Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: New (01/01/26)
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TITLE: Feed Sacks, Gimbels, and a Pink Floral Victory | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marilyn Meiners
01/02/26 -
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I grew up in a modest home with loving parents. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich either—comfortably in the middle, where hand-me-downs and good manners lived happily together. My dad worked at a printing company just a block from our house. I never quite knew what he did there, but he left in the morning and came home in the evening, which seemed proof enough that it mattered.
My mom worked part-time at the local grocery store. That was a perk for us kids, because the store was right on our walk to school. We’d stop in, and Mom gave us each a piece of penny candy—just enough sugar to get us to school and just enough joy to make us feel rich.
I wasn’t the most fashionably dressed girl in school, but my clothes were always clean and neatly pressed. PeggySue made it her personal mission to remind me of that difference. She was the richest kid in our school—or at least the most convinced she was. She had opinions. Strong ones.
“I see you’re wearing that dress again,” she’d say, as if it were a public service announcement.
Or, “How do you like my new dress? My mother got it at Gimbels.”
I had no idea what Gimbels was. I certainly didn’t care.
My mom made the clothes my sister and I wore, using material from what we called the “family farm.” My grandpa and uncle owned farms, and when they ordered feed or seed, it arrived in sturdy sacks printed with the prettiest designs you could imagine. They saved those sacks for my mom, who transformed chicken feed into Sunday best.
Once she had enough of one pattern, she’d wash the sacks, hang them on the clothesline, and then spread them across the kitchen table. Out came the pattern, the scissors, and the patience of a woman who could see beauty where others saw leftovers.
One year she gathered enough of a pink floral print to make matching dresses for all three of us girls. That alone was something to behold. She added lace to the collars of my sister’s dress and mine—because lace, as my mother clearly understood, elevated everything. Since she finished sewing just before Easter, those dresses became our new Easter finest.
I still smile seventy-six years later remembering how people stared when we walked into church. Heads turned. Whispers followed. And PeggySue—PeggySue was silent. Which, frankly, was the highlight of the morning.
I felt proud as a peacock, holding my sister’s hand and walking beside my mom in our feed-sack-pink-floral-dresses-with-lace-trim. To make the day even sweeter, my sister and I wore brand-new white patent leather shoes. I was sure we had finally upstaged PeggySue—until she spoke.
“My goodness,” she said, “don’t we all look spiffy. Doesn’t look like fabric from Gimbels, but I guess it’ll do.”
Thanks, PeggySue. Always a pleasure.
Years later, my mom’s hours at the sewing machine paid off again—this time for me. I learned to sew too. By high school, I was working part-time at Woolworth’s. With my paycheck—and an employee discount—I bought real fabric and made several skirts, dresses, and even a blouse.
On the first day of school, I felt like a million dollars. I wore a black quilted skirt and a yellow blouse I had made myself. Books in hand, I walked into class—and there she was. PeggySue.
She gave me the familiar up-and-down look, eyes narrowed, judgment pending. Finally, she spoke.
“Nice outfit. Not as nice as mine from Gimbels, but not bad.”
And just like that, I had arrived.
I was accepted by PeggySue.
But here’s the truth I understand now, all these years later: My worth was never stitched into a label or purchased at a department store. It was sewn into me by a mother who knew how to turn scraps into something beautiful—and who quietly taught her daughters that confidence doesn’t come from where something is bought, but from who you are when you wear it.
And if I’m honest, I think those feed-sack dresses fit me far better than anything Gimbels ever sold.
Story is non-fiction
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