Mr. Prinstein

The Sundays that Mr. Prinstein showed up at our door laden with bags of bagels and cream cheese, tomatoes and lox, were the best Sundays of all, and quite possibly, the best days period. He often brought bags of his daughter's clothes, beautiful ones that she didn't want anymore for whatever reason, and his little wire-haired dog, Betty, who liked to sit at our feet under the kitchen table, waiting like any dog should for little pieces that missed our mouths.

Not much missed my mouth in those days, but that fact was just a small part of the attraction of having Mr. Prinstein visit with his sacks of treats. He was a friend of my father's and after he died, Mr. P seemed to take an interest in we who were left. He was tall and a little heavy, with a dark grey comb-over which graced his scalp, and a smile on his face that I cannot picture him to this day without. We were not hurting for food or clothing, but in the way I suppose people may view fatherless families, I suppose he thought that every bit might help. Unfortunately for me, his daughter, who I'd never met, was about a size five and her spectacular clothes, as much as I tried to make them work, would never make it anywhere further than halfway up or down the area of my body for which they were meant. I thought she must be beautiful in her fashionable clothes, and rich too, since she was able to give bags of them away every few weeks. (I once managed to squeeze into a green, flowered bikini, of all things, which I wore to the Oak Park Pool, and after diving off the medium board heard some boys tell me that it was a 10 - on the Richter scale. I peeled that suit off when I got home and never put it on again.)

Our house had become a sad place and Mr. Prinstein's visits brightened it up. I wanted him to take up residence permanently, but he had a wife at home. Then one day he just stopped coming over. I don't know what ever happened to him, but I hope he knew how happy he made me, because I think it may be too late to tell him myself.