Elizabeth Crowell
Loehmann’s, Saturdays, Ridgewood, New Jersey, 1970’s My mother approached the store from the back, through a bumpy, cracked drive, where the roots of the overgrown red oaks pushed the pavement up. There weren’t a lot of stores like this then mixed with different brands in giant rooms, and something happened to my mother there that didn’t happen at B.Altman’s where she bought her wool suits, or the local store with bright sweaters and printed turtlenecks. At Loehmann’s, she said she wanted a “little something,” and picked silk blouses, floppy dresses to try on. In the dressing rooms, I pretended not to look at the tanned ladies with garters, hose with no panties, braless or those who slid on dress after dress then shed them down to their painted toes. The men, jackets on, with soft leather loafers, slouched in the chairs, with Star Ledgers folded to the crossword, and waited with a patience my own father never had.
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