The falling rain threatened to extinguish the flames of the luminaries placed along the sidewalk of my childhood home. Light shown from my old bedroom window above the garage. The birch trees I’d played beneath as a child were taller and water slid from their bare branches. I'd hoped for a quintessential Vermont winter day, but the snow was rapidly disappearing. I had moved away years before, but until then I had lived my entire life under this roof and it held a special place in my heart.
I grew up knowing my mother was not like other mothers. As the wife of a physician, she took her job of housewife and homemaker more seriously than my friends' mothers did. I was born in the post war era and like many newlyweds, my parents bought land and built a modern home in a suburban neighborhood. It was here that my siblings and I experienced a 1950’s childhood. We walked down the road to our elementary school and rode our bikes to the corner store where we bought Bazooka bubblegum. We played sandlot baseball in the vacant lot across from our house and joined our friends at the lake on summer weekends.
My mother had the eyes and hands of an artist. The house's interior had been thoughtfully decorated for this occasion. A garland of fresh greens wound its way up the handrail of the staircase I would descend. My mother’s desk was moved from its usual spot in the bay window. The window frame was transformed into a wedding arch of evergreen and white satin ribbon. A harpsichord and cello stood silently off to the side and would soon play, “Here Comes the Sun”, newly released by the Beatles.
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Brass candlesticks glowed on the fireplace mantle and my father’s cherished pewter meshed with the greenery throughout the house. I don’t remember my mother asking for my input when decorating for this day, but she knew my love of all things natural, antique and simple. Her taste in clothing, jewelry, textiles and home furnishings was unmatched, so when she suggested using the house for my special day, I quickly agreed. |
My dress was blue, my sister’s was deep pink, both sewn by my mother. I naively thought that only virgin brides could dress in white. I was feeling quite old at 25 and had recently attended the weddings of numerous friends, so I wore blue!
My mother enjoyed shopping at the new clothing stores that had opened in our town. Some were true department stores. One in particular had an elevator taking customers to the upper floors. It was operated by a smallish man dressed in a suit who greeted my mother by name. After we entered the elevator, he pulled across s compressed metal gate. Once the gate was closed, it looked like a multitude of adjoining triangles. He stood facing a panel and either pressed forward or pulled back a large wooden handle moving the elevator up and down. The cage we rode in shook slightly as we moved upward. Upon arriving at the floor my mother had requested, the triangular grated door was pushed open and we stepped out. Racks of colorful dresses and skirts filled the room. It was here that my mother shopped for herself. Occasionally, we would stop one floor down to shop for my sister or me, but usually our clothes were manufactured at home. What was created under the needle of my mother's black Singer machine surpassed in beauty any garment found on a store rack.
It was a treat to accompany my mother to Pegton’s Yardstick. Mr. Pegton was a dapper dresser and with his full head of wavy white hair he was quite handsome despite of his small stature. My mother was certainly one of his best customers and he was quick to acknowledge her store entrance with a heartfelt welcome. Inside was a feast for my young eyes. Every color within my 64 count box of Crayola crayons came to life in the form of soft pastels, prairie calicoes, Picasso like abstracts, stiff upholstery material and airy chiffon. When walking down the aisles, soft pinks met bright fuchsias and mint greens melded into deep forest hues. It was here that I witnessed my mother’s magic. Like an artist chooses his paints and brushes, my mother opened wide metal drawers and sorted through patterns, Simplicity, Butterick, McCall’s and the most expensive, Vogue. Together we chose fabric, or as she called it "material". The “don’t touch” rule no longer applied and my small fingers stroked the plush velvet and bright chenille. The bolts of fabric stood upright like soldiers at attention. Mom would gently lean them forward, unfurling the material and let it drape across her arm feeling the weight. If Mr. Pegton didn’t chime in with, “it’s 35”or 45”, she’d look at the top of the bolt where the width was stamped in black ink. Then, from revolving racks we’d pick the perfect buttons. If needed, as on my wedding dress, my mother would expertly make buttons by covering metal forms with the fabric of the garment. The thread used had to match perfectly and my mother would lay several spools against the fabric before making a choice. She did the same when choosing seam binding and zippers. Mr. Pegton seemed to appreciate her attention to detail and was quick to provide any needed assistance. Carrying our bags from the store, I hoped he would give us one of his wooden yardsticks with Pegton's Yardstick printed in red above the numbers.
I loved the clothes my mother made me and she remained my private seamstress well into adulthood. The dresses I wore to proms and formal dances were fabulous. One of my favorite outfits was made when I was in college and invited to a New Year's Eve party in NYC. I sometimes felt I was her outlet for fashion creativity and that she lived vicariously through me, tagging along on my body! I never objected! It had become acceptable for women to wear pants and being on the “cutting edge”, my mother ran with this idea. My New Year's Eve pants were brown velvet, the low nap of the velvet shimmered with gold thread. It was subtle, but as I moved the brown velvet would shake of gold like cinnamon sugar on toast. My tunic top was bronze satin overlaid with gold brocade. It was hip length and daringly sleeveless. Round buttons, expertly covered in identical satin. secured the diagonal neck opening which ended in a mandarin collar. I suspect if she’d been able she would have crafted me shoes of gold!! That same weekend, I attended church wearing elbow length brown leather gloves that just reached the short sleeves of my Peter Pan collared blouse before protruding out the concealed slits of a stunning Harris tweed cape. A short tan camel hair skirt and brown Frye boots completed my outfit. All but my boots, gloves and underwear were created by my mother! I felt elegant and unique when wearing her creations. She sewed bikini bathing suits of such unique fabric that when walking on the beaches of Florida girls would approach me asking the brand. Long before puffy coats could be bought in any outdoor gear store and downhill skiing was done in an anorak or heavy sweater, she made our family down parkas.
So, on this special day I wore blue. Like the velvet pants of my past, my blue dress shimmered of silver. I had trusted my mother to choose the fabric and she did so with her usual impeccable taste. The fabric was appropriate for this solemn affair. It was predominately blue, but silver threads were hidden throughout hinting of underlying fun!
I hadn't dreamt or planned on hearing the words, “let’s get married". Hearing them left me with a feeling of contentment. I was happy knowing my future was determined. Since my college graduation my thoughts had focused on, "what's next?" and "what do I do now?" I was relieved that now I had someone to share in those decisions. Divorce had become more common and less frowned upon. Even the Catholic Church showed some acceptance of this new social phenomenon. So, while hoping for the best, I knew if things didn’t go well, I had an out!
The passage of time is an interesting concept. As children, summer days seem endless, but as adults the days, weeks and years fly by with breakneck speed. I recently looked at a photograph taken of me ten years ago. There I am wearing the same sweater I'm wearing today. No way that sweater is ten years old! I swear I bought it just a couple years ago!
Today, January 26,2024, I slipped back into the blue dress. Perhaps slipped is not the appropriate word.
“Do you think it will still fit?”, my daughter asked.
“Sure”, I confidently replied.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror I marveled at the lack of stretch in the 50 year old fabric. What it lacked in stretch it more than made up for in strength! How could the seams withstand my tugging and pulling after hanging for half a century in the closet? Had my twice weekly weight class twice expanded my rib cage? And, the belt! Why was it up so high and so tight? I began to doubt the answer I had so confidently given my daughter, but with a few final tugs I was in. The silver threads, housed under plastic for so many years, still sparkled in the bathroom light....a hint of fun. I placed the silver necklace I had worn 50 years before over my head before taking a final look in the mirror.
I entered the dining room and the smiles that greeted me allowed me to smile at myself. What would my mother say if she were here? Would she say the fabric was a perfect choice and held up well or perhaps that the silver thread shimmered perfectly? Maybe she would simply smile in her usual way and speak for us both saying, “well done”!
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| (left to right)My father, Ray Kuhlmann, my mother Jerry, the newlyweds, Bucky’s mother “Pete” and his father Joe |
