He would sit for hours with a tape measure draped around his shoulders churning away at the sewing machine; a white dress shirt peeked out from under his fine vest. Other times he used large shears to cut cloth. The fabric he used seemed superior to what I see in the stores today. At the far end of the tailor shop stood a door and just over the threshold were all the rooms I called home. They were lined up in a row just like a train: living room, dining room, kitchen, and caboose; the summer kitchen. Up the stairs on the second floor were four bedrooms, and one very busy bath- room, the only bathroom in the house. Below the ground level was the basement; its main adornment was a large coal heater. My father earned an excellent reputation. He had golden hands. I worshipped him. We all did. No matter what was on his mind, whenever I saw him, he wore a gentle smile on his face. I remember a dozen or more suits hanging partially finished waiting for the customer to come in for the next fitting. There was no such thing as ready-made clothing in those days. Everybody had to go to a tailor or dressmaker. Kids like to explore. I was no different. When I was little, I used to crawl around under my father’s large wooden work table, squeezing into tight spots. I continued fear- lessly, knowing Pop would rescue me if I got in trouble. In the back of the tailor shop was a large, roll-top desk. I marveled at its many compart- ments. Shelves surrounded the perimeter of the store; they were used to hold bolts of fabric. Customers could walk around the shop touching and examining each of them. Pop’s foot would swing on the pedal of his sewing machine for hours on end. There was no such thing as an electric back then. In the opposite corner sitting alone and hissing stood a monster. It was a giant, metal, steam- ing machine. Every once in a while, it would eat a piece of clothing then regurgitate it, hiss- ing, pressed perfectly.
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Our home was part of a row of storefront townhouses. It was a practical design making it possible for my dad to work at home. The address was 1904 West 3rd Street; it no longer exists. All the buildings on our street were torn down. When we lived there a plate glass window emblazoned with raised, gold letter- ing set in a half-circle proudly proclaimed, FRANK SHOOSTER, TAILOR. I have such sweet memories of that place. Pop would tend to the shop. I can see him clearly in my mind’s eye wearing his hand- some vest. He always wore that vest while working, dressing impeccably. Each item he wore was a testament to his skill. One look at him and a customer would know what they might expect for themselves.
Ida Shooster with Laney or Shelly in front of Frank Shooster’s Tailor Shop.
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