The next time I had the chance to dress was after my father died when I was about eight years old and I was staying on my grandfathers farm. At the time my aunt and uncle and their daughter were living with him.

My cousin at that time was about four years old and I must say we got along very well together. One warm summer afternoon we were playing together and I suggested that we change clothes with each other. She was willing so we disappeared into a small farm building and reappeared with each others outer clo- thes on. My new dress was a little tight on me and my cousins new shirt and pants were a little large for her. Kneeling down so as not to be taller than she, we waved to her father who was out in the field plowing. We quickly returned inside the building and traded clothes once again. This was the only time I did this while visiting for I was afraid that someone would find out or catch me in the act of dressing.

That fall I returned to my new home in the city where I had spent my earlier years. My mother had found a small apartment for us in another district.

I don't remember indulging in my new found hobby for the next year or two until I ran across an art- icle in the magazine section of the Sunday paper. It was the story of a sheik who had captured a group of soldiers and forced them to dress as harem girls and dance for him when he commanded.

This was the spark that lit the fuse. From then on whenever I was at home alone I would dress.

At sometime someone had given my mother a blue taffata evening dress which became my favorite and I would wear it when ever possible. Even though my mothers' clothes were too large for me at that age I didn't care, because I was wearing what I wanted to wear. A DRESS.

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