eye rolling from me and a silent reminder to myself that there was a returns department in Macy’s. Slowly, I lifted the lid. Under the white tissue was a beautiful Caribbean-sea-green-blue cashmere sweater. A very hip, tight-fitting ribbed turtleneck. (I recently went to the Benjamin Moore website searching for the color that matches my memory. The closest I could find was Sweet Honeydew Melon, 2033 – 70.)
“Thank you both,” I said, near happy tears. “Dad, this is beautiful. You picked this out?” I sat there musing, Of course, he picked this sweater in this color for me. He’s a Pisces. I’m a Cancer. We water signs love this color blue-green. (It was 1972 and I was 22.) Before Dad could answer, Mom jumped in. “Yes, he picked up the sweater and handed it to me,” she said. Dad then jumped in with a defense, “It was a beautiful sweater. I liked the color. We’d been shopping for two hours. I wanted to get out of that store.” (No, this is not a Frank and Marie Barone sketch from Everybody Loves Raymond.) Ahh, the magic of Christmas.
Anyway, I loved the sweater. I wore it nearly threadbare. In an effort to tighten up the weave a bit, I decided to wash instead of dry clean the sweater. It shrank. No problem, by 1975, we were all wearing our sweaters shorter and tighter. (Thank you, Rod Stewart.) It was a moth invasion in 1976 that finally sent my beloved Caribbean-sea-green-blue ribbed cashmere turtleneck sweater into the trash. I searched for a replacement. Alas, nothing. But at least I still had a good story to tell.
