My grandfather gave me the first store bought dress I had. It was my fourth Christmas. He bought a similar dress for my little sister. Brenda’s was red, where the plaid in mine was green.

They were simple but stylish for the day — little cotton plaid dresses with white yokes and Peter Pan collars. An attached belt tied in the back. The sleeves were short little poufs of fabric.

At just barely over 3 years old, it is one of my first memories. Someone has a picture of us standing with HenerPaw — child speak for Grandpa Henry — we stood near the Christmas tree, which sparkled with draping icicles and bubble lights even in the old black and white photo.

He was a widower and the strong, silent type, rarely showing emotions, but gratitude fills me that he was around for another 15 years or so. His love for me was never in doubt, despite him not being one to shower anyone with material gifts.

Before that brand new frock, the only clothing I had ever worn (besides a couple of pair of elastic waist jeans) was handmade items, usually from colorful feed sacks that flour and other staples came bagged in.

My deceased grandmother had the reputation for being the best seamstress around, followed closely by her mother — who we all called Grandma — and her sisters, my great aunts. My mother tried, though I’m not sure her heart was ever in it, but the others made items with their own patterns from feed sacks and useful parts of worn out men’s shirts and ladies dresses.

The little store at the mouth of the holler was a favorite place to “ooh” and “aah” over all the pretties in the single room, where stacks of 25 and 50 pound bags of flour, sugar and cornmeal appeared to reach the ceiling. Ladies gathered around choosing the fabrics they preferred as they waited for the patient merchant to climb and sort through the mountainous display to gather their choices.

The bags had letters printed on them, listing the contents and weights. These pieces were reserved for making underwear.

Every home had a treadle sewing machine. Fondly, I recall sitting on the treadle on my knees and rocking it forward and backward to stitch the seams as my mother guided the fabric under the needle.

A few years later, as the third generation, I made my own first garments on that same machine. It moved with us to Michigan, and as a junior high and high school student, it still functioned as I turned out acceptable pieces of clothing for myself, often made from cast-offs — with store bought patterns, however.

My Aunt Keta, Mom’s baby sister, was just three years older than me. She was raised by her aunt and uncle, as her mother died suddenly when she was 13 days old. They had more than we did, and she was blessed with a full wardrobe of well-made, brand name clothing.

One of my greatest joys was spending time with her, but coming in a close second was when they shipped me a huge box of her outgrown clothing.

Oh, the joy. I felt richly blessed as I took in the array of stylish items and their smell. Everything was freshly washed and ironed and carefully folded into the box. It was better than Christmas because — yes, I was a bit selfish — it was only for me.

Coming from a large, poor family, hand-me-downs fell into our family’s hands frequently, most often for my younger siblings. When something came from Keta, I knew it was mine and mine alone.

There is nothing in the world wrong with wearing handmade or hand-me-down clothes. One thing I have learned, though, is that when we give to others, whether less fortunate than we or not, give only the items you would keep and wear yourself.

This I can promise you. Nobody — and I do mean nobody — wants stained, stretched out, ill-fitting, torn or worn out items from you or anyone else.

Often, it’s difficult to accept the gift of charity, so please never add insult to injury by giving castoffs unfit to pass on. Instead, donate those items to other charities like animal shelters (always in need of bedding and bathing fabrics) or cut them up to use as rags for cleaning, painting, etc.

To be truly charitable, give your best and dispose of the rest.

Never be ashamed of being poor. This is America, and we have the ability to forge ahead and succeed reaching the goals we determine.

How grateful I am to have come up hard — poor — because it made and kept me humble. Developing gratitude, even for feed sack dresses and hand-me-downs, adds joy to my world.