For the Love of Sadie

Long before Doncaster, Carlisle or Worth, there was Sadie. Sadie, was my grandmother’s friend and neighbor who, in the late 1960’s, sold on-trend shift style dresses from her two-bedroom garden-style cooperative apartment in Yonkers. Dresses—that that Jewish lady clients, as well as my Catholic mother and her friends, affectionately called schmatas.

And so, also with affection, Sadie became known to all that knew her, as the schmata lady.

It is not uncommon for me to receive comments and feedback on my blog. And because my readership is largely comprised of people with whom I am acquainted either directly or indirectly, I am rarely contacted by total strangers.

But last week was different. Last week I received an email from a man I did not know. He wrote that as part of his creative process (he was/is a professional writer) he often googled the names of people from his own past. And that is how he came upon one of my blog posts—about Hubertine Wilkie—his (and my) piano teacher.

The man’s email was quite humorous and engaging. His experience with Miss Wilkie mirrored mine—which was quite miserable. He also mentioned where he grew up and the high school he attended. He also referenced his website—which I believe was done with the intent of validating the truth of his statements and to demonstrate that he was not a creeper.

He also inquired as to whether we might have been neighbors despite the fact that Miss Wilkie had privately taught hundreds of students all over the city of Yonkers and in the small town of Hastings for over 60 years.

So before writing him back, I stalked him on his web page. And I was shocked to see that he had won 7 Emmy awards for his songwriting and was a critically acclaimed playwright. And largely because he seemed legitimate and also because I was flattered that a man of such talent had taken the time to contact me, I took the chance of responding to his email—but I still remained cautious. People lie on the internet—I know this because I am a fan of the MTV show Catfish. And so I walked the line between forthright and cryptic.

I mentioned that I lived on Bolmer Avenue sandwiched between two specifically named neighbors—a dare to see if he recognized them. I also mentioned that my father had been the principal of his high school—a provocation to test his knowledge of the school district.

Amazingly the writer-man recognized the name of one of my neighbors—specifically recalling one of the children. He also named the year of his high school graduation with the correct name of the principal at the time.

And so I went further out on a limb—I mentioned that my grandparents also lived in the very large cooperative complex that the writer-man grew up in. And for no particular reason other than geographical reference, I mentioned that my grandparents lived near Sadie—the schmata lady.

His response was that he too lived near Sadie—the schmata lady. Sadie in fact lived so near his apartment that she lived in it.

Sadie was his mother.

And in my closet right now there must be 20 shift style dresses. People who know me know that they are my go-to outfit in the summertime. Many are colorful prints like those that hung on the racks in Sadie’s apartment. And to this day, to my inner circle of friends, I still refer to my summer shifts as schmatas—in honor of the larger than life woman who sold them—a woman who always hugged me every time she saw me.

And who would have thought that the connector between me and an acclaimed writer would have been Miss Wilkie—a bitter rigid drab woman who seemingly had no real friends. A woman, who never inspired anyone but her beloved student Walter, to explore notes and song.

But what I know for certain is that I am forever changed by this experience—an experience too rich and fantastical to make-up.

 It has inspired me more than ever to spill my thoughts on to the page—to be a storyteller---to invite thinkers to think and readers to read.  Because the world is so very big, and yet so very small—and we are all connected in ways we cannot imagine.