What Are the Odds?

The worst season is whatever you would call the weeks that lie trapped between the leaves and the snow. Days that blanket the midwest in deep maroons of nostalgia- always accompanied by a bone chilling, headache inducing rain. Naked trees, empty streets, and a gray canopy of clouds signify winter’s dreaded arrival.

It was an overcast November morning. One of those days. I woke up with the sharp pang of impending doom, and decided to go to the not-so-local thrift store to pass the time.

I was warmly greeted by a worker who was busy adding last night’s newest items to the racks. The strong scent of old things immediately saturated my clothes.

With the rhythm of an avid thrifter, I made my rounds. I was nearing the end of the women’s sweaters when a heather grey cardigan, the color of the sky, caught my eye. The front was lined with small metallic buttons. Intricate gold and silver beads snaked its breadth. It must’ve once belonged to someone’s grandma. I convinced myself that it would be a great layering piece, and a necessary addition to my quickly growing winter wardrobe. Concluding with a quick glance at the jewelry display, I paid and shuffled back to the car.

On the way back, I stopped at my grandparents, who lived a couple blocks away. I walked in with a shiver and was greeted by my Russian Babushka’s pleas to wear a coat, “It’s cold already, you’ll get sick!”

After a bowl of borscht that she insisted on me finishing, I retrieved my new/old sweater. Baba is a fashion icon- sporting two closets full of timeless vintage pieces as well as the latest trends. I wanted her approval of my purchase, and advice on how to best wash the delicate knit. 

I unfolded the sleeves and held it up for display.

“What do you think?” 

Her eyes widened in shock as a confused smile washed over her face. She proceeded to explain that this was no ordinary sweater. It had belonged to her mother, my great grandmother. We quickly confirmed that it was the same exact one by its lingering fragrance and all too familiar tag. There was no room for some of Bucia’s thicker sweaters in Baba’s overflowing closets. With the sorrowful reluctance of sentimental value, she donated a small pile to her local Value Village yesterday. 

“I just couldn’t hold onto it anymore, but now I hope that you will.”  

My Bucia was a powerhouse. She managed to navigate the treacherous waters of the former Soviet Union and extract her whole family from Mother Russia’s antisemitic fist. She built a beautiful life from the frozen ground up in the place I now call home- Minneapolis, Minnesota. I was lucky enough to grow up with weekly visits to her cozy apartment, where she lived until the ripe age of 104. I always walked out with words of wisdom, a red kiss imprinted on my cheek, and a bejeweled brooch from her collection. She was creative and regal, dainty and feminine, sharp and so brilliant. A rich blend of everything it means to be a Jewish woman. 

As it turns out, the sweater really did belong to someone’s grandma.