Nascent Visionary
1972. Sandwich bags loaded with white daisy pins, orange clip earrings, elaborate chunky rings. Costume jewelry whisked me away to a world of color and design. Lost treasures that migrated from dusty jewelry boxes to the gift shop case at Alden Nursing Home.
My great-grandmother, Olga Weiskopf, curated my collection. While volunteering at the gift shop, she selected and saved pieces she knew I would love. My style was big and flashy - vintage signature pieces that held stories. Worn for potluck parties or dinner dates, their intricate patterns added a touch of class to a basic black dress. Geometric Art Deco pendants. Long brass necklaces.
Jewelry from another era.
Once a month, Mom, Dad, Cindy and I would pile into our blue Chevy Impala to visit Olga. Dad had the slumped shoulders of one carrying out an obligatory task. Mom, on the other hand, delighted in chatting up the Alden Nursing Home residents. My sister’s mind was off thinking about how to beat opponents on the volleyball team.
These visits were a highlight of my otherwise flat existence.
Olga would take me into her beige room, open the top drawer of her dresser and hand me a plastic bag full of jewelry. Sun reflecting off these treasures. I’d hug her so tightly and take in her perfume.
“Remember, Vicky,” she’d say, pinning a daisy pin to my shirt. “It’s important to know where you come from.”
“Tell me about your childhood?” I’d say, trying to imagine her as a younger woman.
The stories began. Born and raised in the Czech Republic, she enjoyed school. Learning complex embroidery stitches was part of her required education. That and sewing.
Sitting on the bed, Olga would take out weathered pieces of cream colored cotton. Intricate burgundy stitches in rows - echoes from an earlier time. Her stories continued. Coming to the USA on a huge ship with her husband at 17 years old. Landing on Ellis Island. Staying with other refugees in tenement apartments. Opening a dry goods store in the Lower East Side. Their vibrant life in that Jewish enclave.
I loved her fearless and resourceful way. “Olga, can you show me how to do embroidery, like on that thing you had to make for school?” I asked one day. Her roommate Gertrude was out, so we had the place to ourselves.
“It’s called a School Girl Sampler, bubbela. Took a long time to do. First the nuns taught us how to do cross stitch, like this.” her shaking hands covered my tiny ones, passing down tradition.
“This is fun!” orange/copper/red clip earrings reflecting the sun from the window.
Returning home from our visits, my ritual began. I put on every piece of jewelry she gave me, at the same time.
A cacophony of plastic and semi-precious metal adornments, these inexpensive pieces were not made of gold or diamonds. Sometimes a rare bakelite cuff would be in the mix, but I didn’t know. I was 7 years old. Blissfully unaware of optics, metrics or concerns about the value of my collection to anybody but me.
Flying high, I’d wear my (non-matching) pins, rings, clip earrings and long necklaces for days on end after that. To church, the grocery store, school and the Grub Club After School program by my house.
Most of the time I was blissfully oblivious to comments or looks from others - so delighted in my little world of adornments gleaned from a world beyond my suburban life.
All this changed one day as I was walking across Vardon Lane - on my way to Western Avenue Elementary School. A group of popular 2rd graders’ pointed at my outfit and began laughing hysterically.
The mean leader shouted, “Wow, Vicky, what did you do? Raid your grandmothers’ jewelry box? Nice fashion!”
A block from school, there were 15 other kids on the street. They all stared at me. Some laughed.
Mortified, I knew in that moment that I had a choice to make.
“Well at least I have my own style. You all look the same. I bet your moms got those checkered dresses from the Sears catalog!” I snapped at her.
It was true. They did all look the same. Hair in pigtails with freshly pressed matching bows. Shiny wedge shoes. Coordinated tights. Laughed the same. Walked the same. An elite crew of copy-cats.
“Idiots”, I thought, as I paraded across Vardon Lane in my latest get-up. Bell bottom jeans, a tank top and a Joseph technicolor dream coat poncho from the thrift store - topped by all the jewelry.
When I got to school, our principal Mr Henneberry announced over the loudspeaker, “Love each other today.”
I thought about taking off my jewelry, but I didn’t. I kept it on that day and the next and the next and the next.
