My Turn: Cowgirl outfit cost a pretty penny, but gave her back so much more  

When I was a girl living in Belfast, Ireland, I spent many Saturday afternoons at the movies. Our neighborhood was a place where poverty was abundant and hope was scarce. The movies were a treat, an escape. My Father would give us each thru’pence to go see the pictures at the “Pop.” For three pennies, you would see a wee picture, the big picture, a cartoon, a serial and catch up on the world news. All the kids in the neighborhood went. It was always noisy and the wooden bench seats were always sticky. The serials usually consisted of Westerns: Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. We saw “Superman,” “Batman,” “Buck Rogers,” Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges and Abbott and Costello. I loved the serials. Hopalong reminded me of Dad. Dale Evans always wore lovely cowgirl suits. I dreamed of having a beautiful cowgirl suit.

There was a variety shop that sold every type of merchandise imaginable and it was next door to the fish shop where my mother sent me to buy fish. One day, much to my amazement, in the window of the variety shop there was a cowgirl suit. My heart jumped with joy. I wanted to have it, but never dreamed I could. It cost 14 shillings. About two American dollars. That was a fortune.

I came home and told Mother about it. She said that was nice, but didn’t show much enthusiasm for my wants. I went round to my aunt’s house and told her about my find. She said if I wanted a cowgirl suit I would have to save up to pay for it. It would take me forever and someone else might get it first, but I had hope.

On his payday, every Thursday, my Father gave each of us kids a thru’pence. If I only spent one penny, I could save two. I could do jobs for the neighbors. For Mrs. Rooney, I’d go the bookies for her and bet a horse and if she won, she’d give me something. I could feed the grocer’s daughter while she tended her shop. I could take Mrs. Polley’s radio battery to be refilled with acid (and risk being burned carrying it back to her house). Each time I got a penny or two, I would give half to my aunt who put the money in a cup in the cupboard. There it stayed until I had saved enough to buy the cowgirl suit. It took me nearly 11 months, but I finally had enough to buy it.

I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me to the shop. When I got to the shop and looked in the window, it was gone. A lump in my throat helped me keep back the tears. I turned to go home — and there it was in the other of the side window. It was just beautiful. The most beautiful cowgirl suit in the whole world. It was gray with red fringe on the waistcoat and on the hem of the skirt. It had a red holster on the skirt for a six shooter. I was so happy. The shop man wrapped it up for me in brown paper, and I ran back to my aunt’s as fast as I could and tried it on. I was a real cowgirl now, just like Dale Evans.

It was nearly Christmas, so my aunt said I should put it away until then. I reluctantly agreed and waited till Christmas Day. There was always a Christmas present for me from my two aunts. This year was special: It was a six shooter! I promptly put my gun in my red holster and went outside and strutted my outfit. I wore my cowgirl suit proudly. I wore it everywhere. When my school put on a little play I wore my cowgirl outfit on stage. No one objected.

I wore my cowgirl suit until it didn’t fit anymore, but I never gave it up. I left it my at aunt’s house for safekeeping because I didn‘t want my sisters to use it. When I left for America at age 14, my aunt still had my cowgirl outfit. Even though I had outgrown it, she kept it for me. I didn’t want to give it up. It had made me so very happy. Holbrook is a long way from Ireland, but I have never forgotten the lessons I learned as a child about earning what you want. It makes it more valuable.

Mary Rossi,

Holbrook