Each Church, each city, shaped my brother and me, as did Mother’s European  heritage  Like her  counterpart, Lily Marlene, Mutti always dressed well. She could afford to, having been employed by Dr. Gutseit Mueller, a Munich lawyer. Her shorthand skills were valued, along with her organizational skills. She knew how to calendar important dates. As wife, friend, and later as mother, she would never miss a birthday or special event.

      During her Frau Lang years, Mutti wore full length furs so appropriate to Munich winters. There’s a 1920’s photo of her dressed in mink (the real thing), standing by Mr. Lnag’s automobile, that chic boxy Mercedes. Today, furry trappings anger animal activists, so the black lamb’s wool coat she once sported and turned into a cape for the California scene, ended up Salvation Army fare. Monetary constraints eventually forced Mother to switch to polyester imitations. Fake furs are sweaty affairs, but Mutti always glowed in them.

      She once told me that the black sequined jacket in the photo on my wall was a product of her hands. Its puffed short sleeves that tapered to a narrow cuff just above the elbows required careful pre-cutting. A wrong snip and costly cloth would be ruined. Mutti could sew as well as a tailor and took time to outfit herself in the latest styles. Later she would help me when school plays demanded  it, staying awake half the night to finish a costume. Everything my mother wore looked classy, chic. It didn’t matter that when she followed me to California she would switch to casual attire. Even her sweats had a finished look, because she coordinated, pressed, and accessorized, and because she was a classy chic(k) herself.

      Mutti stood out among her large circle of friends as one who knew what to wear when. At social gatherings of her cronies, where Russian, French, and German filled the are, cultural distinctions had given way to New York couture. Mutti managed to outshine anyone who had more money with bargain basement fare, because she knew  how to put it all together. She had no need for designers. She could look at the latest fashions and match the look on a shoestring.

      Photos of her youth show her hair changed color with each season. She said it was because her friend was a stylist. I think she just liked being in and being lovely. I never saw her dragged out or undressed, except in the bathroom where she unabashedly took her sponge baths in full view of my innocent eyes. Makeup followed that first splash of the day. Mother took time to look right, wrapping her hair at night to shorten the morning ritual.

      Her clothes reeked of Tosca, her favorite perfume (mine too). Its sweet trail mingled with curls of tobacco. Mutti nursed her cigarettes, a throwback to her era of smoke filled salons and parlors that during her childhood depended on gas lighting. She could have starred in a Bogart flick even had she let her brunette tresses grow out. Mother quit the nasty habit eventually but not completely. Whenever her breath gave her away she’d excuse herself. “A social moment with friends,” she’d say/ “Besides, it helps me keep the weight down.”