Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds

The Age of Shawls:

The knitting world
has engendered a
fascination with delicate
shawls knit in intricate
lace patterns and adorned
with hand sewn glass beads.

Works of art to be sure.

The shawls always
pique the Irish saying:
"Fine feathers make fine birds."

A longtime ago I did a vignette
called "The Girls" about my
mother and her sister, Mae
based on Mae's love for
dancing and the young
swain who didn't
reciprocate her affection.


THE GIRLS

“Mae, the postman winked at me,” Helen says, as they walk up Bayles Avenue to Main St.

“The old fool what does he think a wink is going to get him at our age. Who’d want an old widow woman?”

Helen pats the little brown felt hat on her gray hair. “We look pretty good for our age. Look at Nellie Dodge. She looks twice our age. Weighs a ton, wears housedresses, and run over shoes. No one would call her a girl.”

They walk briskly dodging the commuters heading for the train.

“Morning girls.” Mr. McKelvey, the taxi man, tips of his cap.

“Morning,” answers Helen happily.

Mae brushes past.

“Mae, you could speak. We’ve known Jimmy McKelvey since we were girls.”

“Morning girls. He’s a ninny. He has great grandchildren and still looking.”

They enter the coffee shop, take their usual table in the back section. “Have a bit of humor Mae. I like being called a girl. Do you remember when we lived in Jersey City and all the St. Michael’s boys would line up at the Knights of Columbus dances?”

Pink flushes Mae’s white cheeks. ”I always liked the Turkey Trot but I could Charleston too.”

“You were a good dancer. You went to all the dances. Momma would send Johnny to get you when you didn’t come home on time.”

Mae laughs. “He’d be so mad. But I’d do anything for just one more dance.”

“Remember the time you went to Coney Island and didn’t tell Mama? She knocked your straw hat off with the broom when you finally came home.”

“She damned near killed me. I didn’t confess that I fainted on the roller coaster. Scared the boys to death. But they didn’t tell.”

“I only went to the dances a few times before we moved to the country,” Helen laments.

“You didn’t miss much. All the good ones went running to Staten Island to court the girls from St. Bridget’s. They were the girls with all the fine clothes.”

“Mama always said, Fine feathers make fine birds.” Helen observes.

“Mama made nice clothes. But they weren’t like store bought.” Mae retorts. She looks toward the counter scanning for a server. “Seems the waitress is out today.”

“What ever happened to your fella? What was his name?” Helen scowls. “Jack something?”

“Jack Sullivan.” Mae pulls her cardigan around her.

“He married some girl named Margaret from Staten Island. She was always wearing an expensive shawl. Afraid to get in a draft… Tired after a few dances.”

“One of the fine birds from Staten Island?”

Mae nods. “Jack was a grand dancer.”

“What will you have this morning girls,” asks Mr. Krueger.

“Coffee and an English muffin.” Helen beams at the old man.

“A sweet roll and milk, Mr. Krueger.” Mae holds herself straight and levels her gaze at him.

“Of course, Mrs. Kehoe.” He retreats.

“Mae, you’re terrible.”

“I’m not about to be a girl again.”


I don't wear shawls anymore.
Lack the patience to knit one
although I might buy one
as one buys works of art.

I miss "the girls" today.