Memorable rags

There’s going to be a wedding in our family. Abigail, the eldest of our daughter Jean’s bunch, will be getting married on July 14, in Leesburg, Va. The lad she’s marrying is tall, good-looking and has a good job. He has also fended off the urging of his would-be father-in-law, Brian, who met him at the door whenever he came calling, with questions: “What are your intentions toward my daughter?” “What’s the status of this courtship?” and, “Have you set a date yet?”

Abigail and her father are particularly close, and she just laughed it off. It speaks well of Jonathan’s composure that he never got flustered but simply replied, “You’ll know as soon as we do.”

Anyhow, we’ll be there, of course, and I’m thinking about what to wear. I don’t like to shop for clothes, and I keep them forever. So after five whole minutes flipping through clothes hangers, I decided I’d wear my mother-of-the-bride dress.

When Jean married Brian on New Year’s Day 1999, I spent a couple of days shopping. Something was wrong with everything I looked at: too flashy, not flattering (or, “not flattening”), weird colors, didn’t fit, too expensive for what will probably be a one-time wear.

OK, I thought, that tiresome day: one more store. Walked into Belk’s. There it was. Royal blue, long waistline. Fit me perfectly. And it was on sale.

I’ve worn it only a few times since. Too “fancy” for church, too matronly for a cocktail party, just about right for weddings. Definitely a grandmother-of-the-bride dress, very pretty, even if someone in Leesburg remembers Jean’s wedding and what I wore.

But wait. We were going through pictures taken during the celebration of our 50th anniversary last year. Who is that hunched-over old crone in vibrant blue, surrounded by my family and friends?

Aarghhh! Why didn’t somebody tell me how dowdy I looked?

I’ll give that more thought later. For sheer longevity in my closet, there is a “dress” that I worry may turn up in one of Ferrol Sams’ books. Remember caftans? I borrowed one from one of my daughters to wear to a barbecue on Crabapple Rd. I have no idea where it came from, but it was gaudy, for me. I think it may have been tie-dyed, with bright African colors on a plain muslin background. I haven’t worn that dress since that party at least 30 years ago, but I don’t have to. Its immortality is bound up with Sambo’s.

Our county’s greatest claim to fame is Ferrol Sams, M.D., a man with an incredible memory and a gift of story-telling, our chief purveyor of the oral tradition. Not to mention he’s a darn good doctor.

He came up behind me at that party and asked me if I realized what a target I made.

“Target? What on earth do you mean?” He just chuckled and said something like, “Find a mirror and see for yourself.”

I did, and he was right. Smack in the center of my back, the tie-dye formed a bull’s eye that spread all the way from side to side and shoulders to hips. I spent the rest of the evening standing along the edge of the crowd with my back to the dark.

The thing is, I don’t see Sambo often, but when we meet, he stretches his neck to see what I’m wearing and asks where the bull’s eye is. It’s nice that he remembers me, but I think it’s really the caftan.

And then there’s the two-piece celery-colored dress. We were doing a fashion show at church, and much against my self-conscious will, I was persuaded to model.

First we had to come up with what to wear. I don’t recall what dress shop it was – this was at least 20 years ago – but I tried on dress after dress, finding each less attractive than the one before. Someone brought yet another dress and I said, “Enough! Look at this polyester thing. It’s hideous.”

The skirt was rather long, tightly pleated, with an elastic waistband. The knit tunic top fell past my hips, and the little scarf that came with it looked faded. “OK, I’ve done my best and there’s nothing – gasp!” I turned and looked in the mirror. It was stunning. It made me look fabulous. And when a friend looped the scarf around my neck, I felt absolutely beautiful. I don’t know what it was, but the drab color almost shimmered.

With hair fixed and makeup applied, we “models” were taught how to sashay into the ground-floor fellowship hall at church. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so, well, pretty.

That dress still gets worn for special occasions. When I first wore it to church, years after the fashion show, one of the women who put that show together smiled slyly and said, “I bet I’m the only person here who knows how old your dress is. I told you it was just right.”

From that day to this, when I wear that dress, all she has to do is smile and wink, and without a word, my appearance is validated and I feel that glow.

Did I tell you about the best deal I ever got? I popped into a thrift shop in Leesburg, Va. one rainy day last year, and noticed a bright little poly shirt on a hanger, slightly apart from the rest of the clothes. Six dollars, said the tag. Not bad, but I didn’t really need a shirt, so I kept cruising.

Every time I got near the shirt, it caught my eye. I slowed down and looked closer. The print was like stained glass, little boxes from 1/2-inch to 2 inches across, black, gold, white, green and purple, with a gold thread that made it sparkle. Sounds like it wouldn’t “go” with anything, doesn’t it?

Finally I picked it up, noted that it was hand-washable and in good condition, and took it to the cash register. A volunteer sorting children’s clothes came over, looked at the tag, and said, “We mark things down on Thursday.”

“Today’s Thursday.”

“That’s right. Three dollars,” she said.

Was this my lucky day? Wait. It wasn’t over.

“Shirley,” another volunteer called over. “Items with white stickers are half-off the last price.”

I paid a dollar-fifty. And it “goes” with almost everything.