My mother was a tailor when I was a kid. Fine ladies would stop by for fittings, and we’d be chased out of the music room while my mom escorted her latest lucky client into her “fitting room.” Later, the lady would leave smiling, sometimes with a new gown and sometimes with a promise to have those adjustments done by Thursday. “You kids stay out of those pins,” mom would call as we re-entered the suddenly mysterious music room to find her sawdust-filled strawberry pin holder on the piano and a hint of chalk dust and elegant perfume in the air.
What were they doing in there? This was one of the great mysteries of my childhood. I suspected that












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