Every day, mom comments on my clothing. She was always a clotheshorse herself and bought me some incredible outfits when I was growing up. I remember going to Fisher Bros. down in New York’s Bowery, then known as the garment district. Fisher Brothers was a building several stories high—I cannot recall how many—where men, women, boys, and girls could be fitted for coats of extraordinary style and quality. All made in the USA! (Those were the days. My dad would always join us for the trips into Manhattan. We’d then adjourn after a day of shopping to some wonderful Italian restaurant or other downtown and then to Ferrara’s in Little Italy for dessert.)

Yesterday at the farm, while I was giving tours through the main house, I called attention to the quality of the woolen coats hanging on the acorn hooks. (Farmhouse homes at the turn of the century did not have closets, but used hooks mounted on bedroom walls on which to hang clothing.) The coats were of such a fine and thick wool, they will probably last forever, or at least as long as the moths will permit it.

Today, I was wearing a shirt that was made in the USA. (I search as often as possible for things made in this country.) Mom admired it, saying, You always wear nice things. As usual, mom asked where I bought it. Sometimes I merely say the store or a catalogue. This time, I told her that was from Hawaii.

Where’s Hawaii?

Well, it’s a state at the far western end of the country.

Ooooh, they have nice things. 

I promised mom we would go out later. I hope she doesn’t ask to go to Hawaii.