One Sunday morning in June 1959 my mother walked into my room. “Surprise!” she said, proudly holding up a yellow dress with black and white stripes1. “I made it just for you. What do you think?”
I bit my tongue. How could I tell Mom it was the most hideous2 dress I had ever seen? The too-intense colors, the gaudy3 rhinestone4 buttons, the shiny patent leather belt, the hopelessly out-of-style billowy5 skirt.
“It’s perfect for church,” my mother continued blithely.“I wish somone had made a dress like thi