A Mute and Elegant Testimony

My pretty mother wore a grey vertical striped shirtwaist dress the day she brought my little brother home from the hospital.  As she knelt in front of us with her tender white bundle, the skirt of her dress ballooned over her knees like an upside down tulip.  I know this partly because I have a picture of that moment in time. It is no surprise that the dress became the most-requested for our birthdays when we each got to choose her outfit for one day.  It's also not hard to understand the special memory that plain and serviceable grey dress held.

But it also conveyed something about my mother and who she was at that time - a practical yet devoted young mother.  I would love to have that everyday dress and some other favorites that my mother wore and for that matter, some of my own dresses, long disappeared.

Augusta Roddis (that is her picture above) certainly understood that clothes have the power to speak to us about the past and that is perhaps why she saved, in her large Wisconsin home, more than a hundred years of family clothes.  The story of Augusta's extraordinary collection, American Style and Spirit - Fashions and Lives of the Roddis Family, 1850-1995, has captivated me and absorbed most of my winter reading time.

The text of the book engagingly gives evocative descriptions of dresses, hats, shoes and other accessories worn by the Roddis family for much of the 20th century.  The rich variety of items are complemented by photographs and letters indicating where the garments were worn and by receipts which indicate where the garments were bought.  It's a fascinating account of an interesting middle-class family that grew in wealth but somehow maintained humble middle class roots.

But this is not to say that the Roddis women were boring - the family often traveled and there was always a charity ball, wedding or party to attend.  The lovely part is that there are so many frocks and fripperies to commemorate each of these events.  The book is filled with photos of not only the clothes, but dress patterns (the Roddis women also sewed!), artifacts and supporting ephemera like ads from periodicals.  It is a spellbinding picture book with an engrossing true story to savor.

Sometime in her seventies, Augusta wrote a letter about what it was like to open trunks in the attic filled with a treasure trove of dresses amply adorned with embroidery and laces that once belonged to her grandmother. "There were her clothes, bearing mute but eloquent testimony...to her very discriminating, fastidious, elegant and feminine taste".  And isn't that exactly what our clothes do for us, whether we are in a ball gown or a plain shirtwaist - silently saying the things we cannot express?

If I were to find my mother's simple grey dress in a trunk today, I suspect it would transmit a wordless message from the past too - just as Augusta Roddis' collection does.

On the Ninth Day of a Feminine Christmas

The cover of this Seventeen has effervescent colors and a darling imaginary tree.  It is dated 1956, a time when Christmas meant formals and ballgowns.  I especially like the soft cream colored one on the left with the pretty green bow.  The dress reminds me of Anne Shirley's Christmas dress with her beloved puffed sleeves - the one that Matthew gave her.  However, wearing shorter sleeves and sweetheart necklines were part of the charm of a formal dress in the 50's.

I attended a small party last Saturday night and typically, the attire was informal.  I noticed that the women did add a little panache to their leggings and tunics with fanciful shoes and sparkly necklaces. The clothing was merely a backdrop for ornamental accessories.  But I think some of the fun in going to a large dance or formal is the chance to fret over and then select the perfect dress to wear.  A high school boyfriend called the girls' formal dresses "whoopee dresses".  I never realized how important a dress was to a man's imagination until then.  Somehow, it makes me long for those fussy important dresses and the events to wear them to.

Recently I was flipping through dress images on Pinterest when a friend stopped me at a sapphire blue silk number.  "Stop..stop", he said.  "The blue one?", I asked.  "Yes", he replied, "My mother had a dress that color".  And then softly, "I never forgot that dress.  She wore it to a Christmas party".  I asked him how old he was at the time and he replied, "Maybe five".

Nearly sixty years later, he was still able to recall his mother in a sapphire blue Christmas dress...

Summer Style Note - Dresses

Summer sun dresses were staples in my wardrobe as a child.  Many were made by my grandmother who was a skilled seamstress.  Rick-rack, daisy chain trims, pretty buttons, and deep hems were some of the lovely features of those dresses.  And because I am a twin, Nana made two of each!

I still remember some of my little-girl dresses:  a white pique with a hem-full of bright flowers and verdant ferns, a soft sorbet seersucker in creamsicle.  My mother had excellent taste.  She knew that there is nothing prettier than a little girl in a sweet summer frock.  I knew that too, when I ordered a pink and grey Liberty print sundress from the iconic London clothier for my daughter.  It cost a pretty penny but it is lovingly and carefully stored in tissue paper and boxed alongside her Christening dress awaiting potential future inhabitants.

For years, I never wore summer dresses.  I simply couldn't find many styles I liked.  But the last few seasons there has been a plethora of selections and I have been able to amass a new little collection. One of my favorites is a periwinkle blue number with coral blooms in crisp cotton broadcloth.  The ease of pulling on a perfect summer dress cannot be underestimated on a torrid summer day.  Of course, I no longer wear the traditional sundress but there are dresses out there for women of a certain age too.  And if one doesn't want to show off arms, a fitted coordinating cardigan over a sundress can be very '50's elegant and tres charmant!

A Green Dress

When I was young and fresh from college, I took a job working for seven male engineers.  I was shy but they were not.  All were nice men and work was completed, but there was a lot of jockeying and teasing among them and being in a predominately male office, I often felt intimidated.  Looking back, I can see that I was oblivious to any attention they may have given me except for the affected hard time I got whenever I asked for their weekly time sheets on Friday mornings.  But I soon discovered that I was also oblivious to my own charms as well.

Like most of my girlfriends, an alarmingly significant part of my paycheck went to clothes.  I was on my own for the first time and excited by the freedom I had to buy pretty new outfits for work and parties.  I recall a tissue-wool mulberry skirt that gently skimmed my calves. I wore it with a romantic cream chiffon blouse with wide leg-o-mutton sleeves ending in cuffs with two pearl buttons apiece.  I remember several novelty sweaters with feminine details such as embroidered yokes and knit waist ties...and a winter coat - a sweeping nutmeg balmacaan, lined with burnt orange satin as slippery as mercury.

The seven engineers were not impervious to my wardrobe and would often have something to say. But they were innocent casual remarks, such as "I like your shoes".  For the most part, they talked boisterously among themselves and left me to order supplies and type reports for them in the background.

One lunch hour, I ducked into a small shop - an old iconic place in town. It was there that I spotted a beautiful silky green dress as fresh as a lawn of lush summer grass.  The knowing and grandmotherly saleswoman insisted I try it on and when I did, I was a goner.  Its chaste puffed sleeves belied a curvaceous line and beguiling teeny buttons ran from neckline to hem.  The moire silk winked with a now-you-see-it-now-you-don't allure and it made a faint but fetching swishing sound when I walked.  It seemed a very rare garment and I bought it.

When I wore my new dress to the office the next morning, I noticed my engineers were uncharacteristically subdued.  After removing the plastic cover from my typewriter, I glanced behind me to see if they were actually in the office.  Startled, I saw seven pairs of eyes upon me.  Just as my face registered growing confusion, one finally spoke with a voice uncharacteristically thick with uncertainty. "Are we in green today, Miss Macdonald?", he quietly asked.

Spring's Blithe Spirit

Pussy willows are such a welcome harbinger of spring.  Soft as kittens' ears but built on sturdy stalks, they are the essence of the season's changeableness.  They used to be plentiful when I was a girl but now I only see them in the shops.  My mother loved when we brought them home in our arms as this young lass is doing.  I remember them in tall vases on the hi-fi console and beside one of the two fireplaces.  They still remind me her because she exclaimed over them so.

Each season seems to have its rituals and one of mine is clearing out my closet or "turning" it, as in putting my winter sweaters and boots to bed and replacing them with my lighter wardrobe.  This year I can't gauge the right time for the task - it's still cold yet I'm aching to wear my favorite spring things:  an ivory waffle-piqu� coat with a butter yellow lining and pink piping, a deep coral cotton sweater, and a graphic cool taupe skirt with jaunty dots of gold and rose.  I've never been adept at transition dressing so the simple strategy that works for me is to wear some woolen things in sunny-side- up colors for both warmth and cheer.  But research for my weekly style column finds me pouring over pretty images of clothes with a carefree blithe spirit that includes floaty blouses with blouson sleeves and romantic cuffs with buttons, and winsome dresses in sherbet colors.  There is a fanciful weightlessness to fashion this spring, as if we are to be extra kissed for our extra winter.

Our model is lovely in her grey striped suit and feminine bow blouse.  She is ready for spring's hide and seek as noted by the pale blue gloves on her hands.  But the real foretell of the season rests in her arms - delicate yet hardy masses of spring's blithe spirit.  And in my mother's joyful noise.